Let's get on the random feels train

Yoongi must be the universe’s reward to you for every good deed you’ve ever done.

When Yoongi lets himself to be roped into joining in your newest fixation, it must be your good karma because you sat front-row for each one of your younger siblings’ school events.

When he reminds you to drink your water and not skip your meals, even going so far as to deliver both to you as often as he could, it must be the universe’s payment to you for watering plants and going on that one (1) mandatory tree planting activity.

When he gives you all the credentials to log into his premium streaming platforms even without you asking, it must be fate’s way of thanking you for not making a fuss whenever a barista messes up your order or when a stranger cuts in line.

Yoongi is the good in your life and he has been ever since you were teens, reminding you of what you’ve worked hard for in life because when he wasn’t so busy going through the same hardships you did, he would be at the sidelines waiting for you to finish.

Or he could be someplace else without even sending a lousy text regarding his wellbeing nor his notice that he can’t be at your awarding ceremony tonight because he’s busy doing his job, serving as a reminder that Yoongi must also be the universe’s punishment to you for your missteps and lapses.

When he comes and goes into your apartment freely as treats himself to your newly-bought groceries, it must be retribution because you lost your temper on your college roommate once for eating the leftovers you’ve been craving since the night before.

When he salvages all the spare batteries you have lying around to power up his huge clock back at his apartment, therefore leaving you to eventually spend a rainy night without flashlights because of a power outage, it must be payback for lowering the temperature in your breakroom even with the sign that specifically tells you not to.

Whenever Yoongi mentions his shapeshifting “career” (he argues that it is) to you, a gift he had been born with and one he really maximizes to the fullest potential and profit, you’re reminded how much of it is a curse to you.

Yoongi must be the universe’s greatest reward and punishment for you at the same time because while he’s your soulmate and you spend almost every day with him — you have to see him fall in love with everyone else but you, over and over again.

“You should be splitting rent with me at this point. You’re always here,” you groan as soon as you spot him on your couch, barely escaping the grogginess you’re still in from having a long night. 

His presence isn’t surprising anymore given the time you’ve been with him and how this exact situation has already played out tons of times before (him breaking into your place because he doesn’t want to be alone, you blissfully clueless until you hear raccoon-like searching in your kitchen) — it’s more irking than it is surprising, especially when you wake up at the wrong side of the bed.

“Do you not want me around?” Yoongi laughs heartily, unwilling to wipe his grin off when you don’t react. “That’s what I thought.”

He’s already beaten you to the TV and while he hasn’t had breakfast yet because he thought that the least he could do is wait for you to wake up so you could make it and the two of you can eat together, he’s getting there anyway.

“What type of horrible soulmate kicks out their other half that hasn’t had breakfast yet at 8 in the morning?” he hums, a faux pout on his face that rubs you the wrong way. You’re still pissed at him for not showing up at your awarding ceremony last night for being the top developer in your tech company, his lengthy apologetic text before you went to sleep still not doing its full effects.

“You don’t wanna tread there,” you huff, crossing your arms. “I have a lot on my chest, Yoongi. A lot of hateful, vile, factual comebacks.”

“Exactly!” he exclaims, the smile on his face telling you that he’s taking this lightly; way more lightly than you’d like him to. “We’ve had this conversation a million times before, baby. Sometimes, people just aren’t meant to be,” Yoongi shrugs, his words embedded in you now from repetition alone. “Some soulmates are only platonic.”

“That’s what you want because you’re non-committal,” you hiss, the incoming headache you have for having this conversation too early in the morning making you sit yourself on the couch. Yoongi grins because he knows you won’t kick him out at this point, slinging an arm across your shoulders while you’re still glaring at him. “Your hustle or whatever you call it is falling in love with everyone but me.”

“Uhm, correction — it’s a career,” he tuts. “I have a gift, Y/N. What, I can shapeshift into other people and I’m not supposed to capitalize off of that?”

He had only started offering his services a little more than a year ago, a byproduct of his boredom and his producing internship at the music label falling through. It just came to him in a fever dream and a drunken suggestion from you, and one website domain purchase and a socialite with a lot of connections for a first client later, Yoongi quickly made bank.

SeeAndSaw’s a trial dating service led by Yoongi, one that would answer clients’ curiosities to whether or not they were compatible with a person, and that’s where his shapeshifting came in handy. His services continue to be used for a multitude of reasons, the most common one being to see if the client would match with their soulmates (or just a random person, he’s not particular like that) ahead of their meeting. He’s also become a handy instrument here and there, breaking up with people in his clients’ behalf because they were too guilty to do so, to becoming a stand-in for clients that needed to present someone to their families for occasions.

Yoongi acts far too casual to you and not only is its time’s fault, it’s also yours for keeping him around in any way you can have him, even if it’s just as a friend. 

“I keep professing my love for you every two weeks and I’m doing it now while you’re eating my leftovers. People would kill just to have a soulmate as dedicated as me,” you frown, slowly softening the more that you’re rendered awake. Yoongi’s right, you did have this conversation a million times before and it’s the realization of it all that perhaps, at rare times, makes it hurt less.

“We’ve had this talk before,” he sing-songs, digging into the carbonara you took home that he retrieved not even one minute later since you joined him on the couch.

“For someone who makes bank fake dating people, you sure do leech off of me a lot,” you grumble, effectively quietened when he shoves a forkful of pasta into your mouth.

“That reminds me,” Yoongi grins, building up to a dramatic gasp. “I love-…” 

He trails and trails and if only you didn’t know any better, you would know that Yoongi wouldn’t profess his love for you in your living room while you were still in your pajamas eating cold carbonara. Much less, Yoongi wouldn’t tell you at all that he loves you.

“I love doing that,” he agrees, disappointed for a second when you didn’t even react to him doing a cliffhanger about what or who he loves. “My treat for you this week is to get you a new mattress. You’ll be less grumpy in the mornings.”

“The mattress can stay for a little longer. Can you just get me a new alarm system please?” you say without missing a beat, having already thought long and hard about what make-up gift you wanted him to give you from missing out on your awarding ceremony. 

“Why? Are you okay? Did anybody attempt to break in?” Yoongi asks concerned, brows knotted in worry. He grunts under his breath, shaking his head. “I already told you to move into my apartment complex so many times. It’s much safer there.”

That’s also a conversation you’ve had a million times before, all circling back to your attachment to the first place that you bought with your own money. It’s not bad per se, it just looks like it when you show it side-by-side with Yoongi’s place.

“Oh. They already broke in,” you narrow your eyes, oblivious to the panic brewing in Yoongi.

“What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me?! Are you-…” he rants, stopping himself when he sees the irony. “Okay, I get it. You’re not funny.”

You and Yoongi eat cold carbonara in total silence, save for his grumbles of how you should never joke about your safety and yours for how he should start chipping in for your bills if he’s gonna keep showing up like this.

Yoongi swears he doesn’t find you funny. He swears it on his life when a few days later, a guy is sent to your house to update your security system. There’s a couple hundred packages of additional manual locks, along with Yoongi’s letter of how he still doesn’t find you funny, amongst other things.

Please guard your home. Don’t let anybody else in except me.

- Yoongi

( ♡ )

Yoongi despises change.

He’s with the elderly when it comes to online menus in an actual, physical restaurant, annoyed by them to the point that sometimes he just walks out. He can’t help it that he wants a nice, slightly greasy, and good menu because it just goes to show how great the food would be. 

He hates whoever invented and continues to advertise white cooking equipment that’s beyond impractical, knowing to himself that he would disown any friends or family he’ll catch using them. You spent a good two seconds more looking at a white ceramic pot that one time when you were online shopping, and Yoongi’s never been more determined to hurl your phone to the floor.

Yoongi also hates overly-modified cars and overly-decorated phone cases, because as much as it isn’t his business, he firmly believes that sometimes there are things meant to be left alone.

His voicemail is still the same one he had back in college and his standard ringtone for everyone remains untouched — everyone but you.

Yoongi knows that he’s in charge of his time given his very successful career and he worked around his whole schedule just to grant himself the luxury of sleeping in today. He wants to have himself buried in his cold sheets for longer but it’s your call that overrides his phone on Do Not Disturb, shaking him awake quicker.

“Yoongi?” you ask, too wrapped up in your internal to-do list to notice that he answered at the second ring. “Help me please.”

“Spider family in your cupboards again?” he yawns, rubbing the sleep off his eyes. God, he hopes it’s not that again. He isn’t the biggest fan of spiders either but at your insistence (and threatening last time that you’ll ignore him for a week), he forced himself to swallow down the unease.

“No, I woke up late,” you hum, once again oblivious that you’re intruding on Yoongi’s plans. He doesn’t mind though; not at all. “I just got a text about my package and I accidentally used your address again. The front desk received it.” 

Yoongi’s address has already become your secondary one at this point, from food deliveries from staying over to parcels you made him receive because you wouldn’t be home at the time. You’ve gotten used to utilizing his address, his home, so much that you forget which is which sometimes.

“Can you sign off on it as me?”

You know potential and convenience when you have it within reach, and the both of you know that your best friend slash soulmate gets a sense of pride whenever you need to utilize his shapeshifting abilities.

“Okay fine. I’ll even talk you up as a future tenant here because you’re taking my advice and moving to my building, right?” he caves in even if it took nothing for you to convince him, putting on a shirt before finding his slippers.

“What, what? Yoongi, oh! You’re breaking up,” you make a half-assed attempt in avoiding the offer once again. You could afford it with the salary you have now but aside your attachment to the place you have now, being closer to Yoongi in this context would precisely be the demise of you. “Thanks, Yoongs. Bring the package with you when you come over.”

Yoongi’s filial when it comes to you, that much you’ve noticed. He may not be in love with you but his loyalty to you is as clear as day, much of a soulmate’s but not exactly a lover’s.

It’s supposed to be like clockwork when he picks up his parcels (yours in this case) from the front desk but there’s just something he belatedly realizes now, his mouth in a grimace when he has to pry off your package from the receptionist who was unabashedly asking where you were.

He didn’t know that every time this would happen, or in any case wherein you came by yourself to his apartment and therefore passing by the front desk, the sleaze would flirt with you.

“Joohyuk from the front desk always comes off strong, huh?” Yoongi snickers the moment he enters your place, handing you your stuff instead of tossing it like he usually would.

“Tell me about it. He doesn’t give me a break,” you snort, unfazed that he doesn’t greet you with a hi anymore because your current visiting set-up has been executed many times.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to do with the unhinged anger in his brain that unfolds because from your response alone, you’re used to it. You’re used to feeling uneasy and he hadn’t caught on earlier than he should’ve, the guilt weighing down on his chest.

“Hey,” he calls out, his tone leaving you no room for objections. “I’ll receive your packages from now on.”

( ♡ )

You don’t know how you keep holding onto Yoongi despite him grasping you from afar.

It’s a melancholy enough as it is to swallow at the end of the day that Yoongi’s yours but not in the way you want him to be, along with the great possibility that it would always be that way. You don’t heed the reminder when you’re with him and that’s almost everyday of your life, the ache that you’re the only one pining after him remaining as a dull thrum. 

He seeks you in seasons but you look for him in all weathers, the great search of when you’d finally amount more to him still coming up unanswered.

You can handle seeing Yoongi often with the cue that you’re only friends despite the initials on both your ring fingers saying otherwise. You can manage with introducing him only as your close friend to colleagues and acquaintances because you don’t want to end up with a long-winded explanation how he wants you but really doesn’t.

Yoongi can deal with your moony stares at him every once in a while and your professions of love, whether sober or drunken. On the same vein, you can deal with the rejection he serves you every single time.

The both of you are adults who can handle each other, one more high-strung than the other, and it’s only in moments like these that you reach your limit. You’re awfully too aware of how easy it is for Yoongi to work, to be in love with people he only knows vaguely.

“I don’t like to see you when you’re at work.”

You’re momentarily caught with panic when you see a stranger in your living room, only being caught up to date when he’s sprawled across your couch in the same way that Yoongi does, the very same shit-eating grin he has on for giving you a fright.

You don’t know the guy at all and you don’t plan to. You try your best to separate yourself from Yoongi’s shapeshifting business, most especially his clients and the extensions of them that he has to portray. You don’t even want to hear the stories behind his appointments even if he begs for you to hear him out because he just wants someone to talk to. 

The moment you fully accept that Yoongi would belong to everyone but you is the day that you rue him.

And in a longingly heartbreaking fashion, you don’t hate Yoongi — yet.

He momentarily changes back to himself, sneaking a look at his watch to see how many minutes he has more of annoying you before going on a date just two blocks away from your place.

“Why?” he whines, and in retaliation, changes back to the stranger. “I’m Hong Dusik. I’m from the countryside, moved back to the city to do stocks, and my dimples are literally embedded in there. I’m my client’s soulmate and it’s their first date next week but she’s shy and she’s nervous, so she’s having a dry-run with me first.”

Tuning Yoongi out has become a skill you continue to hone and while it isn’t foolproof just yet, it’s helped tremendously when you want nothing more than to kick him (or any form he takes) out.

“Nice.”

“You’re icing me out, sweetie?” his voice lulls, the sweetness behind it cloying until you remember that you don’t know the guy it belongs to.

“My god, your dimples are deep,” you murmur, clutching your bag to your chest. “Switch back, Yoongi.”

“Why? Dusik’s a nice guy.”

You kiss your teeth with the annoyance of a hundred days built up, gritting out your answer that makes him falter momentarily. “I’ve heard already, but I don’t plan seeing Dusik or any other stranger in my home.”

“Aw, you’re so loyal to your soulmate, whoever he may be,” he coughs, shifting back to himself. At any other day, Yoongi’s playful nature would be met with one of your sarcastic remarks but he doesn’t get any this time, the ghost of a frown accompanying his lips.

He’s admittedly nervous when you don’t play along with him, but his urge to sneak one last word in overtakes his trepidation.

“My advice to get over me? Bone it out. Get it out of your system. Soon enough, my initials would fade.”

Come to think of it, Yoongi’s advice isn’t all that bad.

“If Dusik and his girl don’t work out, just send him to me,” you nod, retreating to your room.

“Good! I’ll-…” he grins, satisfied with ticking you off until your words sink into him, the double-take that he makes giving him an ache on his neck. “What?” Yoongi murmurs, “I didn’t mean it that seriously.”

( ♡ )

In a parallel universe or in a different life, Yoongi actually lives with you. In that reality, you’re still soulmates and the difference is that he loves you back. He doesn’t have the ability to shapeshift and you don’t have to profess your love repeatedly either.

In a parallel universe or a different life, Yoongi’s cooking you dinner. Dinner would be just takeout from a drive-thru that he transfers to plates because the two of you barely ate the bourgeoisie food at your awarding ceremony. You’re still the top developer in your tech company, but the difference is that he’s there and you get to introduce him as your soulmate and not just a friend who coincidentally bears the same initials on your finger.

In a parallel universe or a different life, Yoongi is your soulmate before he is your friend. He doesn’t condense your love for him as a mere obligation. He doesn’t bat an eye at your confessions because in that reality, he’s the one who loves you more than you love him.

You don’t have that life though — what you have at the moment is Yoongi, your soulmate, not being able to see what was wrong signing you up for a dating app. You wouldn’t have known if not for the couple hundred notifications you receive in your personal phone that you left at home.

You wouldn’t be this angry if Yoongi could just accept that he went out of line.

“How many times do I have to say it over and over again?” you yell, hands flailing around helplessly. The smug look on Yoongi’s face remains, strengthened only by his stubbornness. “I love you and it’s just always been you!”

This is not the life you pictured with your soulmate. In your head, you don’t even see a particular space the two of you would live in. The home you see in your dreams is ever-changing, the layout of it never staying the same. The only thing that stays in the life you picture is Yoongi. Your Yoongi.

“Why can’t you put me in your choices atleast? We’re soulmates and you’ve been my only choice but I’m– fuck!” you exclaim, sucking in a sharp breath when you feel a momentary stab at your chest. “You don’t even consider me to be a potential girlfriend even if my initials are on your finger!”

In another world, Yoongi doesn’t look at you with a clenched jaw when you speak your mind. The two of you have grown sick at this conversation but the difference in your world now is that you’re beyond angry at him, the frustration unmistakeable when you look at him.

“Why can’t it be me, Yoongi?” you seethe, fists clenched tightly that your knuckles turn white. “For fuck’s sake, when can it be me? When can it be my turn? When do you pick me?”

Yoongi didn’t mean for you to be heated with him. It was a practical joke, only following through with the half-hearted advice he gave you when he showed up at your apartment as Dusik. 

He just wanted to prove a point that you don’t want to give up on him as much as he doesn’t want you to stop trying for him. It’s selfish, he’s selfish. And if only Yoongi could focus on how conceited he is rather than the anguish he feels about you being angry and upset at him, he would wipe off the arrogance from his face.

“I hate your job so, so fucking much. It looks pathetic to me even if I know you must enjoy it a lot,” you burst, saying your truth that you’ve tried to minimize in order to make way for his self-esteem. “Your business is to be these random people’s dream guy but you’re mine. You’re my dreamboat, my ideal guy, my person! I’m your soulmate but I feel like shit. Just utter, hopeless shit that you visit almost everyday because you don’t want to be alone!”

He can’t put it into words but in the simplest way he could put it, being alone feels like a punishment more than it is a solace. Yoongi lives alone and he can handle it, but him tolerating it doesn’t mean that he loves it. 

It’s always been you and him, one way or another. In the trench of your love, waiting for Yoongi to come around is worth it. In the shore of your doubts however, the novelty of having Yoongi is starting to wear off.

You make up your mind then and there, the ascent from your trench to your shore increasingly coming fast by the day.

“Leave. You’re not staying the night here.”

Yoongi breaks by then, a dry sob leaving his throat while he tries to plead with the resoluteness in your tone.

“What kind of-“

“What kind of soulmate throws out their other half in the middle of the night?” you interrupt, knowing that Yoongi only mentions your status when he’s desperate. “The kind that doesn’t want to be soulmates anymore.”

You sound the most casual you’ve ever been and Yoongi’s annoyed at you for it, his eyes narrowed into slits. He’ll oblige for the night, on his way to the door when he looks at you.

“With all due respect, Y/N, screw you. You don’t mean that,” he mutters, chest heaving up and down. He’s convincing you as much as he’s convincing himself. “You’re just angry, you’re sad, and you don’t mean that.”

Your back’s turned to him when he leaves, or atleast attempts to do so because he doesn’t want to make his exit when you refuse to even look at him.

“I mean it right now, let’s focus on that,” you chuckle, already turning off the lights in the apartment without sparing a single glance at him. “Go away, Yoongi.”

( ♡ )

Unsurprisingly, you find Yoongi at your house the next day when you come home from work.

He probably has your key fob microchipped on him nowadays, your huge fight from last night not being enough to deter him from coming over. He’s a stubborn and mostly annoying stain you have in your life at the exact second, the two of you unwilling to apologize to each other.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you mutter, rolling your eyes when you set your bag down on the counter. You’re on a time crunch, the window you have of preparing yourself to look divine already closing down steadily.

“The fuck are you doing home?” Yoongi retorts just for the sake of it and simply because he wants to keep the conversation (if it was even called that) going, trying to ignore the fact that he totally bombed his comeback and makes up for it by staring at your leftover dumplings on his plate.

You’re busy fending for yourself, your eyes too preoccupied in rolling to the back of your head that you fail to notice Yoongi’s puffy with all the crying he did last night. You ignore him and go straight to your bedroom, not having enough time to multitask showering and fighting with him.

You’ve already went through your entire routine and dressed yourself up, the frustration in you only skyrocketing up when Yoongi’s still there in your kitchen.

“Either get out or move out of my way,” you say as you retrieve yourself a snack from your cupboards to munch on while you multitask, intentionally bumping your shoulder with him in the process. “I’m going out on a date.”

Yoongi heavily sighs, his fork clattering on the plate loudly. He tries to keep his emotions at bay because this is all his fault, the fight in his body tensing his shoulders.

“You’re lashing out.”

“I’m not lashing out,” you argue, looking at the clock to see if you could still fit in fighting with Yoongi between spraying your perfume and meeting your date by the front door. “Lashing out would be me bringing my date home and fucking him loudly in my room.”

He stabs the dumplings a little too harshly and a little too unnecessarily, fitting two in his mouth while clenching his fists because he knows a nasty remark is just bubbling to be said.

Yoongi’s being childish and your patience has already run thin to deal with him especially when you’re mad, the huff that leaves you sounding extremely personal.

“What are you even doing here? Go back to your house.”

“My appointment’s just at the next block. Your place is closer.”

“You could’ve just driven there directly instead of camping out here.”

Yoongi sarcastically smiles, his eyes in crescents as he makes a show of tilting his head. “Can I notspend time anymore with my best friend? My soulmate, even?”

“Stop saying the s-word,” you grit. “Don’t say that when I bring Jimin home.”

The resounding tension that envelopes the two of you finally snaps, manifesting into a scoff from Yoongi so offended and loud that it resonated in your apartment like a clap of thunder. 

“Jimin from high school? You’re exes for a reason, remember?” he exclaims, eyes blinking in disbelief because he figures he must’ve heard you wrong. “He broke up with you when he went abroad for college because he can’t do long-distance. What makes you think he’ll give you the time of day this time?”

None of his words register in your head, blissfully letting them fly over. Jimin only invited you to catch up and you obliged; it’s not like you didn’t have years of love amongst yourselves to shroud yourself in anonymisity. Plus, it’s not like he asked you to try again with him — it’s dinner. Just dinner.

“He’s already outside. Also, it’s clearly a short distance this time.”

“Don’t be smart with me,” Yoongi scoffs, standing up abruptly with his arms across his chest. “I’m gonna barricade the door if you come home with him.”

“Good. I can come home with him to his place.”

“I’ll barricade his door,” he retorts without even thinking, his brows knotted in exasperation.

“Go fuck yourself,” you narrow your eyes at him, letting your glare at him linger until you get to the front door. “While I fuck Jimin.”

“You’re so-“

Yoongi points an accusing finger at you, unable to finish his sentence now that you’ve left. You’re stubborn.

If he’s being honest, the thought of you merely giving Jimin the time of day makes him uneasy. It puts a void on his stomach and an even larger cavity in his chest.

And if Yoongi’s being more honest, he doesn’t even have an appointment nearby. He just wanted to be with you whichever way he can.

( ♡ )

Yoongi used to hate crossfit.

He hated even the concept of it because the trainers for it at the gym have a superiority complex when talking about it as if it was revolutionary; as if launching yourself a feet into the air while doing push-ups from point to point was groundbreaking.

Even his friend, Jungkook, knowsjust how much he hates it. He didn’t particularly have a preference when it comes to working out, but Yoongi’s random and unprovoked hate for random things is starting to rub off on him. They both hate crossfit… right?

Jungkook doesn’t know how to react when he sees Yoongi doing pull-ups with one hand diagonally while a kettlebell’s on the other. He doesn’t know what to feel seeing him agitatedly do push-ups while wearing a weighted vest and with his feet up on a medicine ball. 

Jungkook, for a fact, does not know what his cue should be when he sees Yoongi running 24kph on a treadmill with his eyes fixated on the phone in his hand, although he’s about 99% sure that this is not exactly crossfit.

He’s known him for years now and there’s barely anything between them that they don’t know about each other. Jungkook, however, doesn’t know the threshold of Yoongi’s emotional constipation, slightly concerned when he sees his friend’s mind drift elsewhere.

“Yoongi, are we okay there buddy?”

“Huh?” he squints, looking up from his dessert which he’s just been staring at the past two minutes.

Jungkook clears his throat, vaguely mentioning to the poor utensil in his hand. “You’re bending the fork.”

“It was already bent when you handed it to me,” he weakly counters, setting the metal down without much concern.

“I uhm, I really don’t think so.”

Yoongi only supplies with him a scowl and normally, being the filial and nosey friend that he is, it was cue for him to inquire what was going on. Jungkook likes including himself and it’s one of the numerous things he has in common with Yoongi, but it was clear as day just how differently it manifests for each of them.

Yoongi’s only been staring at the mocha crepe cake because he knows he would be incessantly interrupted by Jungkook once he started eating it, but come to to think of it, the younger hasn’t asked him even once.

He narrows his eyes at him, crossing his arms with a sly look to his face.

“What are you waiting for? I know you’re dying to ask me.”

Jungkook scoffs, rolling his eyes so passionately that Yoongi saw you in him for a second. “No, you’re dying to be asked. It’s always like this! You want to get something out of your chest but you always need me to ask first and then you pretend like you don’t like it.”

His face is far too straight and he got to the point really quickly with his delivery, his posture standing straight at the unimpressed look Yoongi gives him.

“Sorry. Your emotional constipation’s rubbing off of on me,” he hums sickeningly, batting his eyes. “Yes, Yoongi? What seems to be on your mind?”

Not even a second goes by before Yoongi breaks, his shoulders falling in recollection. “It’s Y/N. You already know my deal with her.”

“Of course I do. Aren’t we basically the same?” Jungkook tilts his head in thought. “Longtime best friends with our soulmates but the only difference is that the two of you knew at the beginning?” he continues, mixing his drink with his straw just to cushion the impending blow this conversation might inflict on him. “And uhm, that you spend every waking moment refusing her but magically, your friendship isn’t ruined over it?”

“You go on and on like an audiobook.”

He’s not the least bit offended because he does have the voice for it, but it wasn’t so audiobook-ish of him when his hands flail and his voice pitches in remembrance. “Oh also, you’re a shapeshifter! Poor Y/N has to watch you date all these people except her.”

“Which side are you on?” Yoongi looks down on his feet, the sigh that leaves him slowly weighing as much as the conflict in his mind. “There’s one more difference, by the way. I think she’s making me jealous.”

Now, Jungkook doesn’t flatter Yoongi all too much because his ego outnumbers his and that’s coming from him! But this is the one time that Jungkook has to hand it to him, his friend’s delivery and impeccable timing giving him the best chuckle he’s had this week.

“She’s intentionally making you jealous? God, Yoongi. Are we skimming over the fact that maybe she’s just grown sick of you?”

“You don’t get it!” he whines. “She’s entertaining her ex from high school. This stupidly blonde, stupidly genius, stupidly always available guy named Jimin! What a stupid name too. Seriously, he’s so-…”

The café’s well-lit and the acoustics are good too but there’s just this one cloud that forms above Jungkook when Yoongi mentions Jimin’s name, his brows suddenly furrowing in annoyance.

“Jimin?” he clarifies. “Jimin who?”

“This isn’t a knock-knock joke.”

The urge to smack Yoongi would always be larger than Jungkook’s intent to be the bigger person, his curiosity bursting at the seams. “What’s his family name, you idiot?”

“Why does it matter? You don’t know him anyway. It’s Park Jimin,” Yoongi rolls his eyes as he soothes the side of his head, equally as annoyed now. 

The gasp coming from Jungkook alone shushes the entire café, his eyes as expressive as ever and his voice even louder, forcing Yoongi to sink further to his seat until the onlookers take their eyes away from the table.

“You’re joking me!” he booms, running his hands though his hair in a frenzy. “Guy from Busan, stayed until high school, then went to Harvard for college?”

“How do you know him?” Yoongi questions but at this point the how doesn’t matter as much as the why, his friend’s expression enough to keep him at the edge of his seat.

“Because he tried poaching my soulmate too!” Jungkook exclaims, pausing between words because he’s still speechless. “It’s this long story. We’re distant family friends, then I almost lost my bond, then-…”

Yoongi shushes him, putting up a hand for the both of them to stay on track. “Can we get back to me? Can we put a pause on the Jungkook and soulmate show?”

They’re a duo of insufferable people, one more self-absorbed and insufferable than the other. Jungkook sees much of his past self in Yoongi despite the latter being older, the irony of the situation rendering him breathless.

“What do I do about Jimin? Surely, he has a soulmate and it’s definitely not my Y/N,” Yoongi desperately asks for advice even if he thinks it’s beneath him, rubbing his face with his hands.

Jungkook thanks the universe and his soulmate for shaping him to be a better person because he could now hear what he used to sound like back then and by god was he emotionally constipated.

“My Y/N?” he mimics. “Let’s get you back to bed, uncle.”

He makes the internal reminder to get Yoongi away from crossfit because the punch that lands on his thigh is definitely powerful, making him wince loudly that once agains puts the both of them at the center of attention.

“Ow! What?! You can’t just refuse to be a thing with Y/N but then gatekeep her the moment she entertains another guy. That’s not how it works, believe me! I’ve literally been there before.”

Yoongi can hear Jungkook, but he doesn’t exactly understand.

He’s not oblivious to continue refusing the parallels between him and Jungkook but surely, the way it worked out for his friend means that it would for him too, right? 

He’s in denial but he’s not there at the stage yet where he actually acknowledges that he is, stuck in the realm of hope that you’re not sick of him yet.

“Okay what if– what if we try to find out who this Jimin’s soulmate is? Look for them, pluck just one strand of hair, and I shapeshift into them? Then I’ll tell him to back off from other people and only focus on his soulmate!”

Jungkook winces, scratching his head. “That’s wrong. And unethical. You have so many things to unpack, Yoongi.”

“It’s not my fault I can shapeshift!” he exasperatedly sighs, briefly mirroring Jungkook by shifting to him just to prove a point.

“It’s your fault that you’re this constipated to be willing to go to great lengths just to steer Y/N away from Jimin!”

“What do I do then?” Yoongi groans, plunking his head onto the table. He doesn’t even have to raise his head for Jungkook to know that he’s nearing a dead end, his hope about to run out sooner or later. “What did you do?”

“I woke up. Figured I was too self-absorbed back then to realize that it’s always been her for me.”

Jungkook shakes his friend, prompting him to start eating the crepe cake he treated him to but refuse to eat because he’s still wallowing in worry over where he stands with you.

“Wake up, Yoongi,” he sighs, looking down on the markings on his own ring finger that he thanks the heavens for every single day. “The universe works in mysterious ways.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi prides himself for having 20/20 vision.

He’s always boasted about his vision not deceiving him even once, the constant praise whenever he gets his yearly check-ups fully seeping into his head.

He’s neither suffering from a hangover nor vertigo. Yoongi’s mind is in a sound and safe place which is why he doesn’t get how it could be playing jokes on him now, the most crucial of times he’s been going through with you.

Your soulmate mark has completely disappeared.

It simply cannot be true to how his initials disappeared overnight and you just woke up one day to see that they’re gone. Yoongi’s hand is gripping yours tightly as if you’d suddenly disappear too, the glare he has at your ring finger vacant and unnerving at the same time.

“It’s blank. Oh my god, it’s completely blank,” your eyes can’t seem to believe it too, a silent gasp leaving you in shock.

You’ve already said your piece but it’s not what Yoongi’s looking for. You’re not as distraught nor panicked as he is and he knows right there that you’re only fucking with him, making him sigh in exhaustion.

“It’s obvious why you didn’t study liberal arts,” he mutters, rubbing your finger furiously. It makes absolutely no sense when not a single hint of his initials peek through, the worry over his lack of a mark on you growing by the second.

“Huh?” Yoongi says under his breath, his pursuit of trying to get your stint to budge leading him closer to you to the point that your foreheads almost bump when he looks to you. “Okay, what’s the secret? You used pot concealer instead of liquid? You color-corrected? Tons of setting spray?” he tries, licking his lips that turned dry in exasperation. He’s running out of ways you could’ve executed this, mind turning up empty. “You uh, you got it tattooed over with your exact shade match?”

The dread that fills Yoongi is liquid hurt. It builds up from droplets and takes form wherever it flows, turning murky in contained and neglected spaces. He can’t move on from the hurt that’s in his chest when he glances at your empty ring finger and then to his that still has yours; that still links you to him, yet unreciprocated.

“Why is it not budging?” 

“You’re rubbing all the way to my bone,” you chuckle, unable to read the anxiousness behind his tone. He looks disturbed even, lips parted with no explanation coming to mind.

“You’ve got me, Y/N,” he painfully chuckles, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. He bites too hard that he draws blood, eyes flickering ever so often. “Where did you hide the cameras this time?”

“Yoongi, I’m telling you! It’s really blank!” you chuckle but not as easily as the last time, sensing the atmosphere in the room that only favored you but not him. “Quick, walk into the wall. Let’s see if I feel it!”

He doesn’t know how you still have it in you to joke. He doesn’t know how you’re not panicking and as much as he’s figured that this is only one of the rare times where the universe favors you, he didn’t know it would result to this.

“First, I’m not walking into a wall. Second, you stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying! I’m really serious!” your hands raise in defense, taking a step away from him. The starting notes of your laugh start to build but it never comes out fully because Yoongi interrupts you with a bitter laugh, throwing his head back in frustration.

You’re laughing. You’re unfazed and you’re laughing at Yoongi being at the end of his rope, his worry over losing his soulmate turning unrequited.

“Well then congrats on not having me as a soulmate anymore. I’m so happy for you!”

“What’s with the attitude?” you raise an eyebrow at him, scoffing in retaliation. It had only been lighthearted (for you, atleast) awhile ago and perhaps, maybe even humorous. You didn’t expect that he would receive the news like this at all. “No, congratulations to you, Yoongi, because you’ve been whining for years how you don’t want me and now you finally got it!”

The truth you say has been Yoongi’s for the longest time and the old him would’ve been thrilled because you finally got it. You finally got where he’s coming from and he didn’t need to deal with you pining after him but now that the realization comes here, one that you say to his face — it doesn’t feel good at all.

“Yeah, and I know and regret that now because I didn’t actually think the universe would listen!” his voice raises, pointing at his chest. “Fuck me for not thinking that the universe would stop to listen to my half-hearted wishes, am I right?”

“You’re right. Fuck you, actually!” you agree in spite, practically spitting your next words. “You’re so conceited. Why are you turning on me the moment you get what you thought you wanted?”

Yoongi doesn’t get it too.

He doesn’t get how he lets the flaw of his own insistence slip through his fingers so carelessly. He doesn’t even know what he wanted in the first place and it terrorizes him to know that he might just never know why, the answer for it only seen as a distant memory of you.

He doesn’t get how long he’s retained his insistence of preserving his safety zone by trying to deter you from loving him, when in reality, you’re the epitome of security itself. He didn’t think it through at all.

Yoongi didn’t think when he spent the past few years of his life rejecting your confessions and proposals in every opportunity that he could. Didn’t even leave you hanging from a thread of hope at all that he’d like you back; just a clean, straight refusal.

He didn’t stop to consider that the universe works in mysterious ways, because if he did earlier, he would’ve prayed to make you stay despite not being the type to get on his knees at all.

“Because I didn’t actually think we would stop being soulmates! I didn’t think that there’d be a reality where we aren’t together!” his voice cracks, his hands trembling at his sides. “It’s always been us, Y/N. I’ll always want you around.”

“Do you just want me around or do you want me?” you ask, the silence that follows after it being an accumulation of the ones you’ve had to spent alone when he rejected you. “I can’t be the background noise in your life, Yoongi. Not anymore. Y-yes, I know there are soulmates that are meant to be platonic but I don’t want that,” you stress, the tears springing to your eyes. “I can’t have that.”

It’s an ultimatum you didn’t know you would ever make at all.

“It’s either you have me as your soulmate or you don’t have me at all,” you say in strength, your thumb hovering about the ghost of his initials on your finger. “I can’t stand being your friend anymore.”

“You’d throw that away?” Yoongi croaks, taken aback. “You’d throw that– us away after all this time?”

“I would.”

“Your initials are still on my finger,” he reminds, sniffling as he pushes his hair back. This can’t be. You seriously can’t be posing this ultimatum to him, one that would determine both his present and future.

“Yours aren’t on mine,” you shot back. The lump on your throat is far too large to even swallow, each breath you take making it harder for you. “For the love of god, Yoongi, can you not deflect?” 

Yoongi’s the most panicked that he’s ever been in his life and in your surprising and rarely selfish nature, you don’t even pause.

“This is a big decision, Y/N! Can’t you please just give me some time to think?”

“No. You’ve had enough time to think when you’ve been stringing me around for years.”

The hurt that bubbles up in Yoongi comes like a riptide, unsuspecting yet just as devastating. There’s no pause between his words, much too smooth and articulate for someone who’s as panicked as he is now. They’ve stayed at the tip of his tongue before and lingered in the back of his mind even longer.

“I can’t think because I’m not sure about you, Y/N! I’m not sure if I’ve always kept you around because I want us to be more like soulmates than we are as friends,” he sobs. “I don’t know if I can love you how you love me.”

The liquid hurt in Yoongi’s bones solidifies but yours evaporates. It should hurt for you — you know that it should pain you the most now. You wait and you wait for the hiss before the sting but it doesn’t come. 

The weight lifts off from you instantly and you don’t even know why or how it happens. Whatever it was though, you let it carry your burdens for you. You only painfully nod, leaving Yoongi in your own house.

Yoongi can’t love you the way you love him — it’s the answer you’re looking for now, and it’s the same answer you swallowed down when you first professed your love for him years ago. 

.

.

.

Jimin didn’t expect you to report back to him this quickly and this late at night to say the very least, his sleepiness being pushed back when you stand at his door.

You slur the words but you’re not even drunk with alcohol. You’ve walked the long way to Jimin in order to take off your mind from your fight with Yoongi but there was just something n your system, one that made you even forget who you were fleeing.

There’s no Yoongi that comes into your mind during your walk, in fact, you were starting to think that the name didn’t even make sense to you because you couldn’t put a face to it. All you knew was where you’re going and who you were going to — only Jimin.

The more you walked and the more you came closer to Jimin, it was only him that filled your mind. In fact, you didn’t even know where you came from at this point, the details a blur in your head except for Jimin who’s standing in front of you.

“It worked. He bought it.”

It’s the last words that Jimin heard from you before you quite literally froze up, eyes closing solemnly despite standing upright until you open them again, the glaze behind it shining brighter the more you looked at him.

“Jimin, my love,” you drawl, squealing in delight as you launch yourself to him in a hug. “What a handsome soulmate I have.”

Jimin flushes at the realization, frozen in his position as he only puts his hand at the small of your back, patting you in comfort.

He needs some pen and paper, his notes, and the brainpower to calculate his next decision.

( ♡ )

Yoongi makes no move to drive himself home.

He doesn’t even have the willpower to leave from where you left him, his knees giving in to situate himself on the couch where he could sink further in his self-loathing. He has half the mind to recognize that you need the space, especially tonight, even if it means leaving the comfort of your own home because he (your demise) was there.

He doesn’t know anything, other than the fact that he’s repulsive and he wants nothing more than to go seek you but he doesn’t know where he should start; if you would even want to see him in the event that he finds you.

He considers calling your phone and at this point, he’d be contented even with the line ringing or you declining. Yoongi stays rooted in your house as a placeholder that he doesn’t even know you would be acclimated to having, stuck in the very space with no purpose at all.

He’s waiting for either you or a miracle and both revolve around him being able to see you for just one more time, then another, then again and again after so. He’s waiting for you and only you, and he didn’t even think you would come through the door in first place — much more with someone else.

The door beeps open and Yoongi launches himself from where he sat, his stance protective the moment his eyes land on you and Jimin.

The guy is just as shocked to see Yoongi of all people, lips parted open in surprise. Jimin’s just about to ask Yoongi what the hell he’s doing here in the first place but he’s cut off when you grumble against his neck, forgetting momentarily that you were clinging to him by the hip the whole time.

“What are you doing with Y/N?” Yoongi questions, taking large steps towards the both of you. There’s practically smoke coming off from the top of his head, his fists clenched at his sides,

“Taking her to her room, obviously,” Jimin scoffs, attempting to dodge past Yoongi with you in tow but to no avail, the latter’s arm outstretched.

“She’s drunk.”

“She’s not,” Jimin insists, punctuating his desperation.

He moves past Yoongi this time but he doesn’t get far at all, his arm being wrung tightly. His hand awaits on your back out of instinct, the whiplash putting the both of them on edge.

“Hey, buddy, Y/N’s drunk.”

Jimin groans, prying Yoongi’s hand off him just as easily as he clamped it. “She’s not drunk! Not in that way, atleast,” he mutters, putting you closer to his chest that sets off Yoongi further. “Just back off.”

“What do you mean not in that way?” Yoongi bursts, his vision darkening. He sets out a hand once again to get you away from Jimin, his hold on you much gentler. “Asshole. I said don’t-…”

“She’s drunk, but not actually drunk!” Jimin caves, pinching his nosebridge but not before swatting away Yoongi’s hand. The latter belatedly realizes that Jimin’s not even holding onto you to keep you steady, it was purely you clinging to him. Jimin can’t put it into proper, technical terms because he’s always known that Yoongi isn’t his equal ever since high school, dumbing it down the best as he could that it physically makes him shudder.

“She’s drunk… in love.”

“What?” Yoongi squints, his face contorted into confusion and disbelief at the same time. “Are you high?”

“I’m not high. I mean it!” he groans, throwing his head back. He looks at you while you slip in and out of consciousness, his thumb underneath your chin to get you to look up. “Y/N’s literally drunk in love.”

You being attached to Jimin doesn’t make sense. What Jimin’s saying now isn’t making sense. You immediately coming to your ex, Jimin, after your fight with him doesn’t make any sense. None of everything that’s happening is making sense and Yoongi’s head is bound to erupt any time, the migraine forming in his temples giving Jimin a smaller window to explain.

“My friends and I made this drug for our company’s upcoming breakthrough and Y/N volunteered to try it out.”

“You drugged her?!” Yoongi yells, eyes wide and furious.

“I think you have selective hearing,” Jimin grits, offended at the insinuation. “It’s this drug that’s supposed to temporarily desensitize you to your soulmate, okay? It worked because clearly your initials are gone from her.”

None of them should be making sense but it does. It scares Yoongi that this whole thing could be condensed down to an explanation because it only makes it much more real; much more vulnerable.

“So I’m still her soulmate?” he asks with a lump on his throat, his rage simmering down back into sadness.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Jimin snorts, running a hand through his hair. “It’d last for a week but we have yet to know all of the possible side effects,” he kisses his teeth, going through his internal checklist. “So far, we found out that although it desensitizes a person towards their soulmate,” he trails, perhaps a little bit amused if he was saying the truth. “They cling to the first person they see.”

How awful, Yoongi thinks.

“Y/N’s drunk in me,” Jimin announces with a grin. “She thinks I’m her soulmate.”

You’re waking up little by little and Jimin figures that your unconsciousness is only temporary and a one-time thing, considering that you’re back to trying to entangle all of your limbs with him in an eager embrace.

“Snap out of it, Y/N,” Yoongi says outloud to you, completely disregarding that Jimin’s still in the room.

He even makes a move to try and pull you away from him but to no avail, his interruption only making you raise an eyebrow at him. You look at Yoongi from afar despite being near and it’s haunting, the tilt in your head giving your sentiments away.

“Who are you?” you question genuinely, brows furrowed slightly. You turn back to the person you know most in this room at the moment, who’s none other than Jimin. “Who’s he, Jimin?”

“You don’t know this guy?” he questions, his mind computing rapidly.

“Not at all,” you confirm, not sparing a single glance back at Yoongi.

There’s a tense silence because all that Yoongi could hear now is the fuzz in his brain and the pulsing of his heart, his chest deflating in anguish.

“You promise me? You don’t know this guy at all?” Jimin confirms to you once more, assessing you deeply.

“I promise. I’d never lie to you,” you say with a frown, both of the guys knowing that from your tone alone, all you’re saying is the truth.

Jimin takes it down quickly, his tone more somber and less hostile than before.

“That’s another side effect then. Not only can it desensitize, but it also makes you forget about your soulmate completely.”

The two of them are talking as if you’re not in the room with them but it doesn’t make a difference otherwise because you’re only focused on Jimin, your eyes all endeared just by the silhouette of him alone.

Yoongi can’t will his mind to focus on just one thing, his frustration coming off as a strangled yelp.

“You’re shitting me! Make an antidote or something!”

“We still have to wait out the whole week.”

“It’s like you’re just asking me to slap you!” he grits, hand outstretched already yet retreating when Jimin mocks him in return, pointing at you whose head is turned from Yoongi. Of course, you think Yoongi’s your soulmate — of course you’d shower him with affection.

“Can you guys be any louder? I wanna sleep. Please take me to bed,” your attention’s only turned to Jimin, the guy nodding earnestly.

He’s about to coax you into your room when a voice cuts into the air, an eager tap being placed on your shoulder.

“I’m Yoongi.”

You look back at the guy who introduced himself, a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but looks like he’s just begging to be given a sliver of attention.

You don’t mind him though.

“Hi, Yoongi,” you curtly respond, turning your back on him. “Take me to bed, Jimin.”

( ♡ )

Your vocabulary’s not affected by Jimin’s experiment at all, except for the fact that the word you utter most is his name and barely Yoongi’s.

He neither came home nor went to sleep, his mind not being granted even a single second of rest because all he can think about how this is only a mere, flawed glimpse of what you would be like if he wasn’t your soulmate anymore and it’s terrifying. It puts goosebumps onto his skin and instills the fear of fate on him, obvious by the way he’s only been functioning long enough for the past hours for the sake of reliving the same alternate reality again and again.

You come out of your room and there’s still that same dazed look on your face, eyes less crazed but more yearning. Yoongi awaits any reaction from you that would lead him to think everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours is only a figment of his imagination.

It’s early in the morning but the sorrow from the evening already hits you through a frown, your eyes darting everywhere.

“Where’s Jimin?” you ask, shaking your head. “Why am I still here?”

“You live here,” Yoongi answers, keeping his hands to himself. He begrudgingly makes the internal note to relay your momentary forgetting to Jimin later even if talking to him is the last thing he’ll ever want to do.

You gasp then, eagerly nodding your head because that one piece of information definitely traces back to you. “Oh, right,” you nod, your lip curling once again. “Why are you here?”

Yoongi’s not sure how he should answer that.

He’s unsure if he should answer that he’s here and stayed the night because he was worried sick about you after your fight, almost driven to passing out in overwhelm especially when Jimin brought you home.

He doesn’t know if he should say that in your home because it’s only rational since you’re soulmates, and that he dislikes being alone, and that being with you calms him down an infinite amount; if he could just skim over the fact that you barely have any recollection of him and will continue to do so for the next week.

Yoongi can’t determine to whether or not he should tell you that he wants to spend every second with you because should be the precursor for you to believe that you don’t want him anymore, he’s left with a memory of you, no matter how painful.

“Because I live here too,” he says a half-truth, trailing off in remembrance of you nagging him to go back to his house.

“We live together?” you question once again, your face contorted in confusion. “Why?”

You don’t even mean malice with it and Yoongi knows that exactly, the bit of realization even more painful because he knew that you would question him with snark and tears otherwise. In your foggy, Jimin-centric brain, it doesn’t make sense why you and Yoongi practically live together.

Because we’re soulmates, he wants to answer.

It’s the same question he asks himself because he doesn’t know how you let him either — when in reality, he already knows why and it’s because you love him. The even bigger question is if he was even deserving of you.

“Because we wanted to,” Yoongi leaves it at that, clearing his throat as he pushes a plate towards you that he put together on short notice. “Here’s breakfast. This is your favorite.”

You don’t even move to thank him curtly, head tilting in curiosity. You have all the questions yet he doesn’t know if he has all the answers, his heart hurting whichever way he addresses you.

“But why do we want to live with each other?” 

“Because we care for each other.” (Read: because we’re soulmates and because we’ve been friends and soulmates our whole lives and I don’t ever see us parting.)

You nod at Yoongi’s brief answer, stuck in staring off to space for a couple of seconds before you swallow down everything.

“Oh,” you hum somewhat satisfied. “You know where Jimin is?” you open a new line of questioning this time, tone picking up more. “Do we live with him or is it just the two of us?”

Jimin’s testing out his method of withdrawing himself this time, living out the remainder of the week by not making any contact with you and assigning Yoongi to report back to him. He’s not even meant to say everything to you in technical terms, knowing that he has to make up lies the whole week regarding Jimin’s whereabouts.

It’s only and should be a simple, trivial question regarding your living situation but Yoongi can’t help the hiccup that builds in his chest, heart heavy with nothing he can do about.

“Just the two of us,” Yoongi mutters, tracing your initials on his finger discreetly. It was one of the things you did when you felt like confessing to him silently, eyes not even meeting each other’s for you to tell him that you love him. He’s desperate to have you do it to him again — pathetically and helplessly pleading for you to come back to him again. “Always just the two of us.”

.

.

.

Yoongi finds it admirable that you grow warmer to him by the night, nevermind that you’re not doing it for familiarity but rather to get closer to Jimin through him.

Not once does he leave your side whenever you stroll back out to thr living room, plopping onto the couch to eat dinner made by him to which you aren’t weirded about. You no longer inquired him why he’s here, just accepting his presence because the back of your mind tells you that you’re used to him in the first place.

“I miss Jimin,” he hears you sigh for the umpteenth time, an automatic rigid smile painted on his face. He doesn’t want to hear about him at all actually, however he’d do anything just to get you to keep talking in the event that it’s the last he’ll hear from you.

“You don’t say,” he hums, tuning out his name as he tries to pretend that it’s his instead.

You can’t distinguish the far relaxed nature to Yoongi’s intonations because after all, you barely remember any of him and his quirks for you to compare his attitude to. For all you know, he’s just a calm and calculating person that you know in your life, one whose eyes just can’t stop straying to his hands.

Yoongi doesn’t want to feel like he’s mourning but the feeling in his chest is akin to it anyway, something resembling repentance rising out of it from nowhere when you let your curiosity get the best of you.

You’re unfathomably upset because Jimin’s nowhere to be found. One second you’re sighing and at the other you become molten aluminum at thrashing just to see him.

It’s painful to see you like this and he tries his best to gather you to his arms to calm you down, shushing you to the best of his abilities that annoy you even further.

“I don’t want you! I want Jimin!”

“I’m the only one you have,” he says just as urgently, releasing you from his hold but you melt to him anyway, in a fit of tears with your hands covering your face.

It hurts to see you yearn for another person who isn’t him (read: your soulmate) and it hurts more to even grasp that this could’ve been your vignette the whole time that he’s been working, perhaps even the whole time that you’ve been pining after him.

“But I don’t wanna have you,” you enunciate with a sob that wracks your body yet destroy Yoongi’s core, his intake of breath being shallower the more that you refuse him.

“Can you find him for me please? Did I do anything wrong? Maybe he’ll respond to your texts.”

“You’ve never done anything wrong,” he comes to his sense just to scold you, eyes narrowing of why you could’ve conjured up such a thing.

“But I must’ve done something,” you whine. “Jimin doesn’t love me.”

“It’s impossible not to love you,” Yoongi interjects faster than the impulsive thought had formed in your brain, his eyes stern and promising. “Your soulmate must be the luckiest bastard in the world.”

You hear him once again but you can’t understand him, the words meaning nothing to you because you aren’t even sure of the level of relation you had with him before your memory became hazy.

“But my soulmate doesn’t even love me back!” 

You have him there, ironic that you’re going through the same situation twice. You’ve went through it with Yoongi for years genuinely, while you’ve been going through it with Jimin for five days because of an experiment.

“He loves you,” he says it in confidence and assurance, his hands unknowingly making their way to grip your shoulders for you to look at him when he’s speaking the truth. “He’s a conceited asshole and he’s really flawed, but he’s trying his best to love you more than you deserve,” his voice cracks briefly, clearing his throat. “Must be hard to swallow down the fact that the universe is too generous to him because he has you for a soulmate. He must feel like he’s the scum of the earth because he has the greatest, most lovable person in the world loving him, and he used to take it for granted.”

It’s warm. Too warm, too personal, and too familiar — and in your head, Jimin is the only person in your head who fills all three boxes.

“Jimin feels like that?”

“Hmm,” Yoongi agrees, lying easily. “He also hopes that it’s not too late.”

In a moment’s notice, he furthers the distance between the two of you as if the oddly-spurred passionate conversation the two of you had never happened.

Your memory’s not acting up when you remember that you came out to join Yoongi to talk about Jimin, but now, you wouldn’t believe yourself that it’s actually the reason you came out.

This time it’s you who reaches out for Yoongi, clearing your throat.

“Who’s that?” you point to his ring finger, eyes peeking at the initials. It’s just like yours, the irony of it making you giggle. “That’s not me, isn’t it?” 

“And if it was?” Yoongi asks, eyes still gentle but his voice much too mellow to the point that you’d think he isn’t breathing.

“I wouldn’t believe you,” you answer, carelessly shrugging.

Yoongi purses his lips and he knows he should stop prodding now because the last time he did, it ended with him driving you right into Jimin’s arms to experiment him out of your life. He can’t hold his tongue now, even when he knows he’s bound to suffer from himself anyway.

“Why not?”

“Because if that’s me, then I should be in love with you right now and not Jimin,” you trail, your tone reeking obviousness. It’s clear enough for you, atleast, but Yoongi takes nothing but murkiness from it.

“Hmm,” he hums, pointing to your hand. “Why do you love Jimin if his initials aren’t on your finger then?”

“You got me there,” you snort, the words unwilling to roll off easily from your mouth. In fact, nothing forms in your mind anyway, just a mere vision that you can discern yet not verbalize. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I just love him.”

It’s a confession that sets you apart from the soulmate that Yoongi knows, all before you had been desperate enough to desensitize yourself to his very existence.

“You can’t explain love?” he asks gently, eyes lowering down in thought.

“Can anybody?” you counter resignedly, the concept of just settling for the fact that there’s things that are unexplainable being enough for you.

Yoongi feels the most alive that he’s felt since the past day, the smile on his face being so nostalgic and sentimental to you for some reason that it momentarily makes you dizzy.

“My soulmate can. She’d profess her love for me every chance she gets. Would do it in all the ways she could find.”

You can explain love. You’re talkative and you always have the right words to say. You have the stubbornness in you that when put to its fullest power, puts his ego to shame. You have the convincing power of a company in you, one that has nothing to its name and only its very being to prove with.

You can put love into words and it’s daunting how you can condense everything you’ve ever felt for Yoongi into the many confessions you give him. In your loud drunken spiels all the way to your silent telepathic stints — you’re the embodiment of love. You can explain love and it makes sense because you would know your own.

“She sounds like a handful,” you murmur, brows furrowed to how Yoongi describes someone who’s clearly not on the same wavelength as he is with lovesick dedication in his face.

“She’s my handful though.”

“Does she come by here often then?” your brows raise, your headache throbbing the more that Yoongi speaks to you.

“You already know her,” Yoongi smiles tightly, looking right through you. He looks at you like he’s a dog that looks for its owner, ready to be at your beck and call. “I just don’t know if you can’t recognize her.”

“Show me a picture! Maybe it’ll jog my memory,” you offer enthusiastically, already knowing that you’re missing bits here and there but maybe seeing Yoongi’s soulmate would push you to remember faster.

“Maybe another time.”

Yoongi’s turned solemn, breathing shallowly as if he doesn’t want you to have a clue that you’re even seeing him right now.

“It’s just a picture! You looked like you were gonna cry when you were talking about her,” you pout, giving in eventually. “Aw, come on! You’re not sharing her?” 

“No,” he answers almost immediately, masking his certainty with an uneasy chuckle. “I hope not.” 

( ♡ )

You feel fuzzy.

Fuzzy in the sense that you remember clearly the two days you’ve lived but operated with your mind from afar; every interaction and every word crystal clear.

Fuzzy in the sense that it’s overwhelming, the good kind this time, but still overwhelming to the point that you have to take a breather outside of your apartment that feels suffocating to be in.

You’re five days ahead of schedule, the effect of the pill that was supposed to desensitize you to Yoongi and have other as drastic side effects being cut early.

It’s only relief that fills you when you walk out and hear Yoongi’s light snores in your guest bedroom instead of the living room, alleviating your momentary guilt at leaving this time — but only to give yourself the space to think, of course.

It’s only solace that envelopes you when you screw your eyes shut and look to your ring finger while you hold your breath, the consolation of seeing Yoongi’s initials still on there satiating you.

You’re not in your room and not even in the apartment at all. You’re not at the hallway and not even anywhere in your entire apartment complex. You’re not at the convenience store nearby where you typically go on walks just to take your mind off things and buy yourself snacks. He’s already checked and checked — Yoongi can’t find you anywhere.

He fears the worst. The absolute, most heartbreaking worst. He can’t even fathom where he got the strength to dial your number on his phone because he thought he would be faced with nothing, the proof that you’ve cut all ties with him by disconnecting completely.

Yoongi doesn’t know what possesses him when you answer easily on the second ring, your voice lighthearted.

“You’re wrong,” you hum. “Your apartment’s easy to break into just like mine.”

“Where are you?” Yoongi asks first amongst the other hundred questions he’s been dying to do so, the relief that fills him unable to be topped. You’ve just said your location but he still asks, hesitant that this may just be some cruel joke.

You stay quiet at your side of the line, looking around his place with a fondness you can’t even begin to start tackling.

“I’m at home.”

There’s nothing that comes to your mind besides the fact that it actually looks like your home. It resembles your home when you only had a mattress on the floor and no bedframe when you moved in, when you started sticking up pictures with tape that you didn’t know would ruin the walls, and when you finally found your sense of the style and had the finances and time to do it — it resembles your home all at the same time.

There’s several pictures of you and Yoongi together that line up the walls and the shelves, notes written behind them in your handwriting that you didn’t think he would keep.

Your parcels that he received with your name on it are all gathered near the doorway, the flyers of your favorite restaurants hung up by the fridge. Yoongi’s house looks more like your home and it almost brings you to tears.

He never noticed it, in fact. Hasn’t noticed the way that his definition of his home has shifted to your taste and how his definition of love turned into you. It had been gradually building through the years that Yoongi hasn’t stopped to figure that your home has become his, all to the point that he’s been living in it the whole time.

“I’m waiting,” you mutter as soon as you open the door to Yoongi who had ran all the way here in a frenzy, chest heaving up and down. “I’m waiting for you to make it up to me.”

“I’ll do that and more,” Yoongi nods in earnest and immediately leaps in to kiss you, finally feeling that you’ve given him the opportunity to breathe. 

He kisses you so endearingly that you’re surprised you haven’t done it before with him because the way he does so feels like second nature. He breathes you in until he feels like he can exhale, catching his breath as he settles his head to the crook of your neck.

“I was waiting for that too,” you snort, speaking at the same time as him.

“What I said that night-…”

“I remember,” you interrupt. “You’re not the scum of the earth, Yoongi, and I’m not the greatest person in the world either.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night,” he rolls his eyes even if he knows a fool would see that you aren’t anything short of great. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” he apologizes, eyes flickering to yours. “But you don’t have to wait around for me anymore, okay?”

It’s a great mound of consolation that he’d be willing to trek over and over again if it means making up for everything he’s done.

“I can’t love you the way that you love me because nobody can compare to you,” he whispers, crossing his heart in promise. “But believe me, please, I’ll make up for all of the lost time and I’ll love you the best that I could.”

It’s a progress, a working one at that, wherein you’d meet Yoongi in the middle of.

“I can’t confess my love for you every two weeks-…”

“Oh shut up,” you roll your eyes, playfully attempting to break off his hug to which he doesn’t let you.

“Because that’s too spread out. I’ll do it everyday,” Yoongi finishes, the grin on his face pleasantly annoying.

“You’re the worst,” you weakly offer, letting yourself into the moment of vulnerability by abandoning your defenses.

“You’re sounding like me,” he laughs, pressing just one more kiss to your forehead.

You’re the universe’s reward to Yoongi for everything he’s ever done, the resounding desire in his whole being to just be the best he could ever be for you reverberating throughout his home and yours.

★ Yeon Sieun ─ 연시은

─ It was late, far past the time when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the school library in a bruised purple twilight. The librarian had already left, entrusting the keys to Sieun, who had insisted he needed the silence to finish a complex physics problem set. You had stayed behind to study, but really, you were just there to watch him think. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust motes dancing in the singular beam of light coming from the desk lamp.

Sieun had finally put his pen down, the tension in his shoulders dropping as he turned his chair to face you. The conversation had started as a quiet murmur about formulas but had dissolved into a comfortable silence. He had reached out, his fingers cool and precise, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning in. It wasn't a rushed or messy; it was calculated and deep, a slow exploration that made the world narrow down to just the friction of his lips and the soft sigh escaping your throat. You were pulled flush against him, sitting on the edge of his desk, your hands tangled in the back of his hair, completely lost in the rhythm he was setting.

• The heavy oak door to the library didn't just open; it was practically kicked in. "SIEUN-AH! I brought snacks! I knew you guys would be starving by—whoa."

• Sieun didn't jump. He didn't gasp. In fact, the only sign that he was startled was the way his hand tightened almost imperceptibly on your waist. He broke the kiss slowly, not pulling away frantically, but simply turning his head with a look of utter, icy exhaustion to face the intruder.

• Suho was standing in the doorway, a bag of convenience store chips halfway to his mouth, eyes wide and a mischievous grin splitting his face.

• "Get out," Sieun said, his voice flat and calm, though his ears were burning a furious shade of red.

• Suho cackled, throwing a chip into his mouth. "My bad, my bad! Carry on! Pretend I'm not here! Actually, Sieun, your form was a little stiff, you should really—"

• Sieun immediately picked up the nearest heavy textbook and launched it with terrifying accuracy at the door. Suho yelped and ducked out into the hallway, his laughter echoing down the corridor.

• Sieun let out a long, suffering sigh, resting his forehead against your shoulder. "Ignore him," he mumbled into your shirt, refusing to look at you for a solid minute until his blush subsided.

★ Ahn Suho ─ 안수호

─ Classroom 1-3 was supposed to be empty. It was cleaning duty time, but Suho had convinced the other students to leave early, promising he would "handle everything." Naturally, "handling everything" involved him sitting on top of a desk while you erased the chalkboard. He had been teasing you for the last twenty minutes, throwing crumpled pieces of paper at you until you finally snapped, turning around to chase him.

He had caught you easily, spinning you around until your back was pressed against the chalkboard, chalk dust settling in the air around you like snow. His playful demeanor shifted into something softer, his eyes dropping to your lips with a rare, focused intensity. He caged you in with his arms, leaning down with a grin that vanished the moment his lips touched yours. It was a messy, smiling kiss, full of heat and the scent of citrus soda. You had your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer, completely forgetting that the door was unlocked and the hallway was patrolled.

• The sliding door rattled open with a harsh clack. "Ahn Suho! Why are the lights still—" The math teacher froze, blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

• Most people would shove their partner away. Suho, however, didn't even flinch. He slowly pulled back from you, keeping one hand securely on your hip, and turned to the teacher with the most charming, innocent smile he could muster.

• "Sir! Good evening," Suho chirped, his voice steady, though his hair was mussed and your lips were clearly swollen. "Y/N here just had something in their eye. Dust. Terrible dust in this room. I was just... performing a medical extraction."

• You buried your face in your hands, mortified, trying to scrub the chalk off your back.

• The teacher just huffed. "Medical extraction? With your mouth? Get out of here, both of you! And tuck your shirt in, Ahn!"

• Suho grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and bowed theatrically before dragging you out the door. As soon as you were in the clear, he burst out laughing, squeezing your hand.

• "Medical extraction?" you hissed, hitting his arm.

• "Hey, it worked! We didn't get detention," he winked, leaning in to whisper, "We can finish the 'procedure' on the roof."

★ Oh Beomseok ─ 오범석

─ Beomseok’s room was his sanctuary, the one place where he felt he didn't have to look over his shoulder. The two of you were sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed frame, a video game paused on the screen in front of you. The controller had been discarded long ago. He had been having a bad day—feeling small and anxious—and you had just been holding him, whispering reassurances.

The comfort had shifted into something more desperate and needy. Beomseok kissed like he was afraid you would vanish if he let go. His hands were gripping the fabric of your shirt tightly, trembling slightly. It was a safe, enclosed bubble of intimacy, heavy with emotion. He was straddling your lap, eyes squeezed shut, finally letting his guard down completely, trusting you with his vulnerability.

• The door handle turned without a knock. "Beomseok, do you have the notes for—"

• Sieun walked in, stopped dead, and stared.

• The reaction was instantaneous chaos. Beomseok gasped, a strangled sound of pure panic, and scrambled off your lap so fast he tripped over his own feet and crashed into his desk chair. He looked terrified, eyes darting between you and Sieun, his face draining of color before flushing a violent red.

• "I— It's— We weren't—" Beomseok stammered, looking like he was about to cry from the sheer embarrassment of being perceived in such a compromised state.

• Sieun stood in the doorway, his expression completely unreadable. He looked at Beomseok, then at you, and then at the paused game on the TV.

• "Okay," Sieun said simply.

• He stepped back out into the hallway and closed the door with a soft click.

• Beomseok stood frozen for a second, hyperventilating. "He saw. He saw everything. Oh god."

• You had to spend the next ten minutes hugging him and rubbing his back, assuring him that Sieun didn't care, until Beomseok finally calmed down, though he refused to leave the room for dinner.

★ Park Humin ─ 박후민

─ The gym storage room smelled of rubber mats and leather cleaner, but it was the only place to get some privacy after school hours. Humin had just finished a heavy workout; his skin was glistening with a sheen of sweat. You had brought him a water bottle, but he had ignored it in favor of pulling you into the shadows between the wrestling mats and the equipment racks.

For a guy with such a reputation for strength, he was incredibly gentle. He had lifted you up to sit on a stack of mats so he could stand between your knees, his large hands resting carefully on your waist. The kiss was deep and all-consuming, Humin humming contentedly against your lips. He was completely zoned out, eyes closed, lost in the feeling of you running your hands through his damp hair.

• "Yo, Baku! Are you dead in here? I wanna get food, let's g—OH MY GOD!"

• Hyuntak’s screech pierced the air like a siren.

• Humin jumped so hard he nearly knocked over a rack of dumbbells. He pulled away from you as if he’d been electrocuted, his face instantly turning the color of a tomato. He tried to act casual, crossing his arms over his chest to look tough, but he was breathing hard and looking everywhere except at Hyuntak.

• "What do you want, Go Go?" Humin barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

• Hyuntak was doubled over, pointing a shaking finger at them. "You! You were—with Y/N! In the storage room! Oh, this is rich. This is gold. wait until I tell the guys!"

• "Shut up! I was just... helping them find... a volleyball!" Humin argued weakly.

• "A volleyball? In the wrestling mat section? With your tongue?" Hyuntak wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye.

• Humin groaned, covering his face with one hand while reaching out with the other to blindly grab your hand for moral support. "I'm going to kill him. Y/N, hold me back, or I'm actually going to kill him."

★ Go Hyuntak ─ 고현탁

─ Behind the school, near the vending machines, there was a blind spot where the CCTV cameras didn't reach. It was Hyuntak’s favorite spot to slack off. The afternoon sun was blazing, and the hum of the vending machine was the only background noise. Hyuntak was trying to be cool, leaning against the brick wall with one hand, but his coolness had melted away the second you initiated the kiss.

He was enthusiastic, his hands moving restlessly from your shoulders to your face, cupping your cheeks. He was murmuring praises against your lips, telling you how cute you looked, completely absorbed in the moment. He felt like the king of the world—until a massive shadow fell over the both of you.

• "Hyuntak!"

• The deep voice rumbled from above. Hyuntak shrieked, a high-pitched sound that did not match his tough guy persona, and practically threw himself in front of you as if shielding you from a grenade.

• "IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!" Hyuntak yelled, eyes bulging.

• Humin was standing there, holding a carton of strawberry milk, looking down at his best friend with a smirk so big it seemed to reach his eyes.

• "It looks like you're sucking face behind the vending machine," Humin deadpanned.

• "I was not sucking—we were sharing a moment! A private moment! Go away!" Hyuntak waved his arms frantically.

• Humin took a sip of his milk, grinning. "You have lipstick on your nose."

• Hyuntak immediately went cross-eyed trying to look at his own nose, frantically scrubbing at his face. "Is it gone? Is it gone? Y/N, don't look at me!"

• Humin chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away. "Wrap it up, lover boy. We have practice in ten."

• Hyuntak slumped against the wall, defeated. "He's never going to let me live this down. Never."

★ Geum Seongje ─ 금성제

─ The atmosphere in the bowling alley was always tense, smelling of stale smoke and cheap cologne, the sound of bowling balls hitting the bowling pins a constant background noise. He was sitting on some worn out bench, legs spread, looking at something on his phone while you sat next to him. He wasn't one for soft romance. He had simply grabbed you by the back of the neck, pulling you in with a possessive growl, biting at your lower lip more than kissing it.

It was rough and hurried, a way for him to stake his claim. His rings dug slightly into your skin as his hand roamed down to your waist, pulling you forcefully into his lap. He didn't care about the noise outside or the gang members in the other room. When Seongje wanted something, he took it.

• The door swung open. "Seongje, we have a problem with the—"

• Dongha froze in the doorway. He didn't even give his signature smirk ─ instead rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Interrupting Geum Seongje was dangerous. Interrupting Geum Seongje while he was busy with his partner was a death wish.

• Seongje didn't pull away immediately. He broke the kiss slowly, savoring the last second, before turning his head to glare at Dongha. His eyes were dark, dilated, and terrifying.

• "This better be good," Seongje said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He didn't move you from his lap; he kept his arm draped heavily over you, daring Dongha to say a word about it.

• "I—uh—sorry, I didn't know. I'll come back," Dongha stammered slightly, backing away slowly, hoping to not get in trouble.

• "You're already here," Seongje snapped, looking annoyed. "Spit it out, Dongha. Before I lose my temper."

• You sat there awkwardly, pinned by Seongje’s arm, while Dongha tried to give a report on territory disputes while averting his eyes from your swollen lips. As soon as Dongha fled, Seongje huffed, lighting a cigarette.

• "Idiots. Can't get a moment of peace," he muttered, before turning back to you with a smirk. "Where were we?"

★ Na Baekjin ─ 나백진

─ Baekjin was seated in his "office", working, as always, reviewing documents at his desk. You had walked over to gently take the pen from his hand. He had looked up, annoyance flashing in his eyes for a split second before softening when he saw it was you.

He swiveled his chair around, pulling you between his legs. His kisses were like everything else he did: perfect, controlling, and intoxicating. He tasted of mint and expensive espresso. One of his hands was tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, while the other rested possessively on your thigh. It was a display of ownership and rare indulgence from the leader of the union.

• The door opened without a knock. Only one person had the audacity to do that. "Baekjin, about the revenue share from—"

• Seongje walked in, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and stopped.

• Baekjin didn't scramble. He didn't blush. He didn't even push you away. He simply stopped kissing you, straightened his back, and turned his cold, reptilian gaze toward Seongje. His hand remained on your thigh, a silent statement.

• "Knocking," Baekjin said, his voice smooth and chilling, "is a basic courtesy, Seongje."

• Seongje stared at the scene. For the first time, he looked genuinely taken aback. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, flicked some ash on the floor (which made Baekjin’s eye twitch), and shrugged.

• "Door was unlocked," Seongje grunted, though he looked uncomfortably like he wanted to be anywhere else. The power dynamic in the room shifted; Baekjin was still the predator, even with lipstick smudged on the corner of his mouth.

• "Wait outside," Baekjin commanded.

• Seongje actually listened. He scoffed, turned on his heel, and walked out.

The entire university is pulsating with the energy of drunk frat boys in capes, girls dressed in skimpy lingerie calling it their costume, and at least three professors who are far too old to be dressed up amongst the students. You, however, are in your true element: large hoodie, fuzzy socks, a half-eaten Snickers bar on your nightstand, and a thick law textbook open in front of you.

Parties aren't your thing. You'd rather be sued than make small talk with a guy dressed as a ketchup bottle. While your roommate, Jieun, spent hours hot-gluing rhinestones onto her platform space boots for her "sexy astronaut" outfit, you politely declined all invitations and instead declared war on your midterm readings. The only spooky thing in your life right now is the growing realisation that you don't actually want to be a lawyer, the thought that you'll probably die single, and knowing you'll be buried in student debt by the time you graduate.

And honestly? That's still more appealing than the campus party.

You take a break from studying around 2am and finally decide to turn off the light and get some rest. Until the door of your dorm room creaks open.

You pause, blinking your eyes open in the darkness of your room. Maybe Jieun forgot her phone. Maybe she brought back a stray alien from the party. Either way, you don't move, not until the unmistakable dip of the mattress under your legs almost sends your soul flying from your body.

Someone just climbed into your bed.

Your eyes widen to the size of saucers, your heart racing in your chest. It's pitch black, the only light coming from the little slit under the door.

"Jieunieee," the voice whispers, smooth and far too seductive. "Are you ready for the best dick of your life?"

That's it.

You scream as loud as you can, springing straight up. You grab the bottle of Chanel perfume on your nightstand and spray it directly into his eyes.

"AHHH—WHAT THE F—!"

The stranger falls out of your bed with a loud thud, hitting the floor dramatically like he's been shot in a Western.

"What the hell?!" he groans, writhing on the floor with a hand covering his eyes and the other holding his head. "You maced me!"

"That was perfume!" you yell, feeling your heart in your throat, the perfume clutched tightly in your hand, holding it out in case you have to spray him again. "And why are you in my bed, you psychopath?!"

"I was looking for Jieun!"

"You can't just crawl into beds like a raccoon in the night!"

"I thought this was her bed!"

"Do I sound like Jieun?!"

He blinks rapidly on the floor, his voice strained through his agony. "I don't know, it's dark and I was promised a sexy astronaut!"

You switch on the bedside lamp with the force of a woman ready to kill.

And there he is.

Black leather pants. Tight black shirt. Fake bruises and cuts on his face, presumably made with makeup. An eyebrow piercing. Tousled hair. Ridiculously attractive even while clutching at his eyes like he's just been gassed in battle.

Your brain fills in the blanks before he even says it.

"You're Jeon Jungkook, aren't you?"

He lowers his hand just enough to smirk at you. "And you're ___. The infamous roommate I've heard so much about."

You sigh, flopping back against your headboard in disbelief. "Of course she's hooking up with you of all people."

Jungkook is a campus legend. The boy whose reputation includes at least two streaking incidents, three girls who dropped out of the university due to their heartbreak, and a tongue that's done unspeakable things according to the word on the street.

And now he's on your floor, still very much looking like the kind of man your mother warned you about even after being sprayed in the eyes with perfume.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "For the record, I've had a lot of entrances, but that was definitely my worst."

"You scared the crap out of me!" you exclaim, tossing your pillow at him. "Who just walks into a dorm and climbs into an unfamiliar bed?!"

"I didn't walk," he scoffs, catching the pillow with an insufferable grin. "I strode."

You glare at him.

He grins wider. "Come on, that was funny!"

"You have a concussion, don't you?"

He wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms, settling on the edge of your bed. "Honestly? If you weren't so terrifying, I'd be impressed."

"Excuse me?"

"You're terrifying," he deadpans. "You sprayed me in the eyes and insulted me all within five minutes. That's worse than most of my Tinder dates. Not by much, but still."

You fold your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him. "Maybe don't go crawling into beds with strangers."

"Technically, you're the stranger," he quips, pointing a finger at you. "And you've maced and verbally abused me. That's a lot for a first impression."

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Unbelievable. Are you always this irritating?"

"I like to think of myself as…persistently charming," he smiles.

You give him a dry look, your eyes narrowing. "You're the human equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic."

"Oof," he winces, placing his hand over his heart. "Okay, that one hurt. But also...kinda hot that you're this mean."

You blink at him. "Do girls actually fall for this crap?"

"Usually," he shrugs.

"Well, congratulations," you scoff. "You've officially found the girl who's immune to your bullshit."

He holds up his hands in surrender, laughing softly. "Okay, you've made your point. I'm sorry I invaded your bed. I didn't mean to scare you like that. I apologise."

Your face softens ever so slightly, giving him a curt nod. "Thank you."

"But also," he adds, leaning back on his hands, "you're hilarious. And clearly not afraid to defend your space. We should be friends."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Friends," he repeats, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You and me. I'm serious."

You narrow your eyes once more. "You literally came here to hook up with my roommate."

"Which clearly isn't happening anymore," he sighs, lounging on your bed like he's at a beach club. "But now I've met you. And I like you."

You scoff. "You don't know me."

"I know you don't care about going to a hot party and hooking up on Halloween night, and would absolutely tase someone if you had the chance. Right?"

You pause. That…is not incorrect.

"I also know that girls like you usually avoid guys like me. Which is fair. But still…" He swings his legs off the bed, standing up. "I want to be friends."

"Why would we do that?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He grins. "Because you're the first girl who's actually told me I'm full of shit to my face."

You open your mouth, then close it again, and he takes that as a win.

"Anyway, I'll see you around," he smiles, walking toward the door. "If Jieun asks, tell her I tested positive for an STD or something."

You roll your eyes. "Get out!"

He's halfway out when he turns back and winks. "Nice meeting you, ___."

"Likewise, Satan," you grumble, gesturing for him to shut the door.

He laughs, loud and boyish, and disappears down the hall. And just like that, your quiet Halloween night turned into something totally unexpected.

You met Jeon Jungkook. And he wants to be your friend.

God help you.

The library is dead silent, but your soul is screaming.

You've been staring at the same paragraph in your property law textbook for the past eleven minutes and it's starting to feel unbearable. You've underlined the phrase "freehold estates" three times in three different colours, and it still means absolutely nothing to you. Your highlighter is on life support, your brain is fried, and you'd sell your soul for caffeine.

But instead of caffeine, you get Jungkook. Perfect.

"Hey, bestie."

You flinch so hard your pen skitters off the desk.

He slides into the seat across from you like he owns it, as if you invited him. As if this is a casual meet-up instead of a sacred study bubble you built with blood, sweat, and overpriced stationery.

"Why," you whisper, your eyes narrowing, "are you here?"

He blinks innocently, shrugging. "Checking on my friend. You did say we'd be friends."

You raise a skeptical brow.

He leans in closer, his voice mock-offended and far too loud for the library. "Which is interesting, because I've texted you three times this week and you haven't replied once."

You open your mouth, then close it, unable to come up with a valid excuse.

"I had to force you to give me your number last week when we ran into each other in the cafeteria," he continues, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do you always ghost your friends, or am I just special?"

You groan, rubbing your temples. "I've been busy, Jungkook."

"You probably didn't even save my contact," he mumbles dramatically. "I'm still just a number. I feel so objectified."

You blink at him, fighting the chuckle threatening to bubble up your throat. "You're so dramatic."

"And you're so avoidant. Classic enemies-to-friends arc," he muses. "We're already ahead of schedule."

You roll your eyes, glancing back down at your textbook. You really don't have time for this, but Jungkook props his chin on his hand and looks at you with that annoyingly charming smile of his, like he's got nowhere else to be. Like being here, distracting you, is the most important thing in the world.

You hate how disarming it is.

"You done soon?" he asks.

"I have a property law test tomorrow," you mutter dryly. "So, no. I will never be done. I will die in this library and haunt the footnotes of this stupid textbook."

He laughs loudly, earning a 'shhhh!' from a student two tables away. "What if I bribe you with coffee?"

You look up, contemplating it for a second before going back to the dreaded textbook.

"Not interested," you mutter lowly, though it's not even convincing to your own ears.

"You're clearly tired," he scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "And cranky. And there's a weird twitch in your left eye. Come on, ___. Take a break with me."

You purse your lips, letting out a deep sigh. The twitch is real. And your head is pounding. And caffeine does sound like heaven right now.

"You're really annoying," you mutter. "I mean it."

"I've been told," he grins, rising from the chair like he's already won. "Come on. Twenty-minute coffee break. Your brain cells will thank me."

Against your better judgment, and possibly because you might actually fall asleep in your chair, you shut your textbook and drag yourself to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Fifteen minutes," you grumble. "If I fail this test, I'm blaming you."

"Fair," he shrugs, grinning as he holds the library's door open for you. "But at least you'll have had the best coffee of your life, so it'll be worth it."

The café is warm and noisy, filled with the comforting smell of espresso and baked goods. Students sit hunched over laptops. A barista is arguing with the espresso machine. Someone's crying in the corner over what sounds like an econ midterm.

You're halfway through the line when Jungkook turns to you, holding two fingers in front of the glass display.

"Okay," he huffs dramatically. "Crucial decision. Strawberry muffin or banana cinnamon walnut?"

You blink up at him, your eyes narrowing. "What?"

"I can't decide," he confesses, peering at them like they're ancient artefacts. "I want both but I can't get both. That's too much sugar and fat and I'll lose my abs. A girl licked whipped cream off my abs two days ago. I need them."

You snort, taking a step forward as the line starts moving again. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious," he whines. "Pick one for me. I trust your judgment for some reason."

You sigh in resignation. "Do you want nuts?"

"I don't like nuts," he mutters with a grimace. "But I also don't like not liking things. Feels like I'm limiting my potential."

You stare at him like he's actually insane.

He stares at the muffins.

"Banana walnut it is," you nod.

He looks at you like you just sentenced him to death. "Really? I was kinda hoping for strawberry."

"You said you don't like not liking things. Expand your horizons. Live a little. Face your fears. Eat the nut muffin."

He lets out a groan like he's being tortured. "If I hate it, this is on you."

"Oh relax, you'll live," you scoff, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What if I die?"

"If you die, I get that expensive laptop of yours."

He nods solemnly. "Deal."

After a long wait that's most definitely over fifteen minutes, you sit down at a corner table by the window, both of you nursing warm drinks. He watches you take the first sip of your mocha like you're some sort of science experiment.

"You were desperate for this, huh?" he chuckles.

"Don't judge me."

He laughs and takes a bite of the banana walnut muffin. He chews slowly, his face unreadable.

You watch him, waiting for the verdict.

He swallows, licks a crumb off his thumb, and looks pleasantly surprised. "…Woah. This is amazing."

You smile, sipping your coffee. "Told you."

"Who knew I liked nuts?"

"I did. You're welcome."

He leans back in his chair and smiles over at you. It's soft, genuine, not the usual grin he uses when he's being annoying.

"I'm starting to think we're meant to be," he quips.

You nearly choke. "Over a muffin?"

"Yeah. You just made a decision that changed my life. This is fate."

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up nonetheless.

He nudges your foot gently under the table, slowly sliding the muffin over to you to taste.

"Thanks for coming with me."

You take a little bite of the muffin, nodding at the taste. "Thanks for the invitation."

And just like that, it starts. A small, insignificant tradition that might mean more some day, but for now, it's just comfortable and easy.

Just…friendship.

—

The kitchen is a mess. There's flour on your cheeks, frosting on your elbow, and a criminal amount of cupcake batter missing from the mixing bowl. Your cousin asked you to bake a batch of vanilla cupcakes for her bridal shower and of course, the new pain in your ass decided to come over to your dorm to 'help'.

"Jungkook," you warn, pointing your spatula at him, "if you eat one more spoon of raw batter, I will throw you out. And no, that's not a threat, it's a promise."

"I'm not eating it," he mumbles, his mouth full. "I'm...quality testing."

"You're gonna get salmonella and die."

"I'll die a happy man because this batter's really good," he grins.

You sigh, scraping the last of the creamy batter into the cupcake liners while Jungkook leans against the counter, licking the spoon you gave him to keep him busy. He has cake batter on the corner of his mouth, and somehow he still looks good. Ridiculously good. Stupidly, unfairly rude levels of good. You pretend not to notice.

"You're supposed to be helping," you sigh.

"I am helping," he says proudly. "You said these are for your cousin's bridal shower. What better way to show my support of the union than selflessly sacrificing my digestive system?"

"You don't have a logical bone in your body."

He grins, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, helping a friend who desperately needed me."

"You invited yourself," you deadpan. "As usual."

He shrugs. "You didn't say no."

You sigh and slide the tray of cupcakes into the oven before setting the timer. The warmth of the kitchen hums around you. It smells like vanilla and feels like a comforting hug in the midst of exams and stress and the impending doom of early adulthood.

Jungkook hops onto the counter, swinging his legs to entertain himself now that the fun part—eating raw batter and watching you stress over quantities of baking powder—is over.

"I still can't believe you made all this from scratch," he murmurs, looking genuinely impressed. "These are, like…actual, professional cupcakes."

You wipe your hands on a dish towel, chuckling. "My cousin's paying me, so that's kinda the point."

He tilts his head, watching you intently. "You're really good at this."

Something in you blossoms at the compliment. He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like it's a fact. It feels good, something you're not sure you've felt before.

You smile faintly and sit down at the little table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mess around you; edible flowers, mixing bowls, an empty packet of cupcake liners.

"It's what I love," you murmur softly, a look of tenderness blooming in your gaze.

He raises a brow. "Baking?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Always have. Even when I was a kid. I used to make these terrible little chocolate chip cookies that were more like…burnt rocks...but I'd still force everyone in my family to eat them."

He laughs.

You don't.

"I used to dream about owning a bakery," you add, your voice a little softer, more vulnerable. "Still do, I guess."

There's a pause. He watches you, remaining quiet, waiting for you to elaborate without making a silly comment. You don't look at him, but you can feel it, the shift, his attention going from teasing to genuinely trying to understand you a little deeper.

"But…" you sigh, leaning your chin on your palm. "My parents want me to be a lawyer. That was always the plan. It's respectable. Stable. It makes sense."

"Do you want to be a lawyer?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.

You hesitate, letting out a deep sigh. It's as if a gate has opened inside your chest because you don't seem to hold anything back.

"No," you scoff. "Not even a little."

The confession feels heavier than you expected. It feels like you're finally being honest with yourself, which is far scarier than being honest with him. You can ignore his teasing remarks, but you can't ignore that little mocking voice in your head that tells you your dreams probably won't work out anyway.

Jungkook doesn't say anything right away. He just keeps swinging his legs slowly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter.

Finally, he asks, "Then why are you doing it?"

You roll your eyes, looking anywhere but his eyes. "Because…I'm good at it apparently...and they expect it. I don't want to disappoint them."

He nods slowly, his eyes downcast.

"You know what would be more disappointing?" he murmurs, his smile barely reaching his eyes.

You tilt your head, looking over at him.

"Waking up ten years from now and hating your life," he deadpans. "And never even trying."

Your chest tightens, your head racing with endless possibilities of a future you thought was already set out for you.

"You're so good at this, ___," he smiles, gesturing to the cupcakes in the oven, the kitchen, the part of you he wants to explore further. "Like, actually good. Not just hobby-good. This is your thing."

You swallow thickly, remaining silent. You don't usually tell people this stuff. You don't usually let yourself say it out loud because then it feels too real. Too scary. But for some reason…with him, it doesn't. You've come to realise he makes you feel seen, which is weird, considering he usually forgets girls' names and faces after a single encounter. This is different, though. You're not a girl he wants to sleep with. You're ___, the girl he wants to hang out with at 2am just because. You're the girl he genuinely wants to spend time with because he enjoys your company, your friendship. You like that. It makes this all feel more genuine.

There's a long beat of silence before you begrudgingly admit the thoughts plaguing you. "You can be really sweet when you're not being an idiot."

He laughs, his nose scrunching up in that way that makes your stomach feel tingly and fluttery. "Don't spread that around. I have a specific brand to maintain."

You laugh, loud and sincere.

"I think you'd make a great bakery owner," he murmurs softly, flicking some leftover flour in your direction.

You wave him off like it's nothing and check your cupcakes, but for the first time since you started studying law, you finally believe you're capable of more than settling, all thanks to the boy on your counter with flour in his hair and sincerity in his eyes.

—

It's almost midnight when Jungkook's phone buzzes on the nightstand. He's half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, one sock missing. He squints at the screen through bleary eyes, seeing your contact name.

He's awake in an instant.

"Hello?" he croaks, already sitting up, his hair sticking up in all directions. He hears the catch in your voice before you even say a word.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, sniffling. "Did I wake you?"

His heart drops. "Are you okay?"

"...Seungcheol...he cheated on me."

Jungkook is already pulling on sweatpants before the word 'cheated' leaves your lips.

Of course. Fucking Seungcheol. You weren't even really looking for love when you met him. He was just a friend of a friend in one of your classes—a smooth talker who carried around a leather briefcase like he was already a full-time lawyer instead of a sleep-deprived undergrad. Jungkook never liked him, always thought he was a bit pretentious, but of course he wouldn't burst your bubble. Looks like he was right about the dick after all.

"I'll be there in ten."

You open your dorm door in your pajamas, eyes red, nose pink. Your expression crumples the moment you see him, and he doesn't hesitate, just wraps you up in his arms, no questions asked.

Even after just seven months of friendship, you cling to Jungkook like a lifeline, like he'll put all your broken pieces together again. Sure, your relationship with Seungcheol only lasted two months but that means a lot to an eighteen-year-old, so there are still a lot of broken pieces nonetheless.

"He said he didn't mean to," you mumble against his chest while you lie in bed together, willingly this time. "Like that makes it better. Like I should be grateful that it only happened once."

Jungkook exhales hard, like he's trying not to yell. "He's a fucking idiot."

"He said I made him feel…small. That I was trying to outsmart him. That I was too independent. That I...made him feel like he couldn't 'be the man', whatever that means."

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes fierce, his hands cupping your face.

"You are smart. And independent. And so beautiful. And funny. And you make the best desserts in this entire goddamn city. If he couldn't handle that, it's not because you were too much. It's because he just wasn't enough."

Your eyes well up again, tears silently slipping down your cheeks.

"He cheated with a really pretty girl. Blonde. Really big boobs," you grumble.

Jungkook's voice softens, his thumbs stroking your wet cheeks. "Don't compare yourself to some other girl. You are...so fucking gorgeous, by the way."

You snort, shaking your head. "Shut up."

"I'm serious." His thumb brushes away another tear. "You walk around like you're not insanely beautiful, and you think no one notices. But I do, ___."

You stare at him, stunned into silence.

He shrugs, pulling you closer to rest your head against his chest. "Just saying. Don't cry over some knock-off loser when you're literally you."

He stays wrapped around you for as long as you need, one hand gently running through your hair. You sniffle into his neck, your eyes eventually fluttering shut from the warmth and safety of it all.

Eventually, you fall asleep against his chest, breathing steady, a hand loosely clutching his hoodie.

Jungkook remains still, simply looking at you, admiring you in all your glory. Memorising the curve of your cheek against his collarbone. The way your lips part ever so slightly when you dream. The way your fingers curl, even in your sleep, like you're afraid to let go.

He's not the guy who stays for too long. Not the guy who commits. He's built his whole identity around not being that guy, but holding you like this, he kinda wishes he was.

He stares up at the ceiling and sighs, a quiet, hopeless sound.

"I wish I could be the man you need," he whispers into the dark. "But I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be."

And even though you're fast asleep, you still mumble something soft and unintelligible into his chest. You still hold on, and so does he.

—

Your dorm room is lit by a single lamp, the soft yellow glow contrasting violently with the hyper-pink DVD menu of Legally Blonde looping on your laptop. You've watched it a million times before but it's a Friday night and you're having a movie night with Jungkook, so naturally, you're introducing him to one of the classics.

Jungkook is sprawled across your bed, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand buried in a bowl of popcorn and the other dramatically thrown over his forehead as if he's on his deathbed.

"I swear I don't deserve this," he groans. "I mean...I know I call her Number Three but she didn't have to ghost me just because I wouldn't be exclusive with her. I was actually planning on seeing her again and then calling it off, like a gentleman."

You blink, glancing over at him. "Number Three?"

He sighs. "We've been over this, remember? The girl from the accounting party. Short. Cute. Gave me a hickey shaped like a continent. I think South America?"

You stare at him, slowly shaking your head. "You're insufferable."

He brightens. "Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"You say that," he grins, grabbing another handful of popcorn, "but I feel like you secretly admire my dedication to the craft."

"What craft?" you deadpan. "Being a man-whore?"

He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

"And you wound women," you chuckle.

"Wow. That hurt, ___."

You toss a pillow at him but he dodges like an athlete. Of course he does. Jackass.

Eventually, when the popcorn is half finished and your patience is half gone, you nod toward the laptop screen. "I'm honestly surprised you're not out tonight."

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

"It's Friday," you deadpan. "Your natural habitat is...I don't know...bars, random beds, broom closets. Anywhere but here watching Legally Blonde with me."

He pouts, actually pouts.

"Hey, I like hanging out with you. I cancelled plans to hang out with you."

You scoff, visibly unconvinced. You secretly feel very special and quite flattered, but that has to be too good to be true, right?

He continues casually, "I'm not completely heartless, you know. I have layers. I'm like an onion. A sexy onion."

You snort. "Please never say 'sexy onion' again."

"But it's true!" he insists, nudging your calf with his foot. "I really like hanging out with you. You're fun, easy to talk to, and you don't pretend to be someone else around me."

"And your other girls do?"

"They pretend to like whatever I like, dislike whatever I dislike. It gets boring listening to them just agree with whatever I say."

You roll your eyes. "Poor baby."

He rolls his eyes right back, as if you don't understand how hard it all is for him.

"You know what your problem is?" you ask, adjusting the laptop and pressing play.

"Oh, here we go."

"You don't believe in romance. Or in actual relationships. Or in…anything that requires feelings."

That's not entirely true, but he shrugs anyway. "Feelings are messy. Hookups are simple. Everyone wins."

"Not everyone," you mumble under your breath, your eyes trained on the laptop screen.

He tilts his head, his mouth stuffed with more popcorn. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You ignore his question and push on. "I just…I don't get it. How can you have meaningless sex with someone? Doesn't it feel empty?"

"Actually when I do it, they usually feel very full," he smirks.

You throw a balled-up pair of socks at his face and he catches it one-handed. What a show-off.

"Look," you clarify, sighing, "I'm just saying, I personally...want something real. Someday. Something that actually matters. A person who actually matters."

"Happily ever after, huh?" he teases.

"Maybe," you mutter, growing defensive. "Why not?"

He makes a face as if you just told him the Earth is flat. "Uhmmm...because that doesn't exist."

"You're so dramatic, yes it does."

"You're the dramatic one!" he argues. "You act like the universe is going to drop Prince Charming out of the sky."

"Maybe it will."

"It won't," he laughs.

You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. "You don't know that."

"I do. I know love ends in heartbreak ninety-nine percent of the time."

"So what? You avoid the one percent just in case it hurts?" you challenge.

"Yes," he chuckles carelessly. "And I'm thriving."

You stare at him for a long moment—this beautiful, aggravating, confusing man who can make you laugh until your ribs hurt and then say something that makes you want to shake him.

He has no idea what he does to people.

Especially you.

Especially because lately you've been catching yourself staring at his hands more when he gestures, or the way his hair falls into his eyes while he plays video games, or the sweet, sincere smile he gives you right before he ruins the moment and says something stupid.

You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Crushes on Jungkook are a disease, and you are absolutely vaccinated.

You distract yourself with the movie. Elle Woods is about to confront Warner. Great scene. Then—

His phone buzzes on the bed. Just once.

You don't mean to look but your eyes flick down instinctively while he rambles absentmindedly about the scene playing out on screen.

There's an unanswered text still waiting on the screen from his friend, Seokjin, asking about some business admin assignment. He didn't bother to respond yet. You're sure Seokjin is used to him taking forever to respond to texts, considering they've known each other since high school and now share a few classes together, which you found out on a tipsy Wednesday night when Jungkook decided to share his whole life story with you.

That's not the text that matters right now. The second text is the one that really catches your eye. The number isn't saved, but you don't have to be a genius to know that it's one of his hookups.

xx - xxx [10:32pm]: i had a lot of fun tonight. same time tomorrow ??

He slept with someone. He had sex with some girl literally right before coming over.

Your stomach drops. It shouldn't—not when you've known him for almost a year and you know him to be this way—but it does anyway. It drops because he said he cancelled plans to be with you, but it turns out you're just leftovers.

And now he's here, laughing with you, acting like you're such good company, when in reality you were the afterthought once again. The backup plan. The safe, comfortable option when he's done with whatever girl came before.

You clear your throat. "Your, uhm...your phone buzzed."

"Oh?" he mutters lazily, not even reaching for it. "Probably Jin. He's obsessed with me," he jokes.

You look back at the laptop screen before he can see your face. Your voice is neutral when you murmur, "You should probably respond. Maybe it's important."

"Nah," he shrugs. "I'm here. I'm hanging out with you."

You nod, forcing a smile.

Something inside you clicks—a silent, sharp realisation. This is who Jungkook is. This is who Jungkook will always be. He's funny, and charming, and a little bit addictive, if you're being completely honest.

But Jungkook will never be yours.

He will never be the perfect man for you. He will never be your one percent. So, you bury the tiny, blooming crush before it can grow roots, and you decide firmly, painfully, that a friend is all he'll ever be to you.

And you're sure you can live with that.

Ten years later...

If someone had told you back in university that the chaotic intruder you maced with Chanel perfume would become your favourite person, you would've recommended they seek help urgently.

And yet, ten years later, here you are.

Somehow, despite Jungkook's questionable life choices, endless line of women, and the fact that he once tried to microwave ramen without water, the two of you grew into something solid. Something constant. Something quietly threaded into every part of your adult life.

You grew up together.

Late-night study sessions turned into late-night grocery runs. His hangovers turned into your "you have to stop being so irresponsible" lectures. Your heartbreaks turned into his "give me his address" threats. You were there to celebrate with him when he landed his first high-paying corporate job and he was there to support you when you were grieving your dad's passing.

You became inseparable. A matched set. A pair of platonic soulmates. And in the past ten years, your life took a path younger you would've fainted over.

Sure, you graduated with your law degree and your family was proud, your grandmother bragged to her knitting group, and you spent several months pretending you were totally thrilled to be entering a profession that slowly devoured human souls.

But the truth? You hated it. The corporate offices. The endless contracts. The panic attacks you had in bathroom stalls pretending everything was fine. Law was stable and respectable, but it sucked the life out of you.

Your dream had always smelled like sugar, butter, and rising dough, so one day, with the determination your professors once called "excessive," you quit your job, emptied your savings, fought with your mom for a full year about your life choices, and opened the bakery you always wanted.

Honey & Hearth Bakery; your pride and joy, your entire heart with an overpriced oven attached. The tiny cake shop that eventually grew into a beloved neighbourhood spot with warm lighting, mismatched mugs, cozy booths, and the smell of fresh bread always lingering in the air.

And Jungkook? Well, he painted the walls baby-pink with you at 1am and drilled shelves with no prior experience. He showed up to your grand opening with an extravagant flower bouquet, three balloons that were far too big and dramatic for a bakery opening, and a promise to always support you and your happiness.

He's been your most loyal customer ever since.

Which brings you to now.

The bell above the front door jingles at 8 on a Thursday morning and you don't have to look up to know who it is.

"Morning, superstar," Jungkook calls out, his voice warm and annoyingly bright for a man who has a meeting to attend in an hour. Working in the corporate world isn't the most thrilling profession in life, but he earns the big bucks and he looks hot wearing a suit, and that's enough for him.

You grin without turning around, already whipping up his coffee. "You're late."

"It's 8," he scoffs, winking at a random woman that walks past him.

"Your usual time is 7:20."

"Sorry. Morning sex happened," he sighs, sliding onto his usual stool at the front counter. "That girl from the bar stayed the night and don't get me wrong, she's hot, but I had to explain the whole 'no overstaying your welcome' rule."

"Is that a part of your 'no back-to-back sex' rule?"

"Yes, exactly," he sighs.

"Isn't that basically the same thing as your 'no more than once a week' rule?"

"No, the 'no more than once a week' rule specifically only works from Monday to Friday."

You scoff. "Oh, so theoretically you could sleep with someone on Sunday night and it wouldn't break the rule if you slept with them again on Monday morning?"

"Now you're getting it," he nods.

You finally glance over your shoulder, listening to him go on a long tangent about his recent sexual endeavours. He's completely different from the mischievous boy who crawled into your bed a decade ago…yet somehow exactly the same. Older now, bigger, broader, jaw sharper, hair perfectly styled. Still stupidly handsome in that infuriating, effortless way.

"Pick one for me," he grins, looking over at the pastry case.

That little tradition certainly didn't end in university. In fact, it's become an every-morning thing. He comes in before work and insists you surprise him with a new pastry to try. Apparently it keeps him on his toes, which he believes is very important in life.

You lean against the counter, your arms crossed. "Hmm. What's your vibe today?"

"I don't know," he sighs, pretending to think. "Handsome. Dashing. Maybe a little mysterious."

"Delusional," you chuckle.

"See? This is why this works," he smiles. "You keep me humble."

"What about a slice of apple and cherry crumble?"

"Nah, I had that one last week," he shakes his head.

"Lemon butter cream cup maybe?"

"Not really feeling a cream cup today," he shrugs.

"Hmmm..." You scan the display of desserts, pursing your lips. "Pistachio croissant?"

"___, come on. You're losing your touch," he teases.

"Okay, okay, uhmmm..." You scan the display once more, picking a popular new item on the menu. "Okay, today you're getting the honeycomb and lavender custard tart."

He lights up instantly, like a puppy being offered a treat. "Yes. Excellent choice. I knew you'd pick that."

"You didn't know anything," you scoff, plating it for him.

"I had a feeling."

"You always have a feeling."

"And it's always right," he grins.

The bell rings at the front door and you quickly turn your attention to the cash register to serve one of your regular customers, Mrs. Park—an elderly woman who always makes pleasant conversation and compares you to her granddaughter. She's incredibly nice and always compliments you on the frilly dresses you wear.

"What will it be today, Mrs. Park?" you smile sweetly.

"My usual, dear," she chuckles warmly. "One of those lovely chocolate eclairs of yours. My daughter tells me I should stop eating them so much because of my blood sugar but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

You chuckle, wrapping one up for her in a little pastel-pink box, taking her cash with a polite bow of your head. "My lips are sealed," you wink.

She laughs and takes the box before walking off with a little wave of her wrinkled hand.

That brings you back to the man waiting for his breakfast.

"Here," you murmur, sliding the plate and mug of coffee toward him. "Eat and try not to break anything. You already broke two mugs last month and I'm seriously going to start charging you for them."

He takes a big bite of the mini tart and groans in delight. "God, marry me."

"You literally just told me about how you were balls deep in some girl from the bar," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Besides, you fake-propose to me every morning."

"And I mean it every morning."

You snort. "Please. You'd never."

He leans an elbow on the counter. "Only because you'd divorce me for eating in bed and getting crumbs on the sheets," he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Correct," you nod, wiping down the counter. "I have standards."

He sets down his mug and straightens up, getting to what he's been meaning to discuss this morning. "So, you busy this Saturday?"

You shrug, mentally checking your schedule. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Because I need you."

You pause. "You do?"

"It's an invitation actually."

"Okay…" you murmur sceptically, narrowing your eyes at him. "To what?"

"My father's engagement party. Shocker."

Your rag pauses mid-swipe across the counter. "Which one?"

"Engagement or father?" he grins.

"Both."

"Engagement number ten. Father number one."

You blink. "Ten?"

"Ten," he repeats, like it physically pains him. "She's twenty-three, gorgeous, has a skincare routine that could bankrupt nations. I think she was in diapers when my dad got married the third time."

You gape. "Wait, who's the one that sold protein powder on Instagram?"

"That was number eight." He takes another sip of his coffee. "This one does yoga retreats in Bali and says things like 'alignment is a mindset'. Ridiculous, I know. And she only wears bags that are made from real baby alligator, allegedly."

"That's disgusting and inhumane," you grimace. "So...why do you need me?"

"Because," he groans, "he's having some fancy dinner-slash-engagement party and he wants me there, and I am not suffering through that circus alone. And my dad likes you. And you make me look balanced and emotionally stable."

"That's a lot of responsibility for one woman," you tease.

He shrugs. "You used to handle lawsuits for fun."

"Yeah but I don't do law anymore," you deadpan.

"You still look like you could send someone to jail," he grins, taking another bite of his dessert. "Anyway, you know how these things go. Everyone's going to ask why I'm still single, and I'll end up getting irritated because my dad's fiancée—who's younger than me—insists on calling me 'sweetie'. I need backup. Please come, ___. I'll owe you forever."

You laugh softly, leaning across the counter. "You already owe me forever, Jeon."

"Yeah, but this time I'll actually admit it," Jungkook mumbles, meeting your eyes with that boyish half-smile that hasn't changed in a decade.

"Fine. I'll go," you sigh, tossing the rag into the sink.

Jungkook beams, and you pretend your stomach doesn't flip.

"You're amazing," he grins and claps once, pushing off the counter with a mouth full of custard tart. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Wear something fancy. And also maybe emotionally prepare yourself."

"For what?" You chuckle.

He grimaces. "Stepmom Number Ten is…a handful."

You chuckle. "Aren't they always?"

He points at you as he backs toward the door. "Exactly why you're coming with me."

The bell jingles again as he leaves, and your day continues with familiar customers while he rushes through the morning traffic.

Jungkook's father's estate is something you would never be able to afford even if you opened ten more bakeries. Calling it a house would be like calling the Titanic a canoe. There are fountains—yes, plural. There is a driveway long enough to train for a marathon. There's valet parking and a floral arch made of white roses that look like they cost more than your entire bakery.

And there are people. A lot of people. Champagne clinks in the air, soft jazz plays somewhere in the distance, and laughter rolls in every direction.

You exhale, adjusting the strap on your dress. "I always feel very commoner-in-the-palace when I'm here."

Jungkook tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, pulling you closer as he leans in, looking dapper in his black tux. "Relax. You're one of the only sane people here. That automatically makes you royalty."

"Does it?"

"Yes," he smiles confidently. "And when my father inevitably lets me inherit this place, which I'll force him to do, then I'll make you queen of the fountains."

You snort. "I don't want to be queen of the fountains."

"Too late. You've been coronated." He taps your forehead with his finger. "Boop."

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. He always does that; makes you feel like you belong wherever he is.

Inside, the party is in full swing. There are waiters weaving between people, guests mingling in glitter and silk, the future bride squealing in a voice that sounds like it's powered by helium and Mr. Jeon himself proudly showing off the engagement ring on her finger that could double as a murder weapon. There's even a towering cake on display, five tiers of gold-trimmed extravagance that you can't wait to recreate in your free time.

Jungkook grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands you one, taking a big gulp.

The moment his father spots the two of you, his entire face lights up.

"There's my favourite duo!" Jeon Jaehyun sweeps you both into a hug—more you than Jungkook. Jungkook gets a pat on the back like a border collie. You get an affectionate double cheek kiss and a squeeze.

"Mr. Jeon," you greet with a polite bow and a soft smile. You've always liked him. He makes questionable choices when it comes to women, but he's nice and he always treats you like you're a part of the family. It's also clear where Jungkook gets his good looks from, not that you ever look for too long or else he'd make you Wife Number Eleven.

"You look stunning tonight, sweetheart," he beams. "I tell you, if I were thirty years younger—"

"You'd still be making terrible decisions, dad," Jungkook cuts in, unamused.

Jaehyun clicks his tongue. "I'll have you know, son, that marriage is an unpredictable thing."

You glance at the fiancée across the room, who is taking a selfie with the champagne tower, not noticing that she's flashing half the guests.

"Unpredictable, huh?" you echo with a soft smile. Sure.

The fiancée, Seulgi—with a gorgeous face, waist-length extensions and breasts that defy gravity—bounces over.

"Kookieee," she sings. Her voice is airy, like her brain has never had to carry anything heavier than a single thought.

"Kookie?" you whisper.

He grimaces. "Don't."

"Oh my gosh, is this your girlfriend?" she asks, looking you up and down like you're a lost child she found at the mall. "I didn't know my future stepson has a special lady!"

"This is ___," he sighs. "My best friend. Strictly platonic."

Seulgi nods, smiling like she understands exactly none of those words, before turning her attention to her future husband. "Love-muffin," she coos, kissing Jungkook's father on the cheek. "The guests are asking when we're cutting the cake."

Jungkook leans toward you, whispering, "My dad's nickname for her is Sugarpuss."

You almost choke on your champagne. "No."

"Yes," he grins sarcastically.

His father pats her waist affectionately, grabbing your attention. "Isn't she wonderful?"

She smiles. "I got my nails done for today."

She wiggles her fingers in front of your face. They're pink and sparkly and probably cost more than your monthly grocery bill.

You smile, nodding. "Very pretty."

"Thank you!" she squeals. "I got them done at—oh look, champagne!" She wanders away mid-sentence.

Jungkook closes his eyes, groaning. "My latest stepmother, ladies and gentlemen."

Jaehyun gives you both an apologetic smile. "Listen, she's...youthful. Nothing wrong with that."

"She probably can't even spell 'youthful', dad," Jungkook deadpans.

Before Jaehyun can respond, another round of shrieking laughter erupts from Seulgi's direction. Jaehyun sighs deeply, chuckling.

You squeeze his arm, a soft smile settling on your face. "Congratulations. I really hope you're happy, Mr. Jeon."

He softens at that, looking between you and Jungkook. "With people like the two of you around? Hard not to be."

Jungkook, knowing how much of a sap you are, drags you away before you can tear up, but that doesn't stop you from clutching your chest like your heart might physically burst right through it.

The buffet tables are the size of actual battle stations. You and Jungkook each grab cake slices and slip outside, where fairy lights glow over small round tables. You sit at one, kicking off your heels with a relieved sigh.

"Vanilla for you," Jungkook says, sliding your plate over. "Chocolate for me."

"And we share," you remind him.

"We always share."

You scoop a bite of chocolate from his plate. He steals some vanilla from yours. It's instinctual.

While you eat, you glance out at the dance floor. Couples are slow dancing under the lights, chins tucked against shoulders, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something that makes your chest ache a little.

"I love that," you murmur softly.

Jungkook follows your gaze. "What? Dancing?"

"No," you scoff, taking a small bite of the vanilla cake. "The...closeness. The comfort. You know, two people who actually like being around each other."

He snorts, stuffing his mouth with cake. "Boring."

"You literally treat dating like a casual sport," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "You can't even do something as simple as cuddling."

"I could cuddle if I really wanted to," he mumbles defensively, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Jungkook, you once pushed a girl off your chest because she said your heartbeat sounded like a lullaby."

He points his fork at you. "Okay, but after I pushed her off of me, I played her an actual lullaby on Spotify, so..."

You laugh so loudly someone glances over at your table.

He leans back in his chair, studying you. "You should be more spontaneous. You fall in love too quickly and you assume every boyfriend is the one. You ever think maybe you'd have more fun if you didn't plan out every part of your life?"

"I'm not planning," you argue, eating a forkful of the chocolate cake. "I just...I like security and stability in life."

"Or," he counters, "you're waiting for this perfect man who doesn't exist."

You shrug, absentmindedly poking the cake with your fork. "I'm not looking for perfect; I'm looking for someone who sees a future with me, not a guy who 'goes with the flow' because he doesn't know how to commit. Someone I can build a life with."

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. "One; that's kinda delusional. Two; you're twenty-eight, you still have time for all that later in life."

"Not according to my mom. She believes I should have been married and had babies by now."

"That's insane," he scoffs. "I'm thirty and I'm perfectly fine the way I am."

"We're very different people with very opposing views on relationships, Jungkook," you murmur gently. "And besides, I do kinda agree with her to a certain extent. I want to build something soon and not waste time dating men who only want a weekend. I'll die alone if I don't get a move on."

He softens, almost imperceptibly. "You don't have to rush. It'll happen with the right person when it's meant to be."

You nod down at your plate, dragging your fork through some frosting. "Yeah. I guess."

"Besides, do you want to get married just for the sake of being married? Look at my father who's on his tenth marriage and soon, his tenth divorce."

"Don't be so negative," you murmur with a faint smile. "Maybe this one will be his person."

"My mom was supposed to be his person," he grumbles, picking at the vanilla cake. "This one is just another mistake to add to the list."

"Jungkook," you smile. "Even if you know it's a mistake but it's not your place to intervene, you simply say, 'I'm happy you're happy' and move along."

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs, bringing his fork up to his lips. "You're always right. I hate that."

You chuckle, taking another bite of his slice of cake. The moment settles between you, and you take it as an opportunity to share something with him that's been on your mind lately.

"Speaking of being spontaneous…"

"Oh no," he teases. "That tone is never good."

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. "No, it's not anything crazy, it's just...I've kinda been thinking about going to London for the summer."

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes growing double its size. "London?"

"Mhm. For a short pastry course," you explain. "Three months at this prestigious culinary institute. It's kinda a dream opportunity."

Jungkook is silent, his fork gently clinking against the plate as he sets it down.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks softly. He's not upset, just very caught off guard.

"Just now," you shrug. "I was on the fence about it for a while."

"Wow," he swallows thickly. "Three months?"

You nod.

He forces a small smile, the kind of smile he uses when he doesn't like something but refuses to ruin things for you. It's a smile that tells you he doesn't know how to live without you for that long, but he'll pretend like he's totally fine.

"That's…wow, that's amazing, ___."

"Yeah." You pick at your cake some more. "But I don't know. It's expensive and I'd be away from the bakery for months, and I've never been out of the country alone before, and—"

"Hey," he smiles, softly nudging your knee under the table. "You can do it."

"I don't know," you mumble. "It feels like…a big jump."

"You like big jumps."

"No, you like big jumps. I like stable ground, a clear path and preferably a railing."

He grins. "I'll install a railing in London."

You glare at him but your laughter slips out effortlessly.

His smile softens even more. "Seriously. If you want it, go for it. The bakery will survive. The other staff can run it. And you should do things for yourself for once. You're always taking care of everyone else."

You open your mouth to argue, then shut it when you realise you don't have an argument. You hate that he's not wrong.

"I'll miss home," you mutter quietly.

"Home will always be here, ___, it isn't going anywhere," he shrugs. "Seoul will always be your home. Three months in London won't magically change that."

You want to tell him that you'll miss him as well, but saying that you'll miss home is close enough. It's one in the same anyway.

"And," he adds, "if you get lost, I'll fly over and find you."

You roll your eyes. "Right, because you're definitely responsible enough for that."

"Hey, I'd bring a GPS."

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as warm air settles around you, the fairy lights flickering overhead and Jungkook licking frosting off his fork like it's nothing.

"You think I'll do well?"

"Of course," he smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's you. You're gonna shine. And I'll visit, or we'll video call...or I'll just break into the institute and steal you back."

You laugh, but your chest tightens. He's trying so hard to be happy for you. You can tell.

"You sure you'll survive without me?"

He scoffs dramatically. "If anything, I'll thrive. I'll become stronger, faster, a new man."

"Right," you chuckle. "You'll last three days before you start texting me pictures of pastries and asking which one to buy."

"I give it two," he admits in defeat.

You laugh, the last of the tension easing as the music swells in the distance. Your face slowly melts into a tender smile, your eyes softening ever so gently. It all feels so warm and intimate, and strangely bittersweet.

"Thank you for always supporting me," you murmur quietly.

"Always," he smiles before feeding you a piece of cake on his fork.

You're mid-bite into your cake when Jungkook's entire face suddenly drains of colour.

"Oh no," he whispers.

You pause, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

He doesn't answer in words. Instead, he subtly tilts his head toward the patio doors.

You follow his gaze. A woman in a tight pencil skirt and glasses, hair in a too-tight bun, is clutching a binder to her chest like it's a bible and she's about to testify. Her eyes scan the place with an intensity that could cut steel.

"Uhm…who is that?" you whisper.

"One of my dad's senior analysts." He swallows, setting down his fork. "Her name's Yuri."

"She looks...friendly," you tease.

"She made a blog about me," he hisses.

Your eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"A blog. It's called 'All Things Jungkook'. Can you believe that?"

You snicker, covering your mouth so you don't get cake everywhere. "You're kidding."

"I wish."

You laugh too loudly and Jungkook shushes you frantically before it can catch Yuri's attention.

"She wrote an entire essay analysing my facial structure," he whispers. "Like, paragraphs. There were diagrams."

You bite your bottom lip to keep from cackling, your face contorting with amusement. "Diagrams?"

"She compared my jawline to Renaissance sculptures," he mutters miserably. "Sculptures, ___."

You wheeze.

"At least she doesn't think my nose is too big or my arms are too scrawny," he adds under his breath, pouting.

You stop laughing, your smile fading.

"Who said that?"

He stares at you.

"You did," he scoffs. "Back in university."

You gasp. "I did not say that!"

"You did," he nods solemnly. "You also said my top lip is too thin."

You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified and amused all at once. "Okay, to be fair, I was an extremely critical eighteen-year-old who was drowning in law textbooks, so I didn't really have a nice thing to say about anyone."

He looks in Yuri's direction, who is still scanning the crowd like a Terminator. "She's gonna see me. She's gonna corner me and ask if I read her four-page analysis about my eyebrows."

You're already laughing again.

"___," he begs, grabbing your wrist. "Dance with me."

"Wait, what?"

"Please," he hisses. "If I'm on the dance floor with someone, she won't approach me."

You arch a brow. "You want me to publicly claim you as occupied?"

"Yes."

You chuckle faintly but stand anyway. "You so owe me."

The music has shifted to something smooth and slow—a romantic melody playing that makes older couples sway like they're reliving their youth. Jungkook places a hand lightly on your waist as you join the crowd. It's familiar but warmer than usual. Or maybe it's the champagne going to your head.

You rest your left hand on his shoulder and your right hand in his palm as you both begin to sway, your faces a lot closer together than they usually are.

"Okay," you smile, "which part of your face did she analyse the hardest?"

"My jaw," he mutters. "Apparently it has a 'mathematically perfect slope', or something like that."

You smile, letting him sway you to the music. "Well, she's not wrong."

He does a double take, staring at you like you said something completely crazy.

"What?" you chuckle.

"What did you just say?" he asks, leaning in closer.

"I said she's not wrong," you shrug.

He squints at you. "You used to call me a pretentious dick."

"That was also true."

He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

You grin, then hesitate just a fraction, but he notices.

"What is it?" he asks softly.

You shouldn't say it. You really shouldn't say it, but the music is soft, and the lights are warm, and you're pressed just a bit too close to a man you trust more than anyone in the world, so you blurt it out before you can stop yourself.

"I always thought you were...cute. You know, back in the day. I might've...had a little crush on you..."

His entire body goes still, his eyes growing wide.

"You what?"

"It was a teeny tiny...stupid crush," you clarify. "Very small and insignificant. Microscopic, actually."

Jungkook continues to stare at you, his lips parting in disbelief. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You..." he scoffs, smiling. "You had a crush on me?"

"Don't say it like that," you chuckle, growing flustered.

"No, I'm just..." He searches your face, bewildered and—although he tries to hide it—quite pleased. "I thought you hated me in university."

"Oh, please. If I hated you, I wouldn't have wasted my time insulting you."

He laughs, loud and delighted.

"So, all those insults were, what? You flirting?"

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Calm down, Jeon."

"You secretly pined for me," he grins smugly, gently twirling you around until you're facing him again.

"Pined? Relax. It lasted, like, two weeks."

"Mhm, sure," he teases. "I bet you were doodling my name in all your notebooks and imagining what our children would look like."

You give him a deadpan stare. "Don't push it. That ship sailed a long time ago."

His smile falters just enough for you to notice if you're really paying attention, but he recovers quickly, tugging you a little closer as the music swells.

"Right, of course," he mumbles softly, looking past you while you sway to the music.

You clear your throat, feeling desperate to redirect the conversation before the air gets heavy.

"So…London," you murmur softly.

He hums, twirling you around once more before pulling you in close. "London."

"I think it'll be good for me," you admit. "A break. Something new."

He studies you—the bright excitement in your eyes, the uncertainty underneath, the hope, and something flashes in his expression that you don't catch, something soft and affectionate.

"Well," he smiles, his voice quieter than before, "I guess I'll have to see you off at the airport, huh?"

You smile, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, his voice coming out just a tad louder than a whisper. "Fuck, I'm gonna miss you."

You roll your eyes, feeling a warmth bloom deep within your ribs. "You're a sap like me now."

He smirks, the earlier tension slipping away. "Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me."

He dips you playfully, the two of you laughing, brushing shoulders, standing closer than friends should—close enough that the air between you buzzes with something you both feel.

Outside the dance floor, Yuri is still circling like a shark, but Jungkook doesn't look her way once. Not when he's looking at you.

Incheon Airport buzzes with summer chaos; children dragging suitcases bigger than their bodies, couples taking teary selfies, businessmen speed-walking like their lives depend on it. In the middle of it all, you stand with your luggage, passport, and a rapidly beating heart.

Jungkook is beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

"So…" he mumbles, rocking back on his heels, "I guess this is it."

You nod, clutching the handle of your suitcase. "Three months."

"Three months," he echoes.

There's a brief moment where the airport noise fades and it's just you and him and ten years of friendship sitting between you.

He reaches out and flicks a piece of fluff from your sweater, even though you're ninety percent sure there never was any fluff to begin with. "You'll text me when you land?"

"I'll text you as soon as I get WiFi," you nod.

"And you'll video call me?"

"Only if you don't answer while you're at the gym and make me look at your sweaty forehead again."

"That was one time," he chuckles.

You grin. He grins back, but his fades first.

"Go be brilliant, okay?" he murmurs softly. "London's waiting for you."

Your chest warms. "I'll miss you."

Something flickers in his eyes but he blinks fast before you can question it.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Me too."

You smile, lightly punching his arm. "I love you, idiot."

He rolls his eyes, his lips twitching at the corners. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too. Now go."

When you finally walk toward the gate, you don't turn around, but Jungkook stays in place, watching until you disappear. When he finally walks out of the airport, he tells himself the heaviness in his chest is pride, not anything else.

Definitely not. It couldn't be.

—

London greets you with fresh summer air, the faint smell of rain, and immediate sensory overload. The taxis are louder, the buildings older, and everyone talks like they're narrating a BBC documentary.

And you feel more alive than ever.

Your first day at the culinary institute feels like stepping into a whole new world. The kitchens gleam like they've been polished a thousand times. The finest plates await your creations. The ovens are fancier than anything you could ever dream of using.

You learn laminated dough, the perfect method for chocolate tempering, advanced patisserie techniques, all things you used to watch on YouTube while telling yourself you'd perfect someday.

Now 'someday' is here and it's better than you anticipated.

You snap pictures of everything—your flaky pastries, your fancy meringues, your messy apron—and send each and every one of them to Jungkook, even if he responds hours later because of the time difference or his busy schedule.

Between classes, you make the most of your London summer. You buy dresses and blouses that make you feel like a character in a Bridget Jones movie, you carry around flowers wrapped in brown paper that will sit in the middle of the coffee table in your hotel room, you sip tea at cute cafés and buy souvenirs for Jungkook every chance you get.

A vintage Beatles t-shirt.

A Big Ben keychain.

A tiny corgi plush.

Your classmates take you in immediately and within your first month, your nights are filled with dinners at pubs where everything is fried, rooftop wine with the funny Brazilian girl from your pastry group and late-night tube rides where you and the others fall asleep leaning on each other. You make memories that will last a lifetime, and at one point, you don't even think about everything waiting for you back in Seoul.

It's a quiet Saturday afternoon when you find yourself wandering through the sculpture gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum. There's a hush in the air, as if the marble statues are asleep and everyone else is just trying not to disturb them.

You stop in front of Canova's "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss."

It's breathtaking. It's delicate and romantic and heartbreakingly intimate, like stone brought to life. Cupid leans over Psyche, gently cradling her as if she might shatter. You've seen it in pictures before, but seeing it in person makes it that much better.

You step closer, completely mesmerised, but a shutter clicks beside you, catching you off guard and pulling you from your daze.

There's a man standing next to you, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark cardigan and round glasses that slide slightly down his nose. His hair is dark and frames his face, and a film camera hangs from a strap around his neck. He's just taken a photo of the sculpture, and when he notices you looking, he offers a warm, slightly sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he murmurs in a low, honey-smooth voice, the British accent doing something tingly to your insides. "Didn't mean to interrupt your moment."

You smile politely. "You didn't, don't worry about it."

He turns to look at the sculpture again, tilting his head. "It's beautiful, isn't it? There's something timeless about it." He glances back at you. "Makes you believe that it's worth it to wait for a love like that."

Your eyebrows raise, feeling a bit taken aback by the rather romantic stranger.

He laughs softly. "Sorry. That was…dramatic."

"No," you shake your head, smiling wider. "It was really nice...and true."

"I guess that means I'm not being overly sentimental."

"Or we both are," you smile.

"Could be worse," he shrugs. "I'd rather be overly sentimental than chronically indifferent."

You let out a soft laugh. "That's a good line."

"Thank you, I read it in a book once," he smiles down at the ground, fidgeting with his camera.

You both turn back toward the statue, standing in comfortable silence for a beat, watching how the late afternoon light casts golden shadows on the white stone.

"I'm Kim Namjoon, by the way," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.

"___," you smile, shaking it.

"You're not from here, are you?"

You shake your head. "Seoul, South Korea."

His eyes light up. "Really? Me too...well, kinda. My parents are Korean but they met here in England while they were both studying at Oxford. They moved back to Korea after getting married. That's where I was born, but we moved back to England when I was about five. I haven't been back in a while."

You nod, your interest piqued. "And now you…take pictures of sculptures for a living?"

He chuckles. "Not exclusively. I'm a photographer, mostly travel and editorial, but I come here a lot on my days off. It grounds me."

"I get that," you murmur. "Bakeries do that for me."

He looks over at you, his eyebrows raising. "You're a baker?"

You nod. "I own a small bakery back in Seoul. It's kinda why I'm here, actually. I'm doing a summer course at a culinary institute nearby to brush up on my skills. I'm only here for three months."

"That's incredible." His smile is genuine, his eyes shining under the museum lights. "Honestly, I think bakers are like magicians. You turn flour and cocoa into happiness. It's very impressive."

You laugh, nodding along. "That's very nice of you to say, thank you."

"You're very welcome, Miss ___."

He looks back at the sculpture for a moment, then turns back to you, a little more tentative this time.

"I know this is a bit forward, but…do you perhaps have plans after this?"

You feel your heart pound harder, your head shaking almost too excitedly. "No, not really."

He smiles, clearly a little nervous, like he's not used to doing this. "Would you maybe want to grab a coffee with me? I could show you around London if you'd like. There's a place just down the road; very tiny and unassuming but the coffee's good and they have these absurdly large cinnamon buns that are to die for."

He's handsome, has an accent that makes your thighs clench, and he wants to take you to a café. You don't even have to think about it.

"I'd love to."

His face softens, looking like he didn't quite expect you to say yes.

You chat while you walk out together, side by side, stealing one last look at Cupid and Psyche, and somewhere deep in your chest, you wonder if he is a part of the fresh start you've been craving.

—

It all starts with a simple coffee date.

After the museum, you and Namjoon tuck yourselves into a quiet corner of a café near Hyde Park, where he stirs his cappuccino with one hand and nervously fidgets with the strap of his camera with the other. He asks thoughtful questions, listens like he genuinely cares and laughs with the cutest expression that makes your cheeks flush every single time. He walks you home that night—hands brushing, hearts pounding—and from there, it all blossoms at the speed of light.

Your second date is dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant where you end up talking for hours, sharing pasta and trading childhood stories. He shyly admits he once cried when his favourite bakery shut down, and you know then and there that he's your type of person.

On the third date, you sit beside the Thames at sunset, barely an inch between you, and when your head falls against his shoulder, neither of you move. Your first kiss happens in the rain after a trip to a vintage bookshop, hesitant at first—until it isn't. Until his hands are warm on your waist and yours are in his hair, time melting into the taste of his mouth.

You start to crave his presence, his voice, his intellect wrapped in a British accent and kind eyes.

One night, after too much wine and too many loaded glances, you kiss him breathlessly in his hallway and let him lead you to his bed. It's slow and sweet, and he makes you feel like the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes upon. That happens quite often after the first time. You have sex in the shower, the backseat of his car, on the floor of your hotel room, and it's always better than the last.

By the start of August, Namjoon is a fixture in your London summer. He waits for you after class. He carries your shopping bags without a complaint. He reads books aloud when you can't sleep, chuckles at your terrible attempt at a British accent, and takes endless sneaky photos of you mid-laugh just because he loves the way you look when you're at your happiest. He even drives you out to the English countryside to have dinner with his parents.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and stolen kisses, you fall for him harder than you ever meant to. And the scariest part isn't how fast it happens…it's how disappointed you are that it's all temporary.

—

Namjoon unlocks the door to his flat, stepping inside with the same subtle confidence you've come to love. He holds the door open for you—always a gentleman, even when his fingers were just threaded through yours all the way home from the pub, even when his lips were pressed against your neck as you waited for your Uber, even when his voice had dropped into that low, breathy register that made your knees weak.

You step into the warmth of his space. It smells like him, which you've come to love as well. The lights are dim, a large bookshelf lines the wall, vinyl records stacked neatly near a player and a blooming houseplant stands tall in the corner.

He toes off his shoes and reaches for your jacket. "Here," he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.

You slip your jacket off your shoulders, your pulse jumping as he hangs it up with care. He rests his hands in his pants pockets, watching you as you turn to face him. His eyes flick over your lips, your neckline, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you're totally not still nervous around him.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he offers.

You shake your head, smiling.

He nods slowly and takes the hint, cupping your face in his large hands. The kiss that follows comes easily, mouths moving languidly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You've kissed Namjoon a million times over the past three months—on couches, in doorways, on sidewalks lit by streetlights—but this time it feels far more gentle and intimate.

By the time he breaks away, you're breathing in shallow little waves.

"C'mon," he murmurs softly, taking your hand in his. He leads you down the hall, into his bedroom. It's minimalistic, very clean. There's no pretence, just him.

He doesn't pull you into bed. Not yet, at least.

He stands beside the low bookshelf near the window, arms folded loosely, watching you run a hand through your hair.

"Is this really just for three months?" he asks softly. "You being in London? You're really going back to Seoul?"

You sigh, realising you'd have to have this conversation eventually. "Yeah. I mean…that's always been the plan, Joon."

He nods slowly. He just needed to hear you confirm it. "Right. Just…three months."

You sit down on the edge of his bed, your hands resting in your lap. "I just...didn't think I'd actually…meet someone here. I just came to bake things and buy overpriced souvenirs for my best friend."

He smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

You tilt your head, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"

Namjoon exhales and smiles. "I guess I've just been thinking about it a lot more than I expected to."

He walks toward you slowly, kneeling down so he's at eye level, his hands resting on your knees with the utmost tenderness.

"___, I know we've only known each other for a short while," he murmurs, keeping his voice steady. "But..."

You swallow thickly, sensing a shift in the air.

Namjoon pulls out a small velvet box from his pants pocket.

You freeze, completely at a loss for words. "Wait. Namjoon, is that...?"

He nods and opens it, his eyes moving from the little box to your face. Inside is a simple, vintage ring; an oval-cut diamond set in an antique band. It's timeless and stunning.

"Kim Namjoon, you're insane," you whisper, letting out a soft, breathless chuckle. "You actually bought a ring?"

He smiles up at you, shaking his head. "I didn't buy it."

Your head tilts in confusion.

"It was my grandmother's," he explains. "She wore it for over fifty years. My mum kept it after my granny passed…and last week...I asked her for it."

Your throat tightens, your eyes widening. "You…asked for it?"

He nods, glancing down at the ring. "I called her and told her that I'm serious about you. I told her that you make me feel like I'm a better version of myself just by existing next to me."

You press a hand to your mouth, feeling overwhelmed with a whole mixture of emotions.

"She told me I was a little nuts," he adds with a chuckle. "That no sane man proposes to someone he's only known for three months."

You laugh, nodding. "Your mom's smart."

"She is." His smile melts into something softer, more serious. "But I'm in love with you. And I don't want to wait."

There's a beat of silence, just the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears, the hustle and bustle of the city outside his window, and the impossible weight of the moment sitting in your chest.

"I know it's really fast," he says gently, "but when I look at you, it doesn't feel fast or crazy. It feels like I've been waiting for you my whole life without even knowing I was waiting."

You don't say anything right away.

This man wants to marry you. This man who instantly took a liking to you when he met you. This man who's intelligent and kind and effortlessly elegant. This man who just presented you with his grandmother's wedding ring like it was meant to be yours all along.

Namjoon watches your expression carefully, waiting patiently.

Then, cautiously, he smiles.

"Will you marry me?"

—

At first, it all just feels like a mild inconvenience for Jungkook.

You're in a different country, in a different time zone, and of course it's normal that your texts come through while he's asleep or his calls are missed because you're stuck in class. Days pass where your voices never reach each other, just fragments—missed calls, unread messages, half-finished voice notes.

At first, he tells himself it's normal, maybe even healthy. You're living your best life halfway across the world, and he refuses to be the needy friend who holds your back. Still, he finds himself reaching for his phone too often, typing things and deleting them, falling asleep with your chat left open like maybe, somehow, it will make you feel closer.

He goes out a lot in June.

He texts you at 2am after coming home from drinks with Jin and two girls he doesn't remember the names of. The text says, "Miss your dumb face," followed by a blurry selfie. You don't answer until seven hours later with a laughing emoji because you just finished rolling a million croissants and you're too tired to ask how his night went.

He smiles at his phone like an idiot every time your name pops up on his screen, but the more time passes, the more the silence starts to hurt.

In July, he hooks up with a girl he met at a rooftop restaurant. She's beautiful, super tall, wears a silk dress that shows off just enough to have him on edge. She calls him "handsome" and laughs at all the right moments. Her perfume is strong, her lip gloss sticky. He pulls her into his apartment and they undress in a haze of clumsy heat, getting straight to the point of the evening—sex.

Jungkook grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he thrusts into her in missionary, his head spinning as he desperately tries to focus on the task at hand and not the text he sent you a few hours ago that still hasn't been answered.

When he opens his eyes again to kiss her, he's completely thrown off his game when it's not her face he sees contorting in pleasure—it's yours.

It's the familiar curve of your smile.

It's the sparkle in your eyes when the two of you slow danced at his father's engagement party.

It's the look of longing you had on your face when you said goodbye at the airport.

Jungkook stops moving, his hips halting mid-stroke. The girl moans something but he doesn't hear it, far too distracted by your eyes fluttering in his head. He closes his eyes once more, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering. Once he finally gets it together, he forces himself to finish but it just feels hollow now.

When August arrives, Jungkook decides to soldier on until you eventually get back to Seoul.

He meets up with a different woman on a random Monday afternoon—a friend of a friend. They get coffee, then lunch, then dinner a week later. She's cute and easy company. She asks about the meanings of all his tattoos, kisses slow and rides him fast.

She seems genuinely interested in him, so on their fourth hangout—which he insists on calling it instead of a date because he doesn't want her to get the idea that he's serious about her—he takes her to your bakery.

It's his safe place and it smells like you. It's comforting, and warm, and always welcoming. And maybe he takes her there because some part of him just misses home.

The display case is full of your signature work; dainty cupcakes decorated with edible flowers, fluffy cinnamon donuts rolled into perfect spheres, sticky toffee buns that always taste better each time he eats them.

Jungkook stares at the options, his hands in his pockets. "I can't decide what to get," he sighs, testing the waters. "Pick one for me."

She blinks, her pretty doe eyes filled with confusion. "Why?"

"I don't know, it's kinda fun," he smiles. "Just choose something for me."

She raises a brow, looking at the array of desserts. "Okay…a cookie."

He pauses, glancing at her. "No, like...be specific."

"Okay." She stares at the case, then smiles over at him. "A really big cookie?"

He smiles, but it's so fake it almost physically hurts. "Right. Sure."

She doesn't get it, of course she wouldn't. It's not about the dessert. It's so much more than that.

They end up leaving with one cookie for her and nothing but disappointment for him.

—

The days blur and the nights stretch endlessly.

He scrolls through your texts again and again, reading old ones just to be reminded of how funny you are. He reads the ones where you got into a debate about 'sex weather', in which you insisted that rainy weather is always the best time for sex, or rather "making love" as you put it, because you hate being sweaty while trying to be romantic. He listens to the voice note where you tried to explain a French baking term and got so flustered when you lost your train of thought that you ended it with, "Anyway, I'm a fraud, bye."

He plays that one three times, chuckling to himself in bed like a crazy person.

He wants to call you, to hear your voice and listen to you ramble about oven temperature settings and undercooked soufflé.

He wants to say...well, he doesn't really know what he wants to say. He just knows that no one else makes him feel whole the way you do.

That everyone else feels like a filler. Like static. Never you, though. You feel like home.

He tosses his phone aside and stares up at his bedroom ceiling, running a hand through his hair with a huff. It hits him gently, like a slow wave that unexpectedly knocks him off his feet and drowns him in an instant:

You're not just his best friend or the girl he jokingly flirts with out of habit. You're more than just someone who knows how he likes his coffee or which songs make him cry or why he hates sleeping in certain positions because it hurts his back.

You're it.

You're the one he'll always look for in a crowd of people, the one he still wants to talk to at the end of every stressful, shitty day. The one he hasn't stopped thinking about since the moment you walked through that departure gate—hell, since the moment he accidentally stumbled into your bed ten years ago.

And he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with that.

The thud of the basketball echoes through the gym as Jungkook dribbles, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart pounding from exertion. Seokjin's guarding him—kinda lazily—and Wonwoo's near the free-throw line, his sleeves rolled up and jaw set with focus. Mingyu's off to the side, taking his sweet time sipping water and pretending like he doesn't play the most aggressively of all four of them.

Jungkook fakes left, cuts right, and lands the shot. It bounces once, then rolls in.

"Still got it," he grins, jogging back as Mingyu throws him a towel.

"You've got cardio," Wonwoo pants. "Not game."

"Don't need game when I'm playing against geriatrics," Jungkook shoots back.

"Hey!" Seokjin wipes his forehead. "I may be a father now, but I could still outrun you with one baby strapped to my chest and another in the oven."

"You're not even the one with the oven," Mingyu snorts.

"My point still stands," Seokjin shrugs.

They keep playing—passes, dodges, light-hearted trash talk—but somewhere between defence drills and free throws, Jungkook finds himself zoning out. He leans against the padded wall, bouncing the ball absentmindedly, his thoughts far from the gym.

Seokjin notices first.

"You good?" he asks, tossing his friend a water bottle.

Jungkook catches it, hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"That's suspicious," Mingyu scoffs. "When you think too much, you start texting your exes."

"No," Jungkook mutters quietly, shaking his head. "Not this time."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, walking over. "What's going on?"

Jungkook rolls the ball along the floor with his foot, sighing. "I think I'm in love with ___."

There's a silence that stretches just a second too long, the guys all shooting each other a look.

Seokjin's eyebrows furrow, his hands resting on his hips. "Wait, what?"

Mingyu whistles, patting Jungkook on the back. "Holy shit. That's not what I was expecting."

Wonwoo just leans against the wall and crosses his arms, his expression unreadable.

Jungkook shifts, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. It just hit me all at once. I've been trying to date, distract myself. I took a girl to the bakery the other day and asked her to pick something for me like ___ always does…and she picked a fucking cookie. Just said 'a big one'," he snorts humourlessly. "Didn't even get the point."

"You do realize she's not ___, right?" Seokjin chuckles. "How would she know what you meant?"

"Exactly. That's my point," Jungkook groans. "No one's her, dude. I've been around her for ten years, and I think I convinced myself I'd always have time to figure it out, but now she's in London, living her dream, probably flirting with a bunch of British guys."

"Let's not spiral," Wonwoo mutters.

"I just…" Jungkook exhales sharply. "I don't want anyone else. I want her. And...I actually want to do something about it."

The guys pause before Seokjin grabs his shoulder, smiling. "Well, shit! That's called growing up."

"You're not wrong," Mingyu mutters, grabbing the ball to dribble again. "But don't ask me to relate. I'm good with casual sex and no one touching my closet space."

"You say that now," Seokjin scoffs. "Then one day you're holding a baby while your wife cries watching dog rescue videos and suddenly it's the best moment of your life."

"Wow," Wonwoo deadpans. "That got oddly specific."

Jungkook laughs quietly, glancing down at the floor. "I never thought I'd want that. Not the marriage thing or the kids. I thought I'd stay the way I was forever. Just…you know, vibing."

Seokjin smiles, fond and a little smug. "Now 'just vibing' feels kinda empty, huh?"

Jungkook nods.

"She's different," he murmurs softly. "She makes everything feel like it matters. Without her, everything feels off."

Mingyu makes a dramatic gagging noise. "Can we go back to basketball now? This sappy talk is giving me indigestion."

Seokjin chuckles, giving Jungkook a hard pat on the back. "Tell her when she gets back. Don't wait."

Jungkook nods, determination setting in as he jogs over to play another round.

He's not sure how you'll react to all this, but he's done running from his feelings. He's finally ready. He just hopes you are too.

—

Jungkook listens to your voicemail multiple times when he gets home from work Friday evening.

"Hey…I'm back in Seoul! I've missed you so much. Can we have dinner tonight around 7? I was thinking of going to our usual restaurant. I have so much to tell you. It feels like I've been gone forever. Let me know, okay? Okay, I love you, bye!"

Your voice is bubbly, laced with excitement. You sound like you dialed his number as soon as you got off the plane, the airport noise in the background a clear giveaway.

Jungkook doesn't waste a second. He showers, sprays himself with his most expensive cologne and pulls out a navy suit he usually reserves for weddings and important meetings. He doesn't usually go out of his way to look good for a woman because he's him—he doesn't have to try, but this is you and he wants to leave a lasting impression when he tells you his feelings. Tonight is different. It's significant, and he doesn't want to screw it up.

On his way to the restaurant, he stops at a street vendor and buys a bouquet of peonies—your favourite. He might not be the most conventionally romantic guy on the planet, but he knows you hate roses because you think they're cliché and typical. He knows that you prefer fish over red meat, and that you hate big gatherings because they make you anxious. He knows you better than anyone else on Earth, and he loves you.

The restaurant is buzzing when he walks in—dim lights, quiet chatter, the smell of red wine and garlic butter thick in the air. He spots you immediately, perched at the bar at the far end of the restaurant, laughing at something.

His breath catches at the sight of you.

You look like London. That's the only way he can describe it. You're glowing, your cheeks rosy, your lips stained red. It's different but still you, like something bloomed while he wasn't looking.

He starts walking toward you, a smile pulling at his lips.

But then he sees him.

A tall man standing beside you, dimples on full display like someone's paying him to smile that brightly. He leans in close, says something in your ear, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. It's all a bit too casual, too familiar.

It stops Jungkook in his tracks. When he starts walking again it's fast and panicked. So much so that he doesn't see the waiter passing by until it's too late.

"Sir, excuse m—"

There's a loud crash, a blur of limbs flying about as Jungkook collides into the poor guy carrying a full tray of glasses. Water, wine, forks, the tray itself, it all goes flying as both men go down in a heap right in the middle of the restaurant.

"Shit—!"

"Oh my goodness—Jungkook?!"

You're off your stool in a second, rushing over with wide eyes. The man beside you joins you just as quickly, crouching down to help both Jungkook and the waiter up.

Jungkook winces, pushing himself up to sit.

You're already reaching for him, pulling him up to his feet. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You just...you slammed into that guy—"

"I'm fine," Jungkook mutters, straightening up, brushing water off his sleeves. He glances down at the scattered bouquet now lying halfway under the barstools.

You crouch to pick it up, glancing up at him.

"And you bought flowers?" you ask with a hopeful glint in your eyes.

Jungkook freezes, glancing at the flowers. He clears his throat, then grabs the bouquet and abruptly shoves it into the startled waiter's hands. "No. These are his."

The waiter is taken aback, and so are you.

Jungkook claps the poor guy on the back, offering him a fake smile. "Congratulations on your...anniversary or whatever."

You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Mhm," Jungkook nods, his voice tight. "Just clumsy, I guess. Classic me."

You exchange a look with the man Jungkook is still unsure of, who offers your best friend a faint smile. The three of you start walking toward the table—your table, the one you and Jungkook always request when it's just the two of you.

Jungkook doesn't say anything. He sits across from you and watches as the other man pulls out your chair like he's done it a dozen times before, which makes Jungkook's jaw twitch.

And he waits.

Waits for you to explain.

Waits to figure out why he suddenly feels like the only person in the room who didn't get the memo.

You smile and gesture toward the man beside you, your face lighting up at you look at him, a look Jungkook hasn't seen on your face in a really long time.

"Jungkook, this is Kim Namjoon. Namjoon, this is Jeon Jungkook; my best friend I've been telling you all about."

Namjoon leans over with a warm smile and extends his hand to Jungkook. "It's really nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I've heard so much about you from this lovely lady."

Jungkook forces a smile, reaches out, and shakes it. "Yeah. Nice to meet you too."

His voice sounds normal but his chest feels hollow.

"I've been trying to picture you this whole time," Namjoon continues in that British accent that makes Jungkook's bile rise in his throat. "___'s mentioned you in almost every story she's told me."

You laugh, your cheeks turning pink. "I might've overdone it."

"No," Namjoon murmurs softly, gazing at you like the rest of the world has vanished. "I loved it. Felt like I already knew him."

Jungkook looks down at the table, wishing he could gouge out his eyes with the silverware. "So…what's the deal with you two? You met in London?"

Your smile widens as you nod. "It was so random! I was at a museum, just minding my business, and I was standing in front of this gorgeous sculpture, and then Namjoon just appeared next to me with a camera."

Namjoon chuckles. "She was so focused on the piece, I wasn't even sure if I should say anything."

"But he did," you grin. "He struck up a conversation, and we ended up at a little café for cinnamon buns and coffee, which was amazing, by the way."

"You had cinnamon buns with a stranger?" Jungkook murmurs, trying to sound amused, not crushed.

You wave him off. "Oh please. It just felt so natural. And after that, we just kept seeing each other. Museum dates, dinners, exploring the city. We couldn't stay away from each other."

Namjoon affectionately rubs your back with his palm. "I couldn't help myself, she's irresistible."

Jungkook watches the gesture, taking note of how you lean into it like muscle memory. "Sounds like it all happened fast."

"It did," you admit, your smile softening. "But it felt so right."

He nods, staring at the breadbasket in the middle of the table, and wishes he could crawl into it and disappear.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, his voice quieter than before. "I mean…I know we missed a lot of calls but I would've wanted to hear about this."

You shift in your seat, your expression falling slightly. "I wanted to, I really did. But things just got so hectic. Classes ran late, we were always on the move, and then the time difference made everything harder. I drafted messages and forget to send them, and after a while, I figured…I'd tell you everything properly when I got back."

You look at him with so much honesty that it only hurts him more.

"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."

He nods, offering you a faint smile. "It's okay."

It's anything but okay, but he'll suck it up and bite his tongue for you.

Namjoon clears his throat, shifting forward. "I know it's probably a lot to take in all at once, but I wanted to tell you myself. I asked ___ to marry me."

Jungkook's eyes flick up to meet his, his face unreadable.

"And I said yes!" You smile and lift your left hand, showing him your ring. It glints under the restaurant lights, sitting delicately on your finger, mocking him.

Jungkook swallows thickly, a pleasant mask glued to his face. "Wow. It's…beautiful."

You beam. "Isn't it? It was Namjoon's grandmother's."

Namjoon takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. "I figured it could be lucky for us."

Jungkook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, glancing between you and Namjoon. "Yeah. Guess so."

He smiles at all the right moments, pretends like his chest isn't caving in, nods as if he's really listening when you tell him all about your summer with Namjoon, but all he feels is regret and bitterness that some other guy gets to take you home tonight instead of him.

You're in love. You're engaged. You're sitting across from him glowing like a woman who's found her forever. And Jungkook is just the best friend—the one who waited too long to be ready for you.

"So…" you begin, your voice light but a little nervous, glancing at Namjoon. "We've actually already started planning the wedding."

Jungkook looks startled, looking between you two. "Already?"

Namjoon nods, smiling. "We figured there's no reason to wait."

Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, looking back at you. "But…you just got back."

"I know," you murmur. "But we're getting married in England in a church Namjoon's dad helped build. It's near their home in the countryside. It's perfect, Jungkook."

"Mm, it's right across from the distillery," Namjoon nods.

Jungkook looks between the two of you, trying to process. "Distillery?"

"Yeah," you say, brightening. "Namjoon's parents own a whiskey distillery."

Of course they do. Of course his parents own a distillery and build churches and probably rescue injured animals in their free time.

"And the wedding is in a month," Namjoon adds.

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets. "A month?"

You nod, resting your head against Namjoon's shoulder. "We didn't wanna drag it out. It just makes sense, you know? Why wait when we're sure?"

He doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. And then, as if the conversation hasn't already taken a sledgehammer to his heart, you turn to him with a hopeful smile that just about finishes him.

"Anyway, I wanted to ask you something," you murmur. "I know it's sudden, and maybe kinda weird, but…Jungkook...would you be my maid of honor?"

His brain flatlines, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say that won't be totally offensive right now.

"I mean," you add quickly, laughing, "knowing our relationship, you'd probably want me to be your best man someday, right? So, it's only fair."

Namjoon laughs softly, clearly charmed by the idea. "I think it'd be perfect, actually. You two clearly have such a strong bond."

Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Instead, he stands too fast, knocking his thigh into the edge of the table and spinning sideways just in time to collide for the second time that evening with the same poor waiter from earlier.

The tray clatters to the ground once again. The waiter lets out a yelp of disbelief, flat on his back. Jungkook stumbles, caught between horror and absolute emotional overload.

"Dude, are you serious?!" the waiter yells, throwing a dish towel at his chest.

Jungkook mumbles something that might be an apology, but you're already scrambling to help, wide-eyed and flustered.

"Again?! Jungkook, what is wrong with you tonight?"

Everything is wrong.

Everything has gone so terribly wrong.

—

It's a sunny Monday afternoon in the middle of Seoul and the park is alive with movement—joggers passing through, street vendors preparing fresh teokkbokki, and office workers on their lunch break scattered across benches in a sea of undone ties and styrofoam containers.

Jungkook is sitting on a bench with a hotdog in one hand and a death grip on his dignity in the other.

Seokjin takes a massive bite of his chilli dog, glances over at him, and swipes ketchup off his cheek with a napkin as he prepares to tackle the shipwreck sitting next to him.

"So…" Seokjin mumbles, his mouth full. "You gonna tell me why you've looked constipated since we sat down? I only have ten more minutes left of my break and my boss is already on my ass."

Jungkook stares down at his hotdog, his appetite barely there. "___ asked me to be her maid of honor."

There's a short pause before Seokjin chokes on a laugh, quickly covering his mouth to avoid spraying onions all over the bench. "I'm sorry, her what?!"

"Maid of honor."

Jin is full-on wheezing now. "God, I hope the dress makes your ass look good. You've been squatting for this moment your whole life."

Jungkook slumps further in his seat. "This isn't funny, Jin."

"It's hilarious, dude," Seokjin laughs.

"I'm dying, hyung. She gets back from London and all of a sudden she's getting married."

Seokjin finally reins in the laughter, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Okay, okay. Sorry. It's just...you gotta admit, that's a hell of a plot twist."

"I was going to confess," Jungkook mutters flatly, his voice low. "I showed up in a suit. With her favourite flowers. And then I walked in and watched her get kissed by her fiancé and knocked over a waiter in the process."

Seokjin winces. "Yikes."

"She's getting married at a church across from her new fiancé's family whiskey distillery, in a month." Jungkook groans and drops his head back against the bench. "She even showed me the ring. It was his grandmother's."

Seokjin lets out a soft whistle, nodding. "Yeah, that's a lot."

"I feel like I missed the entire movie and just showed up for the credits."

They sit in silence for a moment, birds chirping merrily around them like little assholes.

Then Seokjin finishes his hotdog, balls up the wrapper, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Listen, it sucks, I'm not gonna lie. But this doesn't have to be the end."

Jungkook gives him a side glance. "You realise she's engaged."

"And you're the maid of honor." Seokjin grins. "Which means you're right there, centre stage. You're planning the whole thing, hearing every detail. You're literally the man behind the scenes."

"You make it sound like I'm in a heist movie."

"You are," Seokjin shrugs. "Except instead of robbing a bank, you're trying to steal a bride."

Jungkook snorts despite himself. "That's so dumb."

"Love is dumb, man," Seokjin scoffs. "I proposed to my wife in a Pikachu onesie, and now we have a kid who chews on HDMI cables. But I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Jungkook stares at the sky, feeling unsure. "You really think I should stay close? Not back off?"

"I think," Seokjin says, "if you're really in love with her and not just having a meltdown because someone else got there first, then don't give up on this. You be her best friend. You support her. And if there's even the tiniest crack in her heart, she'll know you were there the whole time, waiting."

Jungkook lets that settle for a moment. He takes a slow bite of his hotdog, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay," he sighs. "But I'm not wearing a dress."

"I will pay you money to wear a dress," Seokjin laughs. "Like, real money. I want full lace. And cleavage."

Jungkook stuffs his mouth with the hotdog to avoid swearing at his friend, but when he leans back again, squinting up at the sky, the weight in his chest feels just a little bit lighter at the reminder that this isn't over yet.

When Jungkook arrives at your apartment Saturday morning, he's met with the familiar comfort of your sweet scent, frilly pillows scattered across the couch, and little trinkets decorating the shelves.

He's spent countless nights here—binging your favourite shows, eating endless amounts of cake as his way of helping you with new recipes, sitting patiently as you give him a faux fashion show of the millionth pair of shoes you bought—and yet this time is not like any of the rest. This time he's here to help you plan your wedding.

"You rang, future Mrs. Kim?" he calls out, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.

You pop your head out from the kitchen with a smile. "You're late, Jeon. You said you'd be here at 8. It's 10."

He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on your coat rack, rolling his eyes. "You've been engaged for five minutes and you're already a bridezilla."

You scoff, making your way over to greet him with a hug.

He grins at the short embrace, pulling away to get a proper look at you. "Damn, your hair looks good today. Is that a new thing, or is it just the 'I'm-getting-married' glow?"

You roll your eyes, but your smile shows how flattered you are. "Such a suck-up."

"I'm your maid of honor," he says, smiling smugly. "Sucking up to you is literally my job now."

He walks into the living room and settles onto your couch. It feels normal but there's a certain nervous energy in the air today. It's officially the start of preparations for the wedding party, and he's not sure how ready he is for all that. But today isn't about him. It's your day, and he'll support you even if it slowly kills him.

"The bridesmaids are almost here," you murmur, sitting down with him, turning to face him.

"Do I know them?"

"Well, there's Mina," you smile, knowing how well they get along.

"Mina's great, I like Mina," he nods, scooting a bit closer to you.

"And Jeongyeon. You haven't met her yet but she's really chill, you'll love her."

"Okay, who else?" he asks, reaching out and absentmindedly twiddling a strand of your hair between his fingers.

"Uhm..." You sigh, preparing yourself for his reaction. "And Lisa."

His face falls, his fingers pausing in your hair. "Are you serious? She hates me."

"I had to, Jungkook. She's my cousin," you sigh. "And I mean, can you blame her? You had sex with her then ghosted her the next day."

"She almost broke my nose," he groans.

"It was an accident," you chuckle, rolling your eyes as he goes back to playing with your hair.

"She literally punched me in the face," he deadpans. "I told her it wasn't anything serious and she agreed. I can't help that she caught feelings for me."

You smile in amusement, shaking your head at how truly humble he is. "She's wanted to be my maid of honor since we were little, so she hates you even more now."

The doorbell rings right on cue.

You grin and rush over to get the door, welcoming them in. Jungkook isn't sure if the loud entrance is your bridesmaids greeting you at the door or a pack of hyenas cackling. He lets out a huff and stands up as they enter, plastering a smile on his face.

Mina hugs you first; your bakery manager and unofficial work wife. She's organised as ever, carrying a stack of bridal magazines that she's probably had since forever.

Then Jeongyeon, your friend from high school. She's less organised than Mina but equally as excited for you.

And finally…Lisa, your beloved cousin.

Jungkook fights the urge to roll his eyes when he sees her, forcing a smile to remain civil.

She freezes when she sees him, her eyes narrowing into slits.

You smile, choosing to ignore the tension between them for your own sanity. "Jungkook, you remember Lisa, right?"

Jungkook clears his throat, nodding as he sits back down on the couch. "Yeah. Of course. Hey."

Lisa offers a sweet, pointed smile that could kill him if she really wanted to. "Oh, trust me, I remember Jungkook."

The tension is very palpable.

Mina, sensing the shift, gives a diplomatic little nod and walks over to the couch. "Well, we should probably get started, hm?"

You clap your hands together, trying to regain control of the room. "Okay! So, thank you all for coming. Please, sit. I'll go get some snacks then we can start going over fittings, schedules, things like that."

"Can't wait," Jeongyeon smiles, getting comfortable on an armchair while you head to the kitchen.

"I already know this is going to be chaos," Mina chuckles, sitting next to Jungkook, watching as Lisa stabs him with her eyes.

"Some of us thrive in it," Lisa mutters. "Don't we, Jungkook?"

Jungkook scoffs, shooting her a pointed look. "Are we doing that already?"

"Doing what?" Lisa smiles, feigning innocence. "I just meant you're probably used to this; being around a lot of women, multitasking."

You return to the living room before they can start going at each other, carrying a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea before grabbing your wedding binder and sitting down with everyone else, getting right to business. You start listing off dates and logistics—dress fittings, the bridal shower, the family brunch the morning of the wedding—but the air is already charged. Jungkook asks too many questions, honestly, and Lisa's patience visibly deteriorates with every clueless comment.

"Wait, is the brunch before the church rehearsal thing?"

Mina shakes her head, jotting some things down in her planner. "No. The brunch is the morning of the wedding. We've been over this, Jungkook."

"Oh, right. Right."

Lisa laughs under her breath. "God help us."

Jungkook turns to her, raising a brow. "Got something to say?"

Lisa shrugs, taking a glass of iced tea from the coffee table. "Not really. Just wondering how someone who can't even follow a calendar is supposed to help plan a wedding."

"Lisa," you mutter, shooting her a look that says 'behave, please'.

"Well, I didn't know I was going to be graded on my maid-of-honor performance," Jungkook grumbles.

"Well, just fyi, I'd give you an F," she shoots back.

"Settle down, you two," you sigh, gently placing a hand on Jungkook's arm.

Jeongyeon smirks into her drink. Mina, smiling calmly, jumps in before the room ignites.

"Cut him some slack, Lisa. I'm sure he didn't grow up dreaming about tulle and seating charts."

"Yeah, no kidding," Jungkook mutters.

"Exactly," Mina smiles. "So, let's all just be cool."

Lisa takes a slow sip of her iced coffee and doesn't say anything else, but Jungkook catches the flicker in her eyes that says she should've been your maid of honor instead of the man who clearly doesn't know what he's doing.

Your phone rings on the coffee table, Namjoon's name lighting up the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this," you murmur shyly. "It's Joon."

Your bridesmaids all swoon at the mention of your future husband, and Jungkook has to resist the gag threatening to spill from his lips.

As soon as you excuse yourself to take the call in the next room, Lisa jumps into action.

"I've been a MOH six times before, so I'll organise everything that needs to be done, even though I'm not the MOH here," she mutters, crossing one leg over the other.

Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, clearly clueless. "What's a MOH?"

"M-O-H," Lisa mutters pointedly.

"It stands for maid of honor," Mina smiles over at Jungkook. "That's you."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he chuckles, ignoring the eye-roll from Lisa.

"Okay, so we've got the bridal shower coming up that Jungkook will plan, our bridesmaid hair and make up trials, shopping for ___'s trousseau," Mina lists off, reading from her planner in her lap.

"Trousseau?" Jungkook's eyes narrow, leaning over to peek at Mina's planner. "What is a trousseau?"

"It's lingerie for her wedding night," Lisa deadpans, looking fed up with his questions that she feels are completely unnecessary. "How do you expect to be a good MOH if you don't even know that?"

"Oh wow, look, she's actually talking to me," Jungkook quips.

"No, I'm not," Lisa mutters quickly.

"You just did."

"Oh, my bad, Jungkook," she smiles sarcastically. "Did I break one of your rules?"

"Okay, that's enough!" Mina whisper-yells. "Can you two stop and think about ___? She's happy with an amazing guy, so could we all please, for ___'s sake, just get along, put a smile on our faces and pretend like everything is perfect?!"

"Okay, fine," Jungkook mumbles, holding his hands up in surrender.

The tension in the room is thick, but you don't notice, too giddy after hearing that deep British voice tell you how excited he is to get home to you later. You return after the call with Namjoon, turning your attention back to the ladies—who seem perfectly fine after Mina's little pep talk, all of them smiling brightly.

"Okay, I'm back," you grin, getting comfortable. "So, while we're all over there, we'll be staying at the Kims' holiday home."

Lisa's brow arches, her interest piqued. "Holiday home?"

"Yeah," you murmur while flipping through your binder. "Namjoon's family has this gorgeous house out in the countryside. I swear it's like something out of a Jane Austen novel. It's got over enough guest rooms for everyone. The garden even has an actual maze."

Jungkook blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, then clenches his jaw in silence.

Of course Namjoon's family has a spare country mansion lying around. Why wouldn't they? Probably stocked with limited-edition wines and antique candleholders. Maybe even a butler named Charles who plays the violin at breakfast.

He forces a tight smile. "Wow. A holiday home. That's nice."

Lisa snorts. "Bit of a step up from your one-bedroom apartment, huh?"

Jungkook slowly looks over at her, smirking. "You'd know. You've been in my bedroom."

You sigh, taking a big gulp of your iced tea. Jeongyeon's eyebrows hit her hairline, finding this all too amusing.

Lisa gives him a razor-sharp glance, crossing her eyes over her chest. "Yeah. Once. Unfortunately."

Mina cuts in with perfect timing, like she's trained for this. "I think this is all amazing, ___. I mean, talk about a dream wedding."

Jeongyeon nods. "Seriously. And Namjoon seems so thoughtful. You guys make a really sweet couple."

You smile bashfully, your cheeks heating up. "I think so too. It all feels like it was meant to be, you know?"

Lisa hums. "Mhm. Must be nice to be that in love."

Jungkook's lips press into a thin line as he stares at the coffee table, remaining silent.

When you flip through wedding magazines with Mina, gushing about colour swatches and invitation templates, he finds himself tuning you out, not because he doesn't care, but because he cares too much.

Wedding planning has his iced tea tasting more like acid than anything else.

due to the 1k block limit, you can read the rest of the story HERE

The Union had teeth. Everyone in the city knew that. Their name carried weight, whispered with respect or dread depending on who was speaking. And at the center of that name was Seongje — feared, respected, and unbending. He was the kind of man who made a room fall silent just by walking into it.

And then there was you. His girlfriend.

On paper, it made no sense: you, all warmth and softness, someone who could coax laughter out of even the coldest member of the group; and him, razor-sharp, cold-eyed, a man who trusted no one but you. But somehow, that contrast was exactly why it worked. Where he brought the iron, you brought the silk. Where he froze, you thawed.

And because you were with him, you knew everything about the Union. He didn’t keep secrets from you. He never felt the need to. And though you weren’t blind to the darker parts of their world, you loved him — all of him. Maybe that’s why the other Union boys adored you too. You weren’t naïve, but you were kind to them in ways they rarely experienced. When Seongje’s sharp stare had them stiff and nervous, your gentle smile reminded them that not everyone next to him had to be made of stone.

You were on your way to the bowling alley that night, the familiar neon lights glowing faintly in the distance, when you heard voices down a side street.

“Come on, you really that useless?”

You knew that tone. Sneering, sharp. You slowed, peering around the corner — and your stomach tightened when you saw them.

Hyoman, shoulders hunched like a hyena, had his hand clutched in the collar of a smaller boy. Juntae.

You’d seen him before, a handful of times. He wasn’t Union material, not in the way others were. Too timid, too hesitant, like he carried an apology in every step. And that made him an easy target.

Hyoman shoved him against the wall. “What, you too weak to even talk back? Pathetic.”

Something in you snapped.

“Hyoman.”

Your voice cracked through the air like a whip. The two boys froze, heads turning toward you.

Hyoman’s smirk faltered. “Oh, it’s you.” He tried to recover, straightening up, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. Everyone knew who you were. Seongje’s girlfriend. And Seongje’s girlfriend meant untouchable.

Still, his pride made him sneer. “What, you come to rescue your new little puppy?”

You strode closer, your expression flat, cold. It wasn’t often you let yourself be harsh, but you could when you needed to. And this? This was worth it.

“I don’t like weak men picking on someone smaller than them,” you said, voice sharp. “You think this makes you look strong? It makes you look pathetic. And you know what else it makes you look like?” You tilted your head. “Like someone who will never belong to the Union.”

Hyoman stiffened, his jaw working. He didn’t like the way you said it — not with fear, but with disgust.

“Tch. Whatever. Not worth it,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. But his eyes flicked nervously around, as if expecting Seongje himself to appear any second. And with that fear lodged in his chest, he backed off and left.

You turned immediately to Juntae, softening your expression. “Hey. You okay?”

He hesitated, swallowing hard. His eyes darted to you, then away, as if he wasn’t sure if he should even look directly at you. “Y-Yeah. I… I think so.”

You smiled gently, offering your hand. He blinked at it before slowly taking it, letting you help him steady himself.

“Don’t let him get under your skin,” you said kindly. “Hyoman just likes to bark. That’s all he’s good at. If he tries again, let me know. Or…” you smiled faintly, “better yet, let Seongje know. He wouldn’t even get the chance to touch you.”

Juntae’s eyes widened a little. The idea of Seongje even noticing him — let alone protecting him — seemed surreal. But still, he nodded quickly. “Th-Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

The bowling alley was alive with laughter and chatter when you walked in. The boys immediately perked up when they spotted you.

“Noona!” one of them called, waving.

“You made it!” another grinned.

“Yah, she looks way too good to be here with us,” one teased, earning laughter from the others.

You laughed softly, waving back at them all as you weaved through the crowd. They always greeted you warmly — not out of obligation, but because you were genuinely kind to them. They all saw the way you looked after Seongje, and in turn, after them in little ways.

And then you spotted him.

Seongje sat back against the sofa like a king on his throne, cigarette burning low between his fingers, eyes half-lidded but sharp. The second he saw you, though, his gaze softened. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the smallest of smiles.

You slid in beside him, nestling into his side. His arm immediately draped over your shoulders, pulling you close.

“You’re late,” he murmured.

“Got caught up.” You tilted your head up at him. “I saw Hyoman on the way.”

His gaze sharpened. “Hyoman?”

“Mm. He was bothering someone. Juntae.”

His brows furrowed. “That kid?”

You nodded, sighing. “He looked terrified. I stepped in, but… I just feel bad for him, Seongje. He doesn’t deserve that.”

He exhaled smoke, watching you closely. You could tell he was turning it over in his mind, weighing it, deciding how much it mattered. To him, Juntae was nothing. Not Union, not worth his time. But to you? It clearly mattered. And for him, that was enough to plant a seed.

“Mm. I’ll keep it in mind,” he murmured.

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

From across the room, one of the boys called out teasingly, “Hyung, you’re so whipped!”

The others burst out laughing, and even you couldn’t help but giggle. Seongje just gave them a flat look, but the faint pink in his ears betrayed him.

“Shut up and bowl,” he muttered, tightening his arm around you as if to prove his point.

When Seongje saw Hyoman again a few days later, shoving Juntae against a wall, he felt irritation pulse through his veins.

He could have walked past. Normally, he would have. Juntae wasn’t his business. Not Union. Not anyone important.

But your voice echoed in his head. He looked terrified. I just feel bad for him, Seongje.

That softness in your eyes, the way you’d pressed closer when you said it — he wanted to keep that look on your face. Always.

So he stepped in.

“Hyoman.”

The name cut through the air. Hyoman froze, hands dropping from Juntae’s shirt as if burned.

Seongje’s stare was ice cold. “Still picking on someone weaker than you? That’s the only way you feel strong?”

“Hyung—I was just—”

His fist cracked across Hyoman’s face before he could finish. Blood sprayed. Hyoman stumbled, clutching his jaw.

“You think you’re tough?” Seongje stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “You’re nothing.”

Hyoman glared, but fear swam beneath it. “Why do you even care? He’s not Union!”

Seongje’s lips curled into a smirk, sharp and dangerous. “Because my girl cares.” His voice dropped. “And that’s enough for me.”

Another punch, harder this time. Hyoman collapsed against the wall, groaning. When he scrambled away, it wasn’t with bravado — it was with fear.

Silence lingered.

Juntae stood frozen, trembling, eyes wide. He looked at Seongje like he wasn’t sure whether to run or bow.

“...You okay?” Seongje finally asked.

Juntae nodded quickly, words tripping over themselves. “Y-Yes, thank you. I—”

“Don’t thank me,” Seongje cut him off. “Thank her.” He shoved his hands back in his pockets and walked off, leaving Juntae trembling but safe.

Inside, though, he thought of you. Of your smile when he told you. Of the way your face would light up because he’d done something that mattered to you. And that thought alone made his fists ache less.

That night, when he came home, you were curled on the couch, waiting for him.

“You’re still awake?” he asked softly, leaning down to kiss your temple.

“Couldn’t sleep without you,” you murmured, tugging him down beside you.

He watched you for a moment, then said, “Saw Juntae today.”

Your eyes widened. “You did?”

“Hyoman was on him again. I took care of it.”

You blinked, processing. “You… you did that for me?”

“Of course.” He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “You wanted him safe. That’s enough.”

Your heart swelled, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes. “I love you.”

He kissed you, slow and certain. “I’d do anything for you. Don’t ever forget that.”

And in his arms, you knew he meant every word.

Thank you for reading!

he smiles, a wild glint flashing in his eyes. “didn’t wanna cause a scene, babe. just need your little bitch boss to pay us back the money he owes. which, if you didn’t know,” he tilts his head, slow and jerky, like a predator sizing up its prey, “is a-fucking-lot.” seongje laughs, the sound low and unnerving, dripping with manic amusement.

the collection wasn’t even a big deal. the union has far more boys than to send their right-hand man for something this small. seongje wasn’t here because the money was urgent. he was here because it amused him to get under your skin, to remind you who he was—who he still thought he was.

he shrugs, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. “had to, didn’t i? baekjin’s orders, y’know. thought you’d have missed me too.” he runs a hand through his hair with a lazy flick of his wrist as he saunters over to you, eyes glinting like he’s daring you to call him out.

then, with a casualness that somehow feels more dangerous than it should, he leans in slightly, his gaze flicking down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. it’s a move that feels too deliberate, too comfortable—like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him play with you.

you don’t need to hear more.

you swing again, remembering how he used to kiss you with that same reckless, chaotic energy. how every touch felt like a battle you never wanted to win.

his eyes darken—knowing. there’s a flicker in them, a sharp edge as he realizes you’re not backing down. and then, before you can react, he steps back to dodge, and steps back in as he throws a clean punch, landing square on your cheek.

you grunt, the impact rattling your head and bringing a ringing to your ears, but you don’t stumble. instead, you lean into the hit, using the momentum to drop low, kicking out your leg and tripping him on his shin. seongje stumbles, a grunt escaping him as he crashes to the ground with a sharp hiss.

“did you think i was gonna fall for that?” you sneer, standing over him, fists clenched.

he grins, his breath coming out ragged but amused. “nah. but i thought you’d make it fun.”

you raise your fist again. “you haven’t learned your lesson.”

but this time, seongje’s movements are quicker than you expect—he pounces, body weight crashing into yours, sending both of you slamming into the concrete ground. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh, and before you can react, he’s already on top of you, his knee pressing into your side, pinning your arm beneath him.

you hiss through the pain, but even as your body aches from the impact, you narrow your eyes at him as he huffs, already sick of your persistence. “shit, you really want to make pretty faces like yours bleed?” seongje smirks, his grip tightening as he uses one palm to plant on the ground beside your head. his other hand catches your wrist, holding it above your head. “you always fight this hard, or is it just me?” he whispers, voice low and dangerous, as his knee digs into your other arm, restraining you completely.

his smirk never falters, but there’s something else in his eyes now—something dangerous, hungry.

you inhale sharply, then, in one quick, explosive motion, you slam your forehead into his with a sharp crack.

seongje’s eyes widen for a split second, disoriented. that’s all you need. you push him off, shoving him to the side and rolling back onto your feet, each move faster than before.

he blinks, trying to steady himself, but you’re already on him, throwing punches—one to the side of his head, another to his stomach, the force enough to make him cough out a ragged breath. a swift kick knocks his glasses clean off his face, sending them skidding across the gravel.

he looks up at you, his features twisted with annoyance, but also… something else. something almost familiar.

“you were going easy on me,” you murmur, voice low and dangerous, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “didn’t want me to get hurt, babe?” you tease, the nickname slipping from your tongue almost bitterly. “you know… we don’t make out anymore. guess it wouldn’t hurt to give you a busted lip, huh?”

he glares at you, breath coming quicker, the tension between you both palpable now—old history, old fights, and the undeniable truth that things are never just physical with him.

“you never make things easy, do you?” he growls, but there’s a spark in his eyes. a challenge, an invitation.

“you should know by now,” you reply, ready to go again, both of you caught in a tangled mess of unfinished business.

you’re caught in a frenzy of punches, kicks, and curses, both of you battering each other with everything you’ve got. each hit feels like it might be the last, but neither of you is willing to give up.

seongje’s fast, like always, his body moving with a feral intensity that makes it impossible to land a clean blow. but you’re just as relentless. you always have been. you dodge one punch, counter with an elbow to his ribs, and then another to his jaw, but it’s not enough. he’s too quick, and the fight’s gone on too long.

a wave of frustration rises in your chest. this damn wolf doesn’t know when to quit.

you swing again, aiming for his ribs, but he dodges just in time, his body shifting insanely fast, too fast for you to land a proper hit. he retaliates with a sharp jab to your stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

“fucking hell, y/n,” he growls, and you hear the edge of something you can’t quite place in his voice. maybe it’s concern, maybe it’s annoyance, but then—everything goes black.

when you wake, the world is dim, but not like it was before. this is different—darker, colder. the smell of smoke hits your nostrils first, and it’s only then that you recognize it. you’re not at some random street corner or an alleyway. you’re somewhere familiar.

your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, the shadows of the room taking form around you. and then it hits you: this room. you’ve been here before, too many times. too many nights spent tangled in memories you’ve tried to forget.

the dim light from the fading sunset seeps through a narrow window, casting deep purple shadows across the floor. your head’s throbbing, your cheek swollen, and your body aches with every movement, but none of that matters because you recognize this place. seongje’s place.

he’s standing by the windowsill, cigarette between his lips, smoke curling up into the air. his back is to you, but you can still see the familiar silhouette. his posture, the way his shoulders slouch just enough to give him that casual, laid-back look. the same posture you’ve seen a thousand times in this very room, in these very circumstances.

fuck him, you think, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. you wipe your mouth, feeling the blood on your lip, the cut stinging. this isn’t fair—bringing you back here.

you hear the soft snick of his lighter as he takes another drag from the cigarette, the sound too familiar.

“you’re awake,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. he turns around slowly, eyes narrowing as he watches you.

“you knocked me out,” you mutter, your voice still thick with the remnants of the fight. your hand moves instinctively to your aching jaw. you feel the bruise already forming.

seongje looks almost casual about it, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “wasn’t my intention,” he shrugs, but his eyes flicker down to the cut on your lip, then back to your face. there’s a pause, and his voice drops lower as he adds, “but you didn’t really make it easy, babe—and this was the only way to shut you up.”

you frown, trying to process the weight of his words. what the hell does he mean by that? his eyes catch yours, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavy, charged with all the old history and the years of tangled emotions that you two shared.

you take a deep breath, forcing yourself to steady your mind. “you could’ve left me there,” you snap, trying to mask the vulnerability that’s creeping in. “but you didn’t.”

his eyes flash with something—maybe irritation, maybe something else—but he doesn’t look away. he takes another drag from his cigarette, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“yeah, and leave you with those assholes?” he mutters, his voice low and dark, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “no fucking way.”

your heart skips a beat at that, the weight of his words crashing over you. his tone isn’t what you expected—there’s something more beneath the surface, something he’s not saying. it makes you pause, just for a moment, before you shake your head, trying to brush it off.

“you’re a pain in the ass,” you reply, though it comes out quieter than you meant.

seongje just looks at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up into that familiar smirk. “old habits never die,” he murmurs, and you feel that old tension, that magnetic pull, surge again between you two.

his cigarette is still between his fingers, and without asking, he holds it out to you. you don’t take it, instead leaning in slightly, your lips brushing against his fingers as you take a long drag from the cigarette on his hand, the smoke filling your lungs before you blow it out, deliberately exhaling the thick cloud of smoke right onto his face.

he rolls his eyes at this, unbothered, the smirk never fading as if he’s used to this by now.

“still playing dirty, huh?” he mutters, clearly unfazed, like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

“and you’re still a fucking freak.” you shrug, the tension between you thickening with every word, the unspoken history, stained with repressed feelings, lingering just under the surface.

“a freak you’d kill for,” seongje says, finally facing you, narrowing his eyes as he flicks the cigarette out the window. “join the union,” he says simply.

you cock an eyebrow at him, your lips curling into a smirk, eyebrows quirked in disbelief. “if you wanted to get back together, you could’ve just said that. fucker.”

seongje doesn’t laugh, he just keeps watching you like he’s waiting, gaze a little more intense this time.

you shake your head, something colder behind your eyes now. “i’m not fucking insane like you, seongje.”

his jaw tics, but he doesn’t interrupt. so you keep going.

“you knew it back then, too. it was always gonna be one of us.” your voice is quiet, but steady. “and you knew me, seongje. i just needed to get by. keep my head down, earn some chump change, scrape enough to disappear when i was ready. the union—” you scoff, “—that shit was always too high stakes. too serious.”

you look away, jaw clenching. “i have dreams, seongje. i’m gonna go to college. make something out of this mess.”

you finally meet his eyes again. “so no, i’m not joining the union.”

seongje huffs out a low breath, then laughs—dry, disbelieving. “so that’s also a ‘no, we’re not getting back together’, huh?” he echoes, head tilted like he’s trying to make sense of you, a playful smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes flickered with something else.

you roll your eyes at this. then he chuckles, rubbing a hand down his face. “shit. you’re scary, babe.” there’s something fond buried under the sarcasm, though, something sharp and aching. “you always talked like you were gonna burn the whole city down just to make it to some fucking—loser, nerd, uni. still do.” he spits out.

he looks back out the window, tongue pressing into his cheek.

you can tell he’s pissed. bitter, even. maybe even... jealous? but you reach out without thinking—soft, deliberate—and brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. your fingers linger just long enough to slip his glasses off, folding them in your hand.

if you were anyone else, he’d have snapped your neck for touching his glasses, let alone getting that close.

but you were you.

seongje doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even move—just shifts his gaze, side-eying you from the corner of his eye, something unreadable swimming just beneath the surface.

“you always do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, but it comes out low, almost like a compliment.

“mhm,” you hum, fingers still ghosting along his skin as you cup his cheek. his skin is rough beneath your touch—calloused and scarred, the faint divots of half-healed cuts from fights and brawls brushing against your palm. it scrapes at your skin, grounding you in a memory you shouldn’t still want. a past drenched in adrenaline and bad decisions, but his warmth still makes your chest ache like it always did.

your thumb brushes just beneath his eye as you lean in a little closer, your voice barely a breath. “and i really wanna kiss your stupid face right now, you psycho.”

seongje’s jaw clenches under your touch. his eyes scan yours, gaze falling on your lips, then back to your eyes, like he’s daring you to do it. like he wants you to. you blink once, his eyes flick to your lips again, and that’s all it takes.

seongje grabs your face with both hands—rough, unfiltered—like he’s been holding back since the second you woke up in his room. the kiss crashes into you, all teeth and heat and the wild kind of need that’s only ever been his.

god, he needed this.

not just his lips on your or his fingers curling into the back of your neck, but you. the only person who ever made him feel anything beyond bloodlust. all the beatdowns, the turf wars, the payoffs—none of that ever lit his veins up like this. like you.

your eyes flutter close, gasping into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, urgent, almost clumsy with how badly he wants more. his hands are on your jaw, your waist, your back—everywhere, like if he lets go, it’ll all disappear. he groans desperately into your lips, muttering your own name against your skin.

you let him kiss you like he’s starved for it, like he’s still the boy who used to beg you not to leave his bed in the mornings, the boy who would let the world burn just to have you. you let him hold you like this means something—like maybe, for tonight, it does.

even though you know you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, before the sun even touches the edge of the windowsill where you two once sat. no note, no goodbye. you’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

because he’ll always choose the union. the chaos. the blood in his mouth and the rush in his fists. because that’s just who seongje is—your wolf with red-stained teeth, always chasing, craving something darker. the mad dog.

but you?

you’ve got places to be. you’re not wasting time here leashed to him like this. you have dreams to run toward. dreams that geum seongje was never meant to follow.

if you liked this, i appreciate a reblog as well :3 it helps my works and writing spread to other ppl very effectively !!

note: just couldn’t stop thinking of love and leashes while writing this, so here u go lol

The voice was a sneer, followed by a light shove that sent your textbook skittering. You looked up, blinking. It was Minjun and his usual hangers-on, smirking. They'd been doing this for a while, these little daily rituals of minor torment. You just… didn't really get it. What was the point?

You calmly bent down, retrieved your book, and dusted it off. “Is there something you need?” you asked, your voice soft but steady.

Minjun scoffed, exchanging glances with his cronies. “Just reminding you where you stand, four-eyes.” He flicked your forehead, a surprisingly gentle but still irritating gesture.

Before you could respond, a low, bored voice cut through the petty theatrics. “Having fun, Minjun?”

The air in the classroom seemed to thicken, a palpable shift. Minjun’s smirk faltered, and his friends visibly tensed. You looked up to see him. Geum Seongje. He leaned against the doorframe, a casual posture that somehow amplified the predatory stillness about him. His eyes, usually gleaming with an unsettling amusement, were flat and unreadable as they swept over the group, lingering on Minjun.

“Seongje,” Minjun stammered, his bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. “Just… messing around.”

Seongje pushed off the doorframe, a slow, deliberate movement that made every muscle in Minjun's body stiffen. He didn't speak, just walked towards them, his gaze never leaving Minjun’s face. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. You watched, a strange mix of curiosity and mild apprehension stirring within you. You knew of Seongje, of course. Everyone did. The “Wolf.” The one who brought chaos like a second skin.

He stopped just short of Minjun, who had begun to visibly sweat. Then, in a blink, Seongje’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to deftly pluck Minjun's phone from his pocket. He spun it in his fingers, a lazy, taunting rhythm.

“You know,” Seongje said, his voice deceptively mild, “I hate boredom. And you’re incredibly boring, Minjun.” He tossed the phone up, catching it just before it hit the floor, then casually brought his foot down, grinding the screen under his heel. The sharp crack echoed in the suddenly silent room.

Minjun gasped, horrified. “My phone!”

Seongje merely smiled, a slow, chilling curve of his lips. “Consider it a lesson. Find better ways to entertain yourself.” He then turned, his gaze briefly meeting yours before he walked past your desk and out of the classroom, leaving behind a stunned Minjun and an even more stunned silence.

You blinked. That was… unexpected. And strangely, for the first time, the bullying felt a little less insignificant, though not because it hurt you, but because it had somehow drawn the attention of the school’s most volatile presence.

Days turned into weeks. The bullying from Minjun ceased, replaced by wary avoidance. Seongje became a silent, occasional presence. You'd catch him sometimes, a fleeting glance from across the classroom, an unnerving sense of being observed. You tried to ignore it, burying yourself deeper in your studies, but the awareness of him lingered.

Then came the day you tripped. It was entirely your fault. You were lost in thought, a new physics problem consuming your mind, when your foot caught on an uneven floor tile. Books, notes, and your trusty pencil case exploded across the hallway floor. You braced for the inevitable sting of knees against linoleum, but before you hit, a hand, strong and surprisingly gentle, grabbed your arm, steadying you.

You looked up, flustered, to see Seongje. His usual predatory gleam was absent, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“Clumsy,” he remarked, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. He released your arm, then bent down without a word, systematically gathering your scattered belongings. He picked up your physics textbook, flipping it open to a page filled with your meticulous notes and diagrams. His gaze seemed to sharpen for a moment, an almost intellectual curiosity in his eyes.

“You actually… understand this stuff?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, a blush creeping up your neck. “It’s… interesting.”

He merely grunted, stacking your books neatly. When he handed them back, his fingers brushed yours, a fleeting contact that sent a strange jolt through you. You mumbled a quick thank you, clutching your books, and hurried away, your heart doing a strange little flutter-kick against your ribs.

That small incident seemed to be the catalyst. Not for overt conversation, not at first. But a silent acknowledgment. Sometimes, you’d find a perfectly sharpened pencil on your desk when you swore you’d left none. Other times, a complex problem on the whiteboard that had stumped everyone would suddenly have a small, elegant solution scrawled in the margin – in handwriting that unmistakably matched Seongje’s.

You started to leave small things in return. A perfectly peeled orange on his desk one morning. A single, crisp apple. You never saw him eat them, but they were always gone by the end of the day.

One afternoon, you were struggling with a particularly stubborn zipper on your bag. It was stuck, jammed tight, and you were growing increasingly frustrated. A shadow fell over you, and you tensed, expecting a snide remark. Instead, a hand reached past you, strong fingers expertly working the stubborn zipper. It gave with a soft zip.

“You struggle with the simplest things, don’t you?” Seongje’s voice was a low rumble next to your ear.

You turned, startled, to find him closer than expected. His scent, a mix of something metallic and faintly spicy, filled your senses. “I… I guess so,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks warm.

He looked at your bag, then at your hands. “Always got your head in the clouds.”

“There’s a lot to think about,” you mumbled, clutching your bag tighter.

He surprisingly didn’t mock you. Instead, he just… looked. His gaze was intense, dissecting, as if he was trying to understand the strange, quiet world you inhabited.

“What’s so interesting in those clouds?” he asked, the question laced with a genuine, if slightly detached, curiosity.

You hesitated, then, surprising even yourself, you found yourself explaining the beauty of quantum physics, the elegance of prime numbers, the vastness of the cosmos. He listened, silent, his eyes never leaving your face. You expected boredom, a scoff, but he just absorbed it all, a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. When you finally trailed off, feeling a little foolish for your rambling, he simply nodded.

“Sounds… complicated,” he mused, then a flicker of his usual amusement returned. “More complicated than breaking someone’s jaw.”

You couldn't help but let out a small, nervous laugh. “Probably.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, an odd, fragile peace that you never would have thought possible with Geum Seongje.

Their conversations became more frequent, always initiated by him, always unexpected. Sometimes it was about a random observation he had made about human behavior, phrased in his chillingly analytical way. Other times, he would pose a strange, abstract question, almost philosophical, about strength or weakness or the nature of conflict. You’d offer your own quiet, often academic, perspectives, and he would listen, occasionally interjecting with a sharp, insightful, and often brutal, counterpoint.

One day, you were in the library, surrounded by towering bookshelves, when you felt his presence. He sat opposite you, not even looking at you, just staring blankly at the page of a book he held, upside down.

“Why don’t you fight back?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, cutting through the quiet hum of the library.

You knew what he was referring to. The lingering echoes of the bullying, even if it had mostly stopped. You considered your answer carefully.

“It just… doesn’t seem worth it,” you said finally. “It takes too much energy. And what would it solve? They’d just find another way. It’s a distraction from what I really want to do.”

He slowly turned the book right side up, though he still didn't seem to be reading it. “So, you let them step on you?”

You shook your head. “No. I just… don’t engage in their game. My focus is elsewhere. It’s like… a different kind of strength, maybe? To not let it bother you.”

He was silent for a long moment, then he let out a soft, almost imperceptible sound that might have been a scoff, or perhaps, a faint chuckle. “A different kind of strength,” he repeated, as if tasting the words. “Interesting.”

He turned a page, then closed the book with a soft thud. “You’re weird, Y/n.”

You offered a small smile. “I’ve been told.”

He stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over your table. “Keep being weird, Y/n,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “It’s… less boring.”

He walked away, leaving you amidst your books, a strange warmth spreading through your chest. He hadn't changed. Not really. The underlying intensity, the dangerous edge, was still there. You saw it, felt it, in every interaction. He was still the "Wolf," intrigued by conflict, drawn to strength in all its forms. But with you, there was a different nuance. A quiet curiosity. A strange, almost fragile bond built on shared, if unconventional, understanding.

Sometimes, you’d see him in the hallways, surrounded by other intimidating figures, and he’d catch your eye across the bustling space. There wouldn’t be a smile, or a nod, just a brief, intense stare that acknowledged you. It was a silent message, a shared secret between the calculating predator and the clumsy, unassuming nerd. And in that silent acknowledgment, you found a peculiar comfort, a surprising sense of safety in the presence of chaos.

He wouldn't actively protect you, not in a conventional way, but his mere presence, his unsettling interest, was enough to keep others at bay. You learned to navigate the school with a newfound, quiet confidence, your head still in the clouds, but now with a strange, dark shadow occasionally accompanying you.

One rainy afternoon, you were caught without an umbrella. You were hurrying, trying to shield your bag and its precious contents, when a dark form materialized beside you. A large, black umbrella opened over your head, its sturdy frame providing instant shelter. You looked up to see Seongje, holding the umbrella, his expression as unreadable as ever. He wasn’t looking at you, just straight ahead, walking at your pace.

“You’ll ruin your books,” he muttered, as if stating a simple fact.

You mumbled a surprised thank you, a soft smile playing on your lips. The rain hammered down around you, but under the wide span of the umbrella, a small bubble of quiet, unexpected companionship formed. He continued to walk with you, all the way to your bus stop, not saying another word. When your bus pulled up, he simply closed the umbrella, handed it to you, and turned to walk away.

“Keep it,” he said, without looking back.

You watched him go, a faint warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the rain or the sudden shelter. It was a small gesture, perhaps even an absentminded one, from someone who seemed to care little for the mundane. But to you, it felt like a silent confirmation of something unique, something that transcended the usual boundaries of school life. It wasn't love, not in the traditional sense, but a curious, quiet understanding, a simple bond that blossomed in the unlikeliest of places. A rare, delicate flower growing in the shadow of the wolf.

He sat by a small fire and you regretted not having even a lighter on you to warm up your nights like that. No wonder he didn’t seem bothered by the temperatures. You approached him cautiously and sat on the opposite side of the fire, just at the verge of the warmth. He glanced at you with a soft smile, but didn’t say anything, as if he already expected your arrival.

You curled up against a tree, letting your eyes slip closed.

You thought that would be it. But you had been woken up by the sound of shuffling and when you opened your eyes again, he was crouching in front of you, holding out some kind of meat roasted on a skewer. You looked at him suspiciously.

“You didn’t eat yesterday.” His words weren’t a question. “Eat before you run out of strengths.”

He left the skewer in your hand before returning to his previous seat and busying himself with his own food.

Some time later you found yourself scooping closer to the fire and scrutinizing him with a careful gaze. His face was neutral, unbothered, lit by the yellow hues of the fire.

“Where are we going?” you suddenly asked.

He let out a breathy laugh, not looking at you from where he was busy picking at his nails with the end of a skewer.

“You’ve been following me for a week and now you’re asking?”

You shrugged. No good response came to your mind.

“My pack’s territory is behind the mountains. It will take another week before we get there.”

“What will you do if I follow you there, too?” You tried to sound confident, but your voice quivered.

“What will you do if I let you?”

You hesitated.

“I need a pack.”

“What happened to your old one?”

“They threw me out.” You wrapped arms around your knees, bringing them to your chest. You finally tore your gaze away from him and focused on the flames.

“For being a beta?” You nodded and he hummed.

Betas weren’t really useful for anything. It was common for some packs to dispose of them when an opportunity presented itself. They tended to stay behind. Impaired senses. Inability to shift.

“We can’t let just anyone join our pack, though.” You felt your heart drop. Of course. You couldn’t expect someone to acknowledge you just because of your persistence. But he didn’t let you dwell on it for too long. “What about it. We will play a game. If you win, I will let you join my pack.”

“And if you win?”

He shrugged.

“I will think of something. My name is Jeonghan, by the way.”

You didn’t find it in yourself to worry about the potential consequences.

It was a simple card game, and he had all that was needed in his backpack, explaining the rules to you. You did your best to follow.

You won the game.

The flicker in Jeonghan’s eye made you think that maybe he knew the outcome before the game even started.

Somehow,  you didn’t find the courage to stay close to him after that, but you would join him for the night when the two of you would share your stories before falling asleep by the warmth of the fire he set up.

On the tenth day, something shifted. You felt it in his demeanor, some form of stiffness, nervousness even. But you were close enough, you believed. His territory was right outside of your reach.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay close?” he asked, but you only shook your head. At heart, you were still nervous and distrustful. What chances there were that this other pack would be better than your previous one? At the very least you weren’t denied by him. But what would your life become?

It seemed that he was uncertain, letting you stay behind this time.

It didn’t take long before you found out, why.

You didn’t sense it – your sense of smell was weak as opposed to others, barely enough to follow the alpha ahead of you, but you still beat yourself up for not having noticed this thing sooner. It was the cracking of twigs and low growl between trees that made you finally pick it up.

The feral wolf was large, covered in thick gray fur, matted in some areas. It didn’t look old. But sick for certain. Yet, you didn’t dwell on its state because the creature pounced, and you had to dive to the side to avoid its sharp teeth and claws.

At times like this you almost understood why betas were undesirable in packs. How were you even supposed to fight back with your human body?

The beast jumped at you again, this time faster, more deliberate, and you ducked only enough to send the two of you rolling down the snowy path. You felt the claws tearing at your shoulder, but your body hit a tree, knocking the air out of your lungs and preventing a scream from ripping out. Your vision filled with dark spots.

Something suddenly collided with the animal, a force that sent it tumbling a few meters away from you before your vision even managed to focus again.

But when it did, it was another wolf that stood between you and the beast, and Jeonghan’s scent filled the air – unmistakable even with your impaired senses, sharp and determined; a growl resonated through his bared teeth.

It seemed that the other finally acknowledged the disparity between it and a healthy opponent, because with a displeased growl of its own, it turned around and ran off into the forest.

Your eyes slipped closed, if only for a few moments before a hand was placed on your shoulder and you flinched before Jeonghan’s familiar face appeared above you, eyebrows creased in concern.

“Are you okay? Can you stand up?”

You blinked slowly. Your head was filled with dull ache and something was still tearing at your shoulder, the warmth slowly dripping down your cold skin. You winced, pushing yourself up.

Jeonghan’s face softened, a small smile finding way into the corner of his lip, making your worries dissipate.

“I think I’m okay” you spoke, but it was laced with uncertainty.

“I hope so. We should probably leave this area before we settle for the night.”

Your fingers clutched onto the hem of Jeonghan’s jacket as the two of you made your way through the forest. You, for once, didn’t even think to remain at a distance. And he – did not say a word about it. The travel, considerably slower than before, was no longer as cold as it used to be. You stuck to his side for the next hours, finding comfort in the alpha’s warmth resonating around him, seeping into you as if he was a furnace.

It was when your breath became uneven and the fatigue was becoming too much, that the two of you sat down around a fireplace that he set up quickly before moving in front of you with some medical supplies that he must have carried in his backpack.

Any other day, you would have preferred to handle things yourself. Growing up in a pack that didn’t care for betas, that’s exactly what you were used to. Jeonghan’s kindness was unfamiliar. A completely strange concept. Something that, any other day, you would be suspicious of, decline it, out of how you had been told over and over again that you’re not worthy of it. These wounds were still fresh.

But there was some form of strictness behind Jeonghan’s generosity as well. It wasn’t a plea, but a command, when he looked at the torn, bloodied fabric of your own jacket, expecting you to take it off.

The warmth of fireplace against your skin was much more pleasant than the freezing wetness of your drying blood and the snow that seeped through your clothes during the struggle. You pulled your jacket and blouse off in one go, and then immediately covered yourself, having a second thought about exposing yourself like this.

“I, uh…”

“Are you scared of me?”

The question seemed to come out of nowhere. Jeonghan didn’t look at you – not at your face, at least, gently pushing your hands away from your chest and putting his whole focus on the gaping wound on your shoulder. You had a feeling it wasn’t the first time he was treating a wound, and the mere fact that he had the first aid kit on him, ready to use, just made it clear that he also knew how to use it.

His touch was gentle, but confident. Not overly careful – not treating you like a hurt animal, no matter that it was exactly what you were right now. But rather, he grounded you with how he did not hesitate, disinfecting your wound the way it needed to be done, not sparing you the stronger, a bit more forceful movements as he cleaned the injury to his best ability.

When you hissed in pain, he glanced at you briefly, but didn’t stop. And, somehow, it felt better this way. It felt right. To not be babied, but cared for in this particular way.

He was showing you that he knows better. That he’s a leader. And a leader was what you needed.

“Do you want me to be scared?” you countered after some minutes had passed.

He shook his head.

“You don’t need to be. But I suspect fear is natural to you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed a damp cloth against the wound at that exact moment and all that left you was a small whimper.

“I’m not demeaning you or anything” he continued, although there was a hint of smile in his voice, as if he enjoyed poking at you, teasing you. Not like you could get seriously offended – you were in no position to, anyway. “But I wonder who you think I am.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. Your senses might have been impaired, but not that much.

“An alpha” you grumbled. “Am I wrong?”

“No, I suppose you’re not” he hummed. Your nostrils flared at the smell of medicine he pressed into your injury. Your body shivered at the sting that followed, but you sat still, letting him do whatever he found appropriate. “But you follow me like I’m a pack leader as well. I don’t want you to be misinformed.”

You stared at him with your mouth agape for a few moments. It seemed right – he did give off that particular aura of someone you could trust, rely on and listen to. But you never had the experience of leadership that awoke trust over fear, and you had no idea if it was him being an alpha or something in your gut considering him a leader as well. Besides, you were used to being below everyone else, so…

“Does it matter?”

“Does it not?”

“As long as your leader doesn’t tell me to fuck off, I don’t think it does” you huffed, looking away. “I didn’t suspect you to be the only alpha in a pack, anyway. I mean, you could be, just that it doesn’t really matter. I know my place.” Your voice trembled ever so barely with the last words you spoke, and this time Jeonghan finally looked at you properly, stilling his movements. But the pity disappeared soon, exchanged by an amused smile.

“Your place?”

You hated having to say it out loud.

“You know what I mean. I don’t expect my life to miraculously become heaven. That’s fine. As long as I’m not alone.”

“You should fight for yourself more.”

“You saw for yourself how poorly that goes” you mumbled, looking pointedly at the injury right below your face. Now, cleaned from blood, you saw the rough edges left by the wolf’s claws, and you winced at the sight. These would undoubtedly leave a scar.

“Not really, no.” Jeonghan’s movements continued now as he started dressing your wound with a bandage. “When you think about it, you did pretty well.”

“Don’t mock me…”

“I mean it.”

“You had to save my ass.”

“You had to choose to follow me, to go out of your way to ask to join my pack, for me to be able to help you. It isn’t easy to rely on someone else, but you did. And there is also no shame in receiving help.”

There was some form of logic that didn’t fully resonate with you, even as your eyebrows creased and you pondered on it for the next minutes, until Jeonghan finished wrapping your wound and took off his jacket, wrapping it around your torso. You were shivering a little from the cold, and he approached the fireplace, putting in some more of the tree branches.

“I will wash up your clothes, hopefully they dry by the fire overnight. We should get through the mountains in two days, then it will be an easier route. I will look for more dry wood for the fire. Stay and get some rest.”

You were a bit sad that you wouldn’t get to talk a bit more. Some form of sentiment was growing within you, a fondness towards the man whose thinking process seemed to exceed your own by a mile.

 Jeonghan never took away the jacket that he let you sleep under that night, but even as your own clothes dried, your body struggled keeping warmth for the next two days that it took before the temperatures started raising a little. You had to take frequent breaks on the path, resting by fireplaces to warm back up. Jeonghan didn’t say a word of complaint – and neither did he look bothered with the lack of jacket. But it was only on the night when the snow became sparse again that you decided to return the jacket. It wasn’t, however, still as warm as you imagined, and you found yourself shivering weakly as the fireplace started to die out long into the night.

Jeonghan didn’t say a word, but you heard him shuffle somewhere on the other side of the fireplace, adding some wood into it to keep up the fire. You didn’t notice him walking towards you after, not until his body dropped behind yours with a small sigh. Even despite the weather, his warmth was strong, and you cursed yourself once again for your own weakness.

But when his arm wrapped around your middle, pulling you into him without letting you even think to make that choice yourself, you froze.

“What… do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

You smelled it again now. Softer, non-intrusive scent; you were too close to omit it. And, although it didn’t impact you half as much as it would if you weren’t a beta, there was some unspoken command in it, one that you understood just because it was natural to.

“Your scent won’t work on me” you huffed, turning your head and raising your eyebrow.

Jeonghan hummed. His eyes were closed, a sleepy expression on his face.

So close. His skin was partially covered in shadows, but the light of fireplace reached here and the orange hue made him appear as warm as his body was. His eyelashes fluttered, but eyes remained closed. You held your breath.

 “Jeonghan, are you asleep?”

“Mhm…”

Before you could say another word, he pulled you closer, his face burying in the crook of your neck. You stuttered.

“H-hey, why would you…” You pushed him off gently and he finally glanced at you with a soft smile on his face. You were still close, but – well – you were here before him, and so you decided to stand your ground.  “Don’t waste your energy on that. Scents don’t work on me.”

He pushed himself up a little, resting his head on his palm and gracing you with a lazy, relaxed expression.

“Don’t they?”

“Of course they don’t.”

“They why did you follow me, actually?”

You hesitated, eyebrows scrunching.

“I already told you that. I’m a stray.”

“Yes, I know that. But why did you find me? Was I the only alpha you crossed paths with?”

You shook your head.

“Of course not. There were people in the town, I didn’t go out of my way to find you or anything…”

“But you did follow me of all these people.”

You pressed your lips together, the cogs turning in your head making you go still for a few moments. But no logical thought followed, nothing that made sense based on what you were just told.

“I just had a feeling. I needed to find a pack sooner or later” you shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“Just a feeling, hm?”

His eyes flickered and you looked away, confused.

Jeonghan observed you for the next few moments before shaking his head and letting out a small chuckle.

“Go back to sleep. We’re almost home.”

You decided that listening to him was less of a mental challenge than continuing this conversation. But it did leave you wondering.

By the morning both of you were a bit cold, because the fireplace had managed to die out over the next hours. It was only reasonable to keep walking side by side to try and keep each other warmer.

Fourteen days had passed ever since the two of you had seen each other for the first time. You couldn’t feel the scent of the territory you entered, but you could feel the air change, the wild animals hiding in the bushes just a bit more wary of your and Jeonghan’s presence. And Jeonghan’s silhouette, too, seemed a bit more relaxed. You didn’t need to ask to know that only a few hours ahead, his pack was waiting for him to come back.

But as he seemed more at ease, you felt yourself grow more nervous.

At some point, Jeonghan’s hand found yours, squeezing it in a wordless reassurance. He didn’t look at you – you were glad that he didn’t, because you weren’t certain how much more pity you could take.

It was a late afternoon when he suddenly stopped in his tracks and you bumped into his back from where you were huddled right behind. His hand steadied you and he smiled brightly, looking somewhere in between the trees ahead. You strained your senses until you caught a faint whiff of another wolf – right as he emerged from between the tree trunks.

“Long time no see, Joshua.”

The newcomer returned Jeonghan’s smile before gracing you with a curious glance.

“What did you pick up on your way, Jeonghan?”

The man’s chest shook with laughter as he threw his arm over your shoulder in an effortless display of… what, exactly? Affection? Ownership…?

“A new recruit” he joked. “Feel free to go ahead and share the news with Cheol.”

“I’m sure he already knows. We could smell you’re not alone all the way from there.”

“You couldn’t have smelt me” you bristled instantly.

The man named Joshua raised his eyebrow.

“Because…?”

“Because I’m a…” Your voice trailed off. You were certain he already knew – the whole exchange seemed a bit out of blue. The man tilted his head to the side. “A beta” you grumbled.

Joshua blinked slowly, then looked at Jeonghan again.

“They’re a bit dense, no?”

Jeonghan laughed loudly, his arm closing tighter around your shoulder, keeping you close against him.

“Just a little. They will learn, though.”

“Hey!” You huffed, pushing him off. But pain shot through your shoulder and you winced, your knees bucking. The trip had taken a tool on you, and the injury, still somewhat fresh, didn’t heal too quick in all the cold and effort you had to put to make it through the forest.

Jeonghan was back in your personal space right away, arm wrapping around your middle to keep you upright. Joshua’s face fell as he took a few steps forward.

“Are you two hurt? Did something happen?”

“We had an encounter with a feral wolf on our way here. Can you go ahead and let others know? We will need some supplies to take care of that properly. And food. And clothes.”

“And a blanket” you mumbled. Nothing you dreamed of more than a dry, warm place to rest. You didn’t think you deserved much – you weren’t used to expecting more than was given, even if by a pity.

Jeonghan hummed.

“A lot of blankets, and a fireplace.”

Joshua smiled.

“You got it.”

Turning around, he leaped forward, shifting into a wolf and disappearing between the trees. You stared for a moment where he disappeared.

“Come on, we need to keep going. Not much longer.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“Why did you call me dense?” you huffed.

The two of you moved at a slow, relaxed pace now. The prospect of reaching your destination soon made you a bit lazy, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to put much more effort in your steps. Besides, Jeonghan himself seemed a bit worn out as well, dark circles under his eyes and paleness of his skin that you didn’t remember being there first time you spotted him from up close.

His hold on you, however, didn’t weaken, making it clear that he wouldn’t let you go until you reached the end of the journey.

“I think the way you have been raised gave you a false idea of what you are or are not” he spoke carefully. “I have a theory that your senses are dulled because your former alphas stifled betas in the pack.”

“I’m just…”

“You’re not much different than anyone else, you can trust me on that” he smiled softly. “There are a few betas in my pack and I assure you that it doesn’t change as much as you think. Yes, your senses are weaker, but not by as much as you believe. Betas can most definitely be impacted by others’ hormones. But they are not driven by that energy. By instincts. It’s powerful in itself. That’s why they’re the most trustworthy.” He took a deep breath in, smelling the air. A squirrel ran up the nearby tree, distracting both of you for a moment. “However, even if you are not aware of it, it doesn’t mean you cannot be impacted. And the fact you’re here proves as much.”

“I don’t get it” you said quickly. A bit too quickly – thoughts were already forming in your head. But you needed him to say it out loud.

Jeonghan stopped, turning towards you now. You could get used to the small smile on his face, always warm, although a bit teasing.

“I mean that you wouldn’t have found me, if I didn’t find you first.”

Reaching his hand towards the thick branches ahead, he pushed them out of the way.

In the darkness that already fell upon the forest, orange lights came from windows of a wooden house standing in the middle of the clearing ahead. In the middle of nowhere, yet clearly taken care of, clean and resonating with warmth. The littlest bit of civilization you missed for the past two weeks you spent almost dehumanized by the conditions of your journey.

You stared at it with your breath held for what felt like eternity, soaking in the sight, the feeling behind it, the promise that it brought.

Jeonghan patted your shoulder.

“You made it here” he announced. The warmth coming from the house seemed to blossom within your chest with newfound strength. You let it take over and nest inside you. “Welcome home.”

Jeonghan smiled. And for once, so did you.

A/N: Please reblog if you enjoyed and follow if you would like to read more in the future. Thank you for your time!

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he moves like someone who doesn’t expect anyone to touch him. like someone who learned early that the world only reaches for him to take something away. but you sit right next to him in homeroom — unfortunately or fortunately, you haven’t decided yet.

and while he looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the fastest way to break them, he looks at you like you’re made of something he doesn’t want to crack.

when you sit down, he straightens. when you brush his desk by accident, he freezes. when your pen rolls toward him, he picks it up with careful fingers — like touching something that belongs to you requires a different kind of gentleness.

he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t joke. in fact, he barely speaks at all. but his silence is different with you. less like a wall. more like he’s listening — to the way you breathe, the way you shift, the way you whisper apologies when your elbows almost bump.

when someone bumps into you in the hallway? he goes rigid, shoulders snapping tight, eyes darkening as he watches the offender like he’s mapping the exact angle he’d throw a punch.

when someone raises their voice near you? he steps forward before you can react, expression unreadable, body angled between you and anyone else like a barrier he built without thinking.

and when you speak to him? he listens. not the lazy, distracted kind of listening people do. the kind where his head tilts a little. where he actually turns toward you, like the world gets quieter when you’re talking. where he answers in low, careful words, as if he’s checking each one before handing it to you.

it’s strange — the balance you two occupy. the school’s most feared boy, turning into something soft and unguarded the second your voice hits the air. soft clay. or something even more fragile — glass warmed in sunlight. and that softness becomes more obvious the night everything goes wrong.

─────

you shouldn’t have gone. you knew that the moment the text came from your friend — come out. it’ll be fun. no seong-je around to baby you tonight!

you’d laughed when you read it — an easy, dismissive sound you almost immediately regretted. because now, crammed into a too-loud house full of people you’ve never seen before, pressed-in bodies moving like a single shifting mass, and the sharp, sticky smell of spilled alcohol clinging to your clothes —

you regret every choice that led you here.

the bass thunders through the floorboards, vibrating up your legs. someone bumps your shoulder hard, sloshing a drink down your arm. you mutter an apology, even though they were the one who hit you. voices blur into one giant, pulsing noise.

you text your friend. i’m heading home.

but the message just sits there — delivered. not read. not responded to. lost in the chaos, like everything else. a girl giggles too loudly near your ear. someone else shouts from across the room. the lights flicker, neon and dizzying, making you feel slightly sick.

you wedge your way through the crowd toward the door, whispering excuse me, sorry, just trying to get through — but no one listens. you’re three steps from freedom when —

a hand wraps around your wrist. not gentle and not familiar. a grip that says you’re not leaving.

“leaving already?” a boy from another class leans in too close, breath hot with beer, smile tilted wrong in the dim light. your pulse stutters.

“uh — i am, thanks,” you say, trying for polite, trying for small. you peel his fingers off your wrist. he puts them right back.

“c’mon,” he says, leaning closer, voice sticky-sweet. “one more drink.”

“i said no.” your voice is steady, though your pulse is not.

he squeezes again. harder. “don’t be like that.”

and then — the air changes. it’s subtle at first. the kind of shift you feel more than see — like a storm rolling in behind you. your breath catches.

a shadow falls over you, cold and unmistakable. the boy’s grip falters just enough for you to turn your head. seong-je is standing behind him. his jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the muscle twitch. his eyes — usually just dark — are black with fury. his shoulders are drawn back, locked, as if holding himself in place is costing him something physical.

he didn’t come to the party. he doesn’t do parties. he came for you.

“let go,” seong-je says. not loud. not shouted. just a command — sharp enough to slice the surrounding noise.

the boy scoffs, oblivious to the danger he’s flirting with. “relax, man, we were just—”

seong-je moves. fast. he grabs the boy’s wrist, twists it in one fluid motion until the boy yelps, and pulls you behind him in the same breath — your back hitting the solid safety of his spine.

“i said,” he growls, voice dropping to something lethal, “let. go.”

the boy stumbles away, clutching his arm, swearing under his breath. he melts back into the crowd, like prey retreating from a predator. you feel seong-je’s anger radiating off him like a furnace. hot. violent. controlled only because you’re here.

but when he turns to you— it’s gone. all of it.

the fury drains from his expression like someone flipped a switch. his throat works as he swallows, eyes scanning your face like he’s checking for bruises, checking if anyone else touched you, checking if you’re whole.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

he steps closer, almost chest-to-chest. his hands hover near your arms, not quite touching, fingers trembling with restraint — like he wants to pull you into him but is afraid he’ll do it too hard. “you shouldn’t be anywhere i’m not.”

your breath hitches at the weight of his voice — raw and stripped down to bone. “seong-je—”

he cuts you off softly, as if he can’t bear to hear you apologize for something that isn’t your fault. “let me take you home.”

you nod. he doesn’t take your hand. he doesn’t grab your wrist. he just steps beside you — and suddenly, every person in the room moves out of your way without him saying a word.

for the rest of the night, he stays one step ahead. shoulder brushing yours. eyes scanning the crowd. body angled between you and anyone who gets too close. every glance, every accidental bump, every hand that reaches out in your direction—he intercepts it before it touches you.

he doesn’t speak. he just protects you, silently, instinctively, like breathing. and as you step out into the cool night air, you finally understand that he wasn’t angry at the boy. he was terrified. of you being somewhere, he couldn’t keep you safe.

─────

he walks you home, but he doesn’t leave; not when you reach your street. not when you reach your door. not even when you turn the key, push it open, and step inside with a soft, tired exhale.

he follows — silent, unreadable — and stands in your living room like he’s afraid the walls might collapse if he looks away. his shoulders are still tight, bunched around his ears. his fists are still curled, knuckles split and raw. he looks like he’s fighting something invisible. or like he’s barely holding himself together.

“sit,” you say quietly.

his eyes flick up to you — something desperate, something vulnerable hiding under the hardness — and he obeys immediately, sinking onto your couch like he was waiting for you to tell him what to do. like he wasn’t sure he was welcome until you said it.

you join him. close, but not touching — yet. your gaze drifts to his hands, resting stiffly on his knees. his knuckles are scraped, reddened, one spot dark with dried blood.

you reach for him slowly, giving him a chance to pull away. he doesn’t. your fingertips graze the bruised skin. he flinches — sharp inhale, shoulders jumping — not from pain but from gentleness.

“no one else gets close enough to notice these,” you murmur.

his eyes lift to yours, dark and honest, a storm barely held back.

“no one else is allowed to,” he says simply.

you swallow, throat tight. “seong-je… why are you like this with me?”

he exhales shakily, as if the question touches something deep. then he leans forward, closing the distance until your knees brush. the tiny contact makes him freeze for a second — like he’s afraid he’s crossed a line — and then he holds his position, breathing carefully.

“because you’re the only thing i care about,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “the only person i can’t stand the thought of losing. the only one who makes me feel like i’m not —”

he breaks off, jaw tightening hard enough to tremble.

“dangerous,” he finishes quietly.

your chest aches. “you’re not dangerous to me.”

his hand shifts, slowly, almost uncertainly, until his fingers brush yours — an invitation. when you don’t pull away, he threads them together, so carefully it feels like he’s afraid he might break you if he applies even a little pressure.

“exactly,” he whispers. “that’s why i’m terrified.”

silence settles between you — heavy, charged, electric. you lean in first. just a fraction, just enough for breath to mingle. but he meets you halfway, closing the distance with a gentleness that contradicts everything the world says about him.

the kiss is soft. tentative. a question he’s asking with trembling lips — am i allowed?

you answer by kissing him back — slow, steady, letting him feel that he is wanted, not feared. he pulls away only when his breath stutters, and you realize that he’s shaking.

not from anger. not from adrenaline. but from the sheer intensity of holding himself together.

“stay,” you breathe, hardly louder than a whisper.

his eyes soften instantly — the violence, the fury, the cold edges of him melting until he’s nothing but raw, exposed longing. until he’s just seong-je. your seong-je. the only version of him you get to see.

he nods once. a small nod. but full of surrender. and that’s how it starts. the night he doesn’t leave. the night he lets himself soften. the night he lets himself belong to you.

─────

word spreads fast. people always talk, but now they whisper louder, with more certainty, with that mixture of fascination and fear that always follows seong-je like a shadow.

they notice the way he walks you to class now — always a step behind or a step ahead, never beside you unless the hallway is empty, as if he’s shielding you from angles you don’t even know exist. 

they notice the way he stares down anyone who looks too long — silent, unblinking, his jaw tight enough to crack. a single look from him can scatter a hallway like birds taking flight.

they notice the way he steps between you and the world, like it’s instinct. like he was built to stand in your shadow. like protecting, you, were not a choice he makes but a reflex he can’t unlearn.

some people love the drama. they whisper as you pass. some whisper threats. cowards who think you won’t hear them. who think you won’t tell him. and one — one person doesn’t whisper at all.

a boy from your chemistry class corners you in the stairwell one morning, where the light is dim, and the echo makes everything sound sharper.

“you think dating that psycho makes you special?” his voice is sharp, eager, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “he’s not going to protect you forever.”

you stiffen. “move.”

he steps closer instead, blocking the stairs with his body. “you hear me? look at me when I’m talking —”

“move.”

the word doesn’t come from you. it comes from behind him. the boy goes utterly still. seong-je stands at the top of the steps, expression carved from stone — cold, precise, unreadable. there’s no fury yet, no raised voice, no clenched fists.

just quiet, controlled danger.

he walks down each step slowly, deliberately, the air tightening with every movement. By the time he reaches the landing, the boy looks like he wants to melt into the wall.

still, he tries to stammer something — an excuse, a lie, anything. it’s too late. seong-je’s hand clamps onto his shoulder, fingers digging in with terrifying gentleness — that kind of grip that doesn’t bruise unless he wants it to.

then he shoves him back. not a sloppy teenage push. but a deliberate, powerful motion from someone who knows exactly where to press to make a body fold. the boy hits the wall with a gasp.

“she told you to move.” seong-je’s voice is ice. “that means you move.”

the boy mutters something about being sorry — fast, frantic, terrified — and flees down the stairs, stumbling over his own feet. the stairwell falls quiet.

you exhale. “you can’t keep doing that.”

“yes, i can.”

“seong-je—”

he reaches for your face — but stops just short of touching your cheek. his hand hovers there, fingers slightly curled, as if he’s afraid that if he touches you he won’t be able to hold himself back.

“i’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he says quietly. “i don’t care what it makes me.”

his voice cracks on the last word — not enough for most people to hear, but enough for you to feel it. the truth hits you all at once. he isn’t doing this because he’s overprotective. or possessive. or even controlling.

he’s scared. terrified. terrified of the world, yes — but more than that, terrified of losing the only person who ever looks at him like he’s something other than dangerous. the only person who treats him like he’s human.

and when his hand finally touches your cheek, barely a brush, barely a whisper of contact, you feel the tremble in his fingers. not rage. fear. and love buried under it, too raw to say out loud.

─────

that night, he walks you home again. but the second you turn the corner, you see them; it’s the boy from earlier — and three others you recognize from the outdoor smoking area, all wearing that same hungry, mean look. like they’ve been waiting. like they wanted this.

your stomach drops. seong-je’s body goes rigid, his arm instinctively coming up to push you behind him.

“go home,” he says, voice low, too steady. too calm.

you shake your head instantly. “no.”

he doesn’t look at you — can’t. his eyes are locked on the boys, who start spreading out, circling like they think he’s prey.

“please,” he mutters, voice cracking in a way that has nothing to do with fear. “i don’t want you to see this.”

but you stay. he exhales once — like a man stepping into a storm he already knows he won’t walk out of clean — and the boys rush him. and seong-je moves. not like a teenager fighting behind the gym. not like someone throwing wild punches. no — he moves like someone who learned violence the way other kids learned piano. trained, ingrained, muscle memory carved into bone. every hit he throws is clean. efficient. controlled.

but the world doesn’t care about skill. four against one never ends clean. he takes a hit to the ribs — the thud so loud you flinch. another fist cracks against his jaw — his head snapping to the side, teeth stained with red. a third boy slams a knee into his side, forcing a muffled grunt out of him.

even then — even hurt, cornered, bleeding — he keeps stepping between them and you. always between. always shielding.

“stop!” you cry out, voice breaking, hands shaking so badly you can’t even reach for him. “seong-je!”

and something in him snaps. not loud. not explosive. quiet — the terrifying, electric kind of break. he catches the last attacker by the collar. lifts him a few inches off the ground like he weighs nothing. when seong-je speaks, his voice is deadly calm.

“you don’t,” he says, enunciating each word with surgical precision, “get to touch what’s mine.”

the boy goes pale. the others scatter. then all of them flee, stumbling over themselves in their panic. and then it’s quiet — too quiet.

seong-je sways once, breath hitching, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. you lunge forward, catching his face in both hands before he can fall.

“seong-je,” you whisper, thumbs brushing over the bruises blooming along his jaw. you can feel him trembling — not from pain, but from adrenaline, from fear, from what almost happened. “why would you — why do you always —”

he cuts you off, voice hoarse and raw. “because i love you.”

the words slip out like they’ve been trapped under his ribs for years, fighting to get free. he freezes the second they’re out, eyes wide and wild like he can’t believe he said it. he swallows hard. 

“of course i do,” he whispers. “of course it’s you. it’s always been you.”

your breath stutters. your heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of your chest. heat floods your face, your throat, your entire body.

“you—” your voice breaks, “—you love me?”

he nods once. like it’s the only truth he’s ever known.

and then you’re pulling him down — hands in his hair, fingers brushing his jaw, trying desperately not to hurt him but needing to touch him, needing him close — kissing him with all the trembling relief and terror and longing that’s been simmering between you since that first day in homeroom.

he kisses you back like he’s drowning, like you’re the only air he’s ever trusted. his hands cradle your face so gently it hurts. like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he holds too tight.

when you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, warm and uneven. and under the streetlight — bruised, bleeding, shaking — he looks at you like you’re the safest thing he’s ever known.

─────

you don’t let go of him until he stops swaying.

“come inside,” you whisper, fingers curling around his wrist.

he doesn’t argue. doesn’t pretend he’s fine. he just follows — quiet, obedient in a way he is with no one but you — letting you pull him up the steps and into the warm light of your living room.

the moment the door closes, the adrenaline drains from his body. his shoulders sag. his breathing goes uneven. you guide him to sit, and he lets you, sitting on the edge of your couch like he’s afraid he’ll bleed on it.

“stay still,” you whisper.

he nods, eyes lowered, hands limp between his knees. he looks ruined — bruised lip, red knuckles, fading tremors under his skin — but for the first time since the fight, he meets your gaze.

“are you scared of me?” he asks quietly.

the question knocks the air out of your lungs.

“no,” you say instantly, fiercely. “i was scared for you.”

his jaw tightens. something fragile flickers in his eyes — something he’d never let anyone else see. he looks at the floor, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind, to pull away, to see him the way everyone else does.

you kneel in front of him and take a clean cloth to his split lip. he flinches — not from pain, but from you touching him again.

“you shouldn’t touch me right now,” he murmurs. “i’m… too wound up.”

“you think i’m afraid of you when you’re like this?”

he doesn’t answer. but his hands ball into fists again, trembling. so you take one of them — slowly — prying his fingers open and interlacing yours with his. his breath catches.

“seong-je,” you whisper, “you don’t scare me. not even when you’re bleeding. not even when you’re angry. not ever.”

his head lowers, forehead nearly touching yours. “i don’t want you to see the worst parts of me.”

“i already have, and i’ve heard the rest.” your thumb strokes his cheek. “and i’m still here.”

that breaks him — not loudly and not with tears. just a shuddered exhale, his hand tightening around yours like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“you shouldn’t love someone like me,” he whispers.

“too late,” you say, soft and steady.

he looks up — truly looks — and something in his expression softens, melts, becomes unbearably vulnerable.

“say it,” he breathes. “please.”

your heart stutters. “seong-je… i love you.”

his reaction is quiet but devastating — eyes closing, jaw trembling once, a breath that sounds like relief and disbelief tangled together. he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, warm and heavy and trusting.

“say it again,” he whispers.

you cup his jaw, brushing the bruises with gentleness he doesn’t think he deserves. “i love you.”

this time, he kisses you first.

not desperate like before — not drowning — but slow, steady, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. his hand slides up your back, cautious but firm, pulling you a little closer, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. you pull back only when he winces, the injury in his ribs reminding you both of reality.

“lie down,” you tell him gently. “let me clean you up properly.”

he obeys — again — stretching out on your couch, watching you with those dark, unwavering eyes that have softened in a way you know no one else will ever see.

“don’t look at me like that,” you murmur.

“like what?”

“like i’m something you’ll break for.”

he smiles — barely, but undeniably. the softest curve of lips he’s ever shown anyone.

“that’s exactly what you are,” he says quietly. “the only thing i’d break for. the only person I’d fight for. the only one i’ll ever—”

he stops, swallowing hard, like the words are too big to say all at once.

you take his hand, squeezing gently. “then let me take care of you tonight.”

he relaxes — fully, finally — letting you tend to him, letting himself be vulnerable in the only place he ever feels safe is with you. and when you finish cleaning his wounds and sit beside him, he shifts, resting his head in your lap without a word. it’s quiet. warm. soft.

“don’t leave,” he murmurs, voice already drowsy.

“i’m not going anywhere.”

Seongje’s heart raced as he rode through the city. He struggled not to press his foot harder on the gas.

On one hand, he knew you were not very fond of the death trap he liked to ride in. The last thing he wanted at the moment was more ammunition against him. The feel of your chest pressed against his back didn’t hurt either. He’d indulge as much as he could.

On the other hand, your hesitation right before the two of you left the cafe was obvious. He couldn’t unwind until he had you to himself. He wouldn’t. He needed you tucked away from the world. Stuck to his side in the safety of his bed.

Mind spinning, he went back and forth, speed matching each thought. Slow at times. Then hot— the city lights a blur of yellow, white and red in the darkening sky.

Before long, you were at his door. He fiddled with his keys, taking quick peeks at you. His chest warmed each time he saw you standing there still.

The past week without you had been… a lot. He didn’t know what to make of it.

The first few days, he’d been impressed by your resolve. He’d found your attempt at getting back at him cute.

Soon enough, he skipped annoyance and headed straight to livid. Seongje was used to getting what he wanted. What he wasn’t given, he always found a way to wangle and take anyway. So when you went silent, denying him access to you to at least plead his case, he went off the deep end.

The thought of not being privy to your thoughts, your warmth, your love. That was the bit that scared him when the two of you were at odds.

But not being able to do anything about it… He wasn’t familiar with the feeling. That drove him crazy. So he spiraled. Unable to cope with you being so close yet so far away.

The fright fueled his ire. At that punk for choosing the wrong girl to flirt with. At you, for shutting him out.

At himself.

The angrier he got, the more he lashed out. Ultimately, he buried himself into one of his usual distractions. Until he ruined that too, his turmoil too loud to appease so easily. He repeated the cycle, from one poison to the next.

Gaming was the first cut. He got expelled from his favorite spot. They’d been patient enough with him already. He conceded, three broken wrists was a bit much in one evening.

« You’re scaring the customers away boy, boss said not to let you in anymore. »

Next, he doubled down on his work for the union. The problem was he still saw that fucker in every bastard his fists rained down on. Inevitably, he pictured you leaving Baekjin’s office. The throbbing in his fists thankfully managed to numb him for a short while. So every late payer got their due. And then some.

After two days of rampage, even Dongha tired of his behavior. He and his equally evil twin had started to dodge him as well ; deliberately omitting assignment details, ignoring texts, calls. He retaliated by showing up unannounced, his smugness downright mocking. Somehow by the end of the evening, his fists pulsed painfully from where they’d punched on Dongha’s hard ass jaw. Seongmok, romantic as he was, ran crying to Baekjin about it.

« We want to intimidate the late payers, not scare all the potential clients. You go around breaking kneecaps and clavicles, no one will approach us. »

This conversation was even icier than expected. There went the union. His friends.

« […] You and the fucking dogs you call your guys, if you can even call them that ! »

He’d spent the rest of the day recklessly riding around town, pace still too slow to outrun the thought.

At last, he had nothing to do. Nowhere he was welcomed. He returned to his spot on the rooftop, staring at the moon.

« Sure Seongje. Go ahead. » Your weak voice echoed in his ears.

« Go home. Shower. Stop smoking so damn much. Get a fucking grip Seongje. And some sleep while you’re at it. » He pressed his eyes closed, blocking the memory.

The joints in his hands and wrists screamed in protest. He looked down. He’d never seen them in such a state. His knuckles practically peeling away. His entire fingers reddish and puffy. A medley of the mayhem these hands had provoked this week played in his head. When the usual delight didn’t come, he tugged at his hair, expletives on the tip of his tongue.

He longed for you. Needed you back. Needed his own self back. That thought disturbed him and he squelched a panicked laugh, pulling out a smoke to crush his rising anxiety.

The cigarette didn’t do it either. So he pulled out another. And another one after that…

He went home a little after sunrise this morning. His eyes burned from the lack of shut-eye and his throat was raw from all of the smoke. He showered, brushed his teeth and changed. Then he stalked around your neighborhood hoping he would catch you come out of your house. It wasn’t his proudest moment.

Your door opened and you appeared in the doorway. Like a dumbass, he froze, stuck in place at the sight of you, his brain lagging. He ended up following you to your coffee date, watching as Sara hugged you. She’d managed to get you out of the house, to which he was grateful. He’d have to buy this girl something or other at some point, twice now she’d proved more useful than he ever thought she would be.

It took him no less than twenty minutes to finally approach. His mind blanked out on what to say to you now that he had you in the flesh in front of him.

And now, you were finally back where you belonged, next to him. He would ensure it lasted. For his sanity — and that of everyone around him.

He led you inside and assessed you carefully, your stance frazzled. It seemed as though you would bolt any second. The idea agitated him. Vows and assurances alone wouldn’t fix anything more. Not the ones he was capable of anyway. What he felt could only be showed.

He cupped your face, his grip challenging. Urging you to reach out too. Eager to make sure the two of you were still attuned to the same frequency.

His hands steadied and he rocked you in soothing motions, coaxing you into focusing on him. He wouldn’t let you flee back into your head. Not right now.

You clutched his wrists. He stalled. You could plainly see all of the emotions he’d tried to repress during the days you hadn’t spoken. The usual walls just short enough for the mask to slip.

Imploring at first, the apology almost written on his forehead. You studied him again. His eyebrows were knotted, his nose flared, his jaw shaky. His fingers twitched on your skin, grabbing at it helplessly. This was the most tender he had ever held you, pure yearning pouring out of him. Yet the struggle not to clench too hard was evident in his demeanor.

Peering back up at him, your pulse picked up in anticipation. You found exactly what you knew you would. His eyelids lowered as he scanned you. His tongue swiped against his lips. Pressure strained around your neck.

He found your gaze again, the look brazenly hungry. He pressed you against the door, his face lowering down to yours leisurely. You closed your eyes. Your breathing grew labored, mouths almost coming together.

Time slowed, suspended. This was it, the conclusion to whatever this week meant for your relationship.

You’d tried to hold onto your hurt and anger. Attempted to dissect the jumble in your overworking brain, as it computed all of the red flags Seongje had raised over time.

The truth was, despite all of the arguing, the fights, the silent treatments. Despite the clear divide between your communication styles… Geum Seongje always managed to get to you that way. He touched you, and that quick, instinct took over. His body language clashed with everything else. Every flag turned white. Neither red nor green, but blank. Open for any possibility.

Perhaps it really came down to each person being a universe of their own. With their own values. Their own rules. Perhaps Seongje did love you, showing it in his personal way. Perhaps he’d fold and meet you halfway if you hung on.

Or perhaps, you were asking for too much and not hearing the words won’t matter all that much in the end. Maybe you jeopardized what you did have, too busy being a glutton for what you didn’t…

Either way, the two of you knew that going further was the ultimate surrender.

So you let go.

The ghost of his lips tickled yours, and your tongue came out to soothe the itch. You awaited the soft pressure. His hot tongue. Accepting his touch for what it was. Still, nothing came. He kept you in place as you tried to reach and kiss him yourself. So close, yet, out of reach.

You opened your eyes. The resentful look startled you. The scowl made it unclear whether he wished to strangle you or make out.

He squeezed the sides of your neck, gentle yet firm. He angled your face up towards him, thumbs running back and forth.

You tugged him closer. Your nails latched into his forearm, hard. The pain sparked him into action.

His mouth crashed down on yours. His tongue found your own immediately, exploring in a crude motion. The world faded. His heat the only anchor left for you to hang onto.

He let go of your neck and knelt in front of you, looking up. His usual confidence back and in full swing ; smirk intact, pupils blown out nearly completely jet black. You caught yourself onto his shoulders, dizzy. He took your shoes off with quick and efficient movements, and picked you up on the uprise. Your startled curse tugged a small laugh out of him. He kicked off his shoes before heading straight for his bedroom.

He rushed to the bed and threw you on the unmade sheets, your body bouncing from the impact. You tittered, the sound not matched by Seongje. He removed his glasses, discarded his sweater, and turned to you, a man on a mission. Your jacket was next.

He picked your foot up and tugged at your thigh high sock. Wet brushes followed the sensual stroke of the fabric down your leg, silky skin revealed little by little.

You watched, mesmerized as he did the same to your other leg, trailing back up once the sock was all the way off.

His sharp teeth clamped on top of your thigh, the sting exhilarating. He caressed your side and your legs closed around his torso, the soft muscles of your cunt tightening, squeezing around nothing. You called his name, pleading.

He kept the pace slow, methodically unbuttoning your skirt. You could feel your panties getting wetter, your clit catching on the cotton. You ground your hips against the mattress, your open legs emphasizing the emptiness inside of you. The tiny friction on your nerve endings alleviated some of the pressure. It still wasn’t enough.

He slid your skirt off, stroking your legs on the way. You squeezed them together as soon as he leaned back, keening when your inner thighs rubbed on your bundle of nerves. But Seongje was onto you. He leaned right back in, his strong hands pinning your knees down. His voice was gravelly when he instructed « Nuh huh sweetheart. I can see what you’re doing. Stay just like that. »

You whined. His stern glance was enough to shut you up. Seongje was well known for teasing, denying your orgasm for as long as it amused him. You were counting on the week of abstinence to save you some of the torture. You wanted nothing more than for him to make you his again. So you obeyed, the deep breath not helping ease the tension coiling in your core.

He hummed and pushed your top down to your waist, freeing your breasts from the piece of cloth « That’s a good girl. » Your nipples hardened under his scrutiny. You grasped his hair and neck tensely.

He kissed your chest right in the middle, resting right upon it for a second, inhaling your sweet scent. The shallow rocking of your hips against his triggered a cold wave on his back. He groaned and lowered until he could put your legs over both shoulders.

He nibbled bluntly over your panties. That drew out a hiss. The direct contact over your most sensitive spot had you arching towards him. He watched you lazily from down below, latched onto the hem of your underwear. He grazed your pubic bone, sliding the panties off. Then settled back down between your legs, licking his lips at the sight of you wet and bare for him.

He dabbed a fingertip against your entrance. The slight pressure against your pulsing hole was enough to make you feel it, but not enough to satisfy you. He showed you his wet finger, then cleaned it off in his mouth. The clenching intensified as you anticipated his next move, giving up control completely.

He held up the wet patch on the crotch of your underwear « You ruined those, princess. Is that all my fault ? Hmm ? »

Your nod was frantic, words failing you. He laid a brusque slap on your cunt. The sting had you jumping « I told you I’ve been missing your voice didn’t I ? I want to hear you. »

You tugged on his hair hard. The warmth of his breath over your tender flesh drove you crazy. « Fuck. Yes. » Your head fell on the bed, eyes to the ceiling. Seongje’s intense leer was too intense to keep up with.

« You want me to make it up to you ? » He cajoled.

« Yes baby. Please. » You heaved, the reply syrupy.

The contact was electric. Seongje’s warm tongue laved your wet skin. The long swipe scooped all of your wetness from your opening up to the top of your clit. His mouth closed around it, sucking. You’d expected more restraint from him. More teasing. So when he dived right into you, his tongue bold and relentless, the world spun.

The ceiling swung in a whirlwind of pleasure. You blocked the sight, light-headed. Stars twinkled in the darkness.

Seongje’s tongue flattened and everything faded. You flew over the edge, weightless. Your lungs burned from the suppressed gasp. Your body locked. Hands rough in his hair. Thighs choking him. Wave after wave, your release blissfully flowed over you.

Your loud moans were music to his ears. He grabbed your legs and massaged the softness there, latched onto you while you rode off your orgasm.

You floated back down to Seongje watching you, pecking the top of your thigh. You released his hair and he smirked, lips still pressed against you « Damn. I knew you’d be touch-starved but really ? Twenty seconds baby ? »

You gave a startled laugh. He couldn’t help but be an asshole. Your light tap smacked on his shoulder « I fucking hate you. Asshole. » You sniped candy-sweet, the words sounding ridiculous, even to your own ears.

Seongje swiped at his jaw, gathering the moisture you left there onto his palm « Yeah ? You should tell your pussy then. » He wiggled his shiny fingers, taunting, then sucked them clean.

An aftershock hit you, the need to feel him inside of you back tenfold. It was your turn to ogle him, his starving look reflected back at him. He watched you squirm, smug, taking his time. He removed his shirt. His pants. Each sock.

Then he slid back into your embrace, licking the top of each breast, teasing your slit. The light prodding had your pussy quaking expectantly. His touch wandered up, almost to your sensitive nub, before they travelled down south again, short of pushing inside you.

You groaned in frustration, the scoff impossible to bury. You pulled on his shoulders. Seongje laughed, mocking. You hit his arm in dismay.

« What do you want princess ? Tell me. I need to hear you. » He held your chin, tone almost indulgent.

« I need more of you. »

His finger slid inside of you, nudging your walls. He kissed your collar bone and you huffed out your frustration.

The bite was sudden and you squealed, pushing him away. He pinned both of your arms above your head « Yeah ? You need more of me ? »

You nodded and he slapped the side of your thigh « Words ____. That’s your thing no ? Use them. » He commanded.

« I want you inside me Seongje. Please. » You begged, chest heaving.

He hummed, contemplating your answer. His smile switched from cocky to merciless « I don’t know if you deserve it though. You left me hanging for a week. Wouldn’t answer my calls. My texts. The fucking door. Why should I give you anything ? Huh ? » He griped, hold taut on your wrists.

You panted, trapped underneath him, your heart squeezing at the genuine hurt on his face. So you did the one thing you were good at. You bared your soul, vulnerability shining through « Because I missed you. » He blinked, resolve breaking. Your head lifted, closing the short distance « Because I love you baby. » You whispered it like a saucy secret.

His mouth collided against yours, lips melting obscenely. The grasp keeping your arms at bay loosened just enough for you to tug your limbs free. You cradled his neck, hands buried in the damp hair at the back of it, your strokes deliberately tender.

He plunged two fingers knuckles deep inside of you, stroking gently. You threw your head back, both of you panting. Soon, you were steady climbing towards your second orgasm.

Seongje cursed onto your neck, the tight squeeze of your wet muscles distracting. Hips jerking against your leg, his erection grew uncomfortably hard. Your cunt squeezed him again. Nails raking against the nape of his neck, you purred in his ear « Cum inside me baby. Please. » His entire body faltered. He kissed you deep and hard, working to get his boxers off without breaking contact with you.

He settled right back between your legs, frantic. Your entire bodies were glued together, skin magnetized. Limbs tangled. Chest to chest. Heart against heart. In one powerful thrust, he took the last step and slid all the way home.

Buried deep, your breaths mingled. You tensed around him. Arms constricting around his neck, legs cramping around his hips, the clamping on his length bruising. He sucked in your sharp gasp. The tiny pained cry burst through the pulsing in his ears.

He pressed his face against the side of yours, going completely still. The rough intrusion wasn’t intended. His desire to feel all of you had taken over, self-control lifting all at once. His forehead settled on your temple « Fuck. I’m sorry. »

That was a first. Either way, the outburst sounded natural. It sounded easy.

Tiny bumps rose and tickled your fingertips where they laid on his back. The hammer of his heart sent yours racing. They pulsed in sync to the same erratic beat. He puffed helplessly, trying to calm himself down. Trying, and failing, the choppy breathing giving him away. You stroked lazily over his shoulders, cooling yourself. Deep on the inhale, slow on the exhale. Limb by limb, you relaxed around him. His body, attuned to yours, followed suit.

His lips trailed on your cheek. He withdrew a tiny bit, and drove forward again in a tentative thrust. Your nerves fired up again. The fullness fueling the fire he had lit right before. You moaned, your muscles pressing down on him.

His pace picked up speed. Cautious.

« I’m sorry. » He cooed the two words over and over, in between kisses. Each time, it filled your chest « Let me make it better. Make it hurt good. »

The long strokes had your walls fluttering around him. He bucked against you and you cried his name. Explicit sounds filled the room. It riled him up even more. He pinned your knees to the bed, guiding your hips where he wanted them. His rhythm picked up. Hips rolling at a punishing cadence, your high-pitched squeaks matched to his grinding.

« Yes that’s it. So good together. Don’t keep that away from me again baby. You hear me ? » He mumbled in your ear, his motions steady.

Melting under him, you writhed, your words jumbled « I— I love you Seongje. I want to feel all of you— Inside me. I miss you. » His hips stuttered. He halted, cock twitching against your inner walls.

You squeezed around him. « Fuck. » His head lowered to your neck.

« Seongje… Let go baby. Let go. »

Seongje sucked on your jaw. His teeth bit into it, hot air puffing on the wet spot as he chased his own high. You encouraged him, the vibrations from your soft words tickling.

Finally, you felt it. His lower belly tensed against you. The drawn out grunt was raw. His hips jerked as warmth filled the deepest part of you. Your gut trembled and you spasmed, milking him for every drop.

When the pulsing subsided, he settled his head on your chest. You hugged him close, fingers soothing in his hair. His full weight settled onto you, bodies locked together for a few minutes.

Basking in the aftermath of both of your releases, Seongje didn’t react when you nudged the side of his arm. So you hit him again. And again. He grunted his annoyance.

« Seongje. I have to go pee. Move. » He grunted once more, pulling out slowly. « Fuck. You just like to get on my nerves. » The words were purposefully mashed onto your skin. Seongje defiantly settled even more comfortably over you. You snickered and pushed to dislodge him. He barely shifted an inch, reminding you of how much stronger than you he was.

At last, he rolled to the side, languid, an easy laugh leaving him. You bent to pick up his shirt. His half-lidded leer landed on his seed running down your legs as you limped lightly towards the bathroom.

« Freaking asshole. » His smug grin followed you out of the room, brightening at the insult.

Seongje bent and retrieved his cigarettes, plopping one between his teeth. He would put all the chances on his side to finally be able to rest. The first hit was bliss and he relaxed even more against the mattress. Finally, he felt somewhat appeased.

You would be sure to bitch about it — deservedly so — but after the week he’d had, it was required.

On cue, you opened the bathroom door and zoomed in on the lit up stick « Seriously ? How you find the urge to smoke after all that is beyond me. » You perused his room floor, your forehead scrunched.

« How you find the urge to complain after all that is beyond me. Maybe I didn’t put in enough work ? » Your laugh twinkled and you made a time out gesture. His smug grin was theatrically crass and you flipped him off. You searched around again.

« What you looking for ? »

« My panties. Where did you throw them ? »

« You’re not getting those back. »

« Seongje ! I barely have any left ! These were so cute. »

He continued as if you hadn’t spoken « You won’t be needing panties anymore tonight anyway. Come here. Lay down with me. »

You joined him on the bed and laid across him. Plucking the cigarette right from his mouth, you took a drag. He watched, amused, as you grimaced. You coughed the smoke out with a scowl « Ugh. Don’t know why or how you do that everyday. Every goddamn hour even. »

He chuckled softly « Yes. So you’ve told me. A million times at least. »

You hummed and slid over next to him, on your belly. He studied you with such care. The look on his face should be immortalized, you thought. It was the same look that made you reach back for him every single time.

He pulled the shirt up over your back and caressed the bare skin in meaningless patterns, brushing over to your hip and back again. He ashed the cigarette and hovered over you, lips replacing his fingers. You stretched, delighted by his attention.

The loud chiming startled you, his phone vibrating on the little table next to you. The shrill sound burst the cozy bubble. A reminder that the world awaited outside of this room. You tensed, dreading his withdrawal.

When he didn’t reach for the device, you blinked « You’re not getting that ? »

« It’ll wait. » Your eyebrows rose dramatically.

« Um. I mean… It might be Baekjin ? Maybe you’re needed there somewhere. »

He scoffed « And ? So what. I’m not his dog, he’ll get over it. » The flippant dismissal stunned you silent « I’m needed somewhere alright. Right here. » His touches carried on like it was no big deal.

But to you it was. You couldn’t help but think of how nice it all was. His behavior fed into your inner fantasies.

He was… Apologizing… You were probably fooling yourself. The moment nothing more than a rush of guilt from his brutal push into you. That’s what you told yourself… Unless maybe, some lingering remorse for all the rest had pushed through ?

Never before had he blown off the union, and now he was casually dodging calls without a care in the world.

But then again maybe it wasn’t Baekjin.

But It could’ve been… And he didn’t check.

What if— You cut yourself off, making peace with the uncertainty of it all. Maybe you prefer it that way. His feelings were like a fascinating puzzle that you stubbornly try to solve with no clue what it’s supposed to look like. Most of the key pieces are missing. Or concealed.

There you were, annoyed beyond measure, but even more intrigued and eager to get the full picture.

Within the emotional repression. The violence. The shady morals. You took pieces from your own board. You molded them to try and determine the method to his madness. You chose to see the fierce loyalty shining through. His random bouts of kindness. His determination. With that, you did your best to fill in the gaps. Convinced the pieces would fit. Eventually.

Lulled by his petting, you zoned out, drifting off to sleep. Hopes lit anew.

After a few minutes of watching your back rise and fall steadily, Seongje called out your name quietly. When you didn’t respond he sighed deeply. As tired as he was, sleep still evaded him. Every time he tried closing his eyes, he could see you telling him you loved him so passionately. He still couldn’t say it back.

The chaotic beating rocked his chest once more. Once too many today. He squeezed his shaking hands over his head. He tried to pretend like he didn’t care for you so much that it hurt. Tried to tell himself he didn’t owe you anything. But he simply couldn’t do that anymore. He had no desire to do so.

The words had rolled out so easily. At first, he meant them for his passionate slip up. Thinking he’d genuinely hurt you, panic had clawed at him. But as you relaxed, the urge had stayed. So he said them again, and again. Each time, a bit of the guilt that was now familiar ebbed away.

It painfully wasn’t enough. Not for his overworking brain. His mind refused to settle. His chest caved in, and he kissed the back of your head.

« Fuck… I love you. » He tested. Only then did the weight on his shoulders lift. His own reaction pissed him off. He was in too fucking deep. His gut squeezed and he settled back on his side « Shit… »

The phone buzzed again. He reached for it : Missed calls (1). He checked the caller ID: Dongha.

Of course it wasn’t Baekjin. After yesterday ? Proud bastard could be on fire, he’d probably combust to dust before he reached out.

The screen lit up with a text from Dongha. He opened it to find a picture of you two on his bike, your entire body hanging onto his for dear life.

Dongha : You finally over whatever’s going on between you two ? Baekjin won’t tell you but things are lowkey going south. Handle whatever it is that’s got your panties in a bunch. Then get your ass back here.

He bit his lip, eying you. He debated his answer for a minute.

Seongje : What the hell y’all calling me for. Thought I was a hindrance for his precious business lol.

He received a picture next. The eyes staring back at him were slightly more expressive, but still sad as ever. He scoffed. He didn’t think he’d see the day Yeon Sieun and his friends dared show their asses back around this side of town.

Seongje : When do you want to do this ?

Dongha : Knew you couldn’t resist. Tomorrow night work for you ? Sooner the fucking better.

He peeked at you before sending his response.

Seongje : I’ll make it work. 

Dongha : lmao

Dongha : Thanks.

Dongha : You just won me a 100 bucks.

Seongje : Fuck off 

The wound was too fresh to pick at it now. He had to keep this away from you. The last thing he wanted now that you’d called a truce, was to disturb the peace so soon after. So he took a fortifying breath and deleted the messages. Seongje turned his phone off before drifting off, your perfume quieted the noise, dazing him unconscious.

You awoke a few hours later, the room almost pitch black, night sky providing dim moon light into the room. You stared at Seongje’s lax figure, his loud snoring making you giggle. You tucked his hair behind his ear. He only snored when he was really tired. How long had he been sleep deprived.

You sighed, the words soft on your tongue « You know, it sure was nice to hear an apology earlier. If only you’d— just stop with the theatrics and say you’re sorry sometimes… Or… I don’t know, let me know how you feel. It’d go a long way. »

You kissed his forehead and he rolled over, tucking you against him in his sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/n ~ I guess I kind of went AU. The fight against the union didn’t end the same, both sides agreed to not interact. Sieun and friends were banned from some places around town. And Baekjin didn’t die haha.