camila

The room is smaller than it was this morning.

Which doesn’t make sense, architecturally, because rooms don’t shrink. Walls don’t migrate inward while you’re downstairs eating drugged brownies and letting boys in bath robes corner you against kitchen counters. That’s not how buildings work. That’s not how physics works. You took a science elective. You passed it. Barely, but the point stands.

And yet.

The blue suite feels different. The ceiling’s lower or the bed’s bigger or the air is thicker or maybe—maybe it’s just that Jason closed the door behind him with a click instead of letting it drift shut, and the click had a sound to it. A punctuation.

You didn’t like it.

You haven’t liked any of it walking behind him up the stairs.

He didn’t reach for your hand. Didn’t put his palm on the small of your back the way he usually does in hallways.

He just walked. And you followed.

And now you’re standing three feet inside the door and he’s by the window and the bed is between you like a negotiating table, and everything was fine earlier. It was fine when you got dressed in this room. It was fine when Irya did your collarbones and Jason called you incredible and held out his hand and you took it.

It was fine twenty minutes ago.

So why does the wallpaper look like it’s breathing?

…Okay. That one might actually be the weed.

This was definitely not your best pharmaceutical decision.

Jason turns from the window. Faces you. Brings both hands together in front of his mouth—fingertips touching, pressed to his lips, the prayer gesture. The one people do when they’re organizing a thought they’ve already finished thinking and are now just choosing the delivery method.

He holds it there.

Drops his hands.

“Okay. So.”

A breath. Through his nose.

“What’s going on with him?”

Something catches in your throat. Not a sound—a shape. The shape of a word you weren’t ready for, or the shape of being caught, or the shape of every single moment from the last forty-eight hours compressing into a single syllable that sits behind your tongue and refuses to move.

Fuck.

He noticed.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He saw you at the counter. He saw the way you were standing—how close, how angled, the chocolate on your fingers, the laugh you didn’t authorize—and now he’s standing in this room with the door clicked shut and his hands in that prayer thing and he’s asking, and—

The shower. The orange. The hallway.

«Circles, Nix.»

The bracelet. The fucking bracelet that’s still on your wrist pressing the little rain charm into your pulse point.

He knows. He doesn’t know how much but he knows something.

Act normal.

You are a normal person who does normal things and has normal friendships with her normal roommate and none of those things involve coming in adjacent shower stalls or the word cookie being used as a double entendre in a kitchen full of witnesses.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Nailed it. Completely nailed it. Meryl Streep would weep. Oscar-worthy. Standing ovation.

Jason looks at you.

“Don’t do that.”

Okay. Fuck.

No. Don’t be discouraged bitch. Make Meryl proud, come on.

“Do what?”

“The thing where you act like you don’t understand the question.” His voice is level. Measured. Patient in a way that somehow makes it worse. “You know exactly what I mean. He’s constantly in your space.”

Okay, Meryl, girl. There was an attempt.

Your fingers find the bracelet.

Automatic. Unconscious. The way your hand goes to a bruise to check if it still hurts—you don’t decide to do it, you just do, and by the time you realize you’re doing it you’re already pressing the charm into your wrist and looking to the side, away from his face, at the lamp on the nightstand that is doing absolutely nothing wrong and doesn’t deserve to be stared at this hard.

“We’re friends.” You say it to the lamp. “That’s it.”

“Friends.”

“Yeah. Friends. People who talk to each other at parties. Groundbreaking concept.”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“Can you look at me?”

You look at him. Force yourself to do it—drag your gaze from the lamp to his face like it’s a physical act, like your eyes weigh something they didn’t weigh ten minutes ago.

He’s not angry. That’s the thing. He’s not doing the thing you’re braced for—no raised voice, no visible frustration, no clenched jaw or sharp edges.

He looks calm. Concerned. Reasonable.

For some reason, it feels like his most dangerous version.

“I’m not trying to start a fight,” he says. Opens his hands. Palms up. The universal gesture of ’I come in peace’ that people only do when peace is not, in fact, what they came with. “I just—I think it’s worth having a conversation about boundaries.”

“Boundaries.”

“Yeah. About what’s appropriate. In front of other people.”

Something hot flickers in your chest. Not guilt anymore. Something meaner.

“What exactly was inappropriate?”

“I didn’t say inappropriate. I said—”

“You literally just said what’s appropriate, Jason, which means something was inappropriate, so what was it?”

He takes a breath. The patient one. The one that says ’I’m going to let that tone slide because I’m the mature one here.’

And god, you hate that breath. You hate it the way you hate being corrected by someone who’s technically right but fundamentally missing the point—that specific, grinding frustration of being managed.

“I just don’t think it’s a great look,” he says. “Having another guy’s hands all over you at a party where we’re here together.”

Hands all over you.

Hands all over you?

The kitchen counter flashes—Jungkook’s palms flat on either side of your hips, the heat, the proximity, the vanilla bottle sitting there like a prop in a play about your bad decisions—and your stomach drops because okay, maybe from across the room that did look—

“That’s not what was happening.”

“From where I was sitting—”

“Then maybe you were sitting at a bad angle.”

“Y/N.” The patient breath again. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying—as someone who cares about you—I don’t think you realize how it looks. To other people.”

His eyes drop. To your wrist.

“And—I wasn’t going to bring this up, but since we’re talking about it.” He gestures. A small tilt of his chin toward your left hand. “That thing.”

You don’t need to look down to know what he means.

“What about it?”

“You’ve been wearing it all week. I couldn’t help but notice.” His voice is still calm. Still measured. Still wrapped in enough reasonableness that the words almost sound like concern instead of what they are. “And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to—but it’s a bit childish, no? The colors. The beads.”

Yellow. Orange. Red. Little silver letters spelling ‘Rogue’ across.

“It’s a bracelet, Jason.”

“It says Rogue.” He says it amused in a way that’s worse than mean—condescending, like he’s being generous by only finding it slightly embarrassing. “What does that even mean?”

“It’s an inside joke.”

“With who?”

“With—people. It’s a friendship bracelet. People have those.”

“At your age?”

The question hangs. Rhetorical. Already answered by the tone he used to ask it.

His eyes move from the bracelet to your hand. To the back of it. To the fleshy part below your thumb where—

“And—is that a bite?”

Your hand snaps behind your body so fast you nearly throw out your shoulder.

Too fast. Way too fast.

The speed of it is its own confession—nobody hides an innocent injury like they’re palming evidence at a crime scene—and you watch Jason clock the reaction the way he clocks everything: slow, but sure.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a bite mark.”

“It’s not. I just bumped into something.”

“That’s teeth.”

“It was—the brownie thing. In the kitchen. It was stupid, someone was—it was a joke.”

“A joke.” Flat. “Someone bit you. As a joke.”

And the way he says it—someone—makes it clear he doesn’t need you to fill in the name.

His jaw works once. Controlled.

“So you’re out there getting drunk and high and—what, bitten by people at a party? Randomly? While we’re here together?”

“It wasn’t—”

“That’s the kind of behavior you think is—”

“It was a joke, Jason, we were fighting over a brownie and it was dumb and it lasted two seconds—”

“I just—”

He runs a hand through his hair. Looks at you with an expression that’s trying so hard to be gentle it comes full circle into something sharp.

“That’s not the girl I know. The beads and the nicknames and the—getting bitten in kitchens at midnight—it’s not you.”

Not you.

Not the version of you he knows.

Not the version he built in his head from seminar answers and coffee dates and the careful, polished, composed woman who shows up when he’s watching.

The version that wears matching jewelry and speaks in complete sentences and doesn’t have an inside joke with her roommate spelled out on her wrist in colored beads like a kid at summer camp.

“Maybe you’ve just never known me.”

You say it quiet. Looking right at him.

His mouth opens. Closes.

And for one second—half a second—surprise cracks in the diplomacy.

Then the composure reseals. The crack plasters over. The expression returns to its default setting: concerned, measured, slightly wounded.

“I think you should be more mindful. That’s all. About how you carry yourself. I think you should—”

A pause. Careful. Choosing.

“—respect yourself a little more.”

Respect yourself.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You deserve better than being someone’s—I don’t know—physical prop. Being grabbed and hung on and—it’s not how someone treats a person they respect. And I think you know that.”

The hot thing in your chest is spreading. Climbing up your throat. Making your heartbeat louder in your own ears, which might be the weed or might be fury or might be some volatile combination of both that’s going to end in either tears or property damage and you genuinely do not know which.

“Nobody was grabbing me. Nobody was hanging on me. I was talking to someone. At a party. Like a person. With a social life.”

“You were—”

“What? Finish that.”

“Can you let me finish a sentence?”

“Can you stop starting sentences that end with me not respecting myself?”

“I just don’t think Jimin sees it like that.”

Everything stops.

The room. Your breathing. The weed-warped wallpaper. The hot angry thing in your chest.

All of it hits pause, mid-stride, like someone yanked the needle off a record.

“What?”

“I said I don’t think Jimin sees it the way you think he does.”

Jimin.

Jimin?

He’s talking about—

This entire—every single word of this conversation—the boundaries, the appropriateness, the respect yourself—

“You think Jimin has feelings for me?”

It comes out flat. Incredulous. Like someone asked you to confirm the sky is blue.

Jason’s expression doesn’t change.

Same steady, reasonable, measured look.

Same concerned furrow between the brows.

Same ’I’m saying this because I care about you’ energy pouring off him in waves of cedar and bergamot.

“I think Jimin knows what it’s like to be a guy,” he says, “and have a girl draped all over him.”

Draped.

He said draped.

Like you were fabric. Like you were a decoration. Like the arms you had around Jimin’s shoulders—warm, platonic, the kind of casual affection you give to someone who just did your eyeliner and trusted you with the shape of his questions—were some kind of tactical maneuver. Some calculated display that poor innocent Jimin couldn’t possibly interpret as anything other than sexual, because you’re a girl, and he’s a guy, and apparently that equation only has one answer in Jason’s math.

Your fingernails press half-moons into your palms.

“Draped,” you repeat. Testing the word. Tasting it.

It tastes like your mother.

«You’re too much, you’re too loud, you’re taking up space in a way that makes people uncomfortable, and you’d know that if you’d just stop and think about how you look from the outside for once in your life.»

You feel the beginning of a compression in your chest.

One that you recognize from a long time ago, from fights in kitchens with marble countertops, from sitting at dining tables where every fork was placed at the correct angle and every word was placed at the correct volume and every version of you that didn’t fit the blueprint got folded up and put away.

Your lungs feel smaller.

That’s the weed. That has to be the weed.

“Jimin is my friend.” You say it slow, clear. “He did my eyeliner. I hugged him. I hug my friends, Jason. That’s a thing people do.”

“I’m not saying you can’t have friends—”

“Oh, good. Thank you. Permission granted. Really appreciate that.”

“See, this is what I’m talking about.” He gestures at you—at all of you, the sarcasm, the crossed arms, the whole defensive architecture of your posture. “This. Right here. I try to have an adult conversation and you immediately go to—”

“To what?”

“To this. The deflection. The sarcasm. The making me the bad guy for expressing a concern.”

And the fucked up thing—the really truly fucked up thing—is that he’s not entirely wrong.

You are deflecting. You are being sarcastic. You are making him the bad guy because the alternative is engaging with the actual content of what he’s saying and you can’t do that because the actual content requires you to either (a) explain that Jimin is not interested in you because Jimin is currently navigating something about his own identity that is private and sacred and none of Jason’s goddamn business, or (b) admit that the real problem isn’t Jimin at all, it’s the guy in the Ghostface robe who said circles to you across a kitchen like it was a promise—

And you can’t do either of those things.

Option A outs Jimin. Option B outs you.

So you’re stuck.

Trapped.

Standing in this room that’s getting smaller with every sentence, defending a position that isn’t the real position, fighting a fight that isn’t the real fight, and your chest is doing the thing and your hands are doing the thing and the wallpaper is definitely breathing now and you can’t—

“He was sitting down,” you say, and your voice is thinner. You can hear it. “I came up behind him and put my arms around him. The same way I’d hug Yeji. The same way I’d hug Irya. Are you going to tell me that’s inappropriate too?”

“Yeji and Irya are women.”

“So?”

“So it’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because it is. Because whether you want to acknowledge it or not, there is a difference between how men and women interpret physical affection, and I’m not being old-fashioned by pointing that out, I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being controlling.”

Jason’s face does something you’ve never seen it do before.

He looks hurt. Real, actual hurt, the kind that flashes across someone’s face before they can catch it and tuck it behind something more presentable.

“I’m not controlling you,” he says. “I’m asking you to think about how your actions affect the people around you. That’s not control. That’s consideration.”

Consideration.

Your mother’s favorite word. Your mother’s number-one, gold-standard, go-to weapon for every single time you did something that embarrassed her or surprised her or reminded her that you were a separate person with separate wants—’have some consideration. Think about someone other than yourself for once.’

You can feel your heartbeat in your fingers, in your wrists, in the base of your throat where the gold chain sits against your skin.

You want to scream that Jimin is already interested in someone else, that possibly he doesn’t even like girls.

But you don’t.

Because it’s not yours to say. It’s Jimin’s. It belongs to him the same way the pink nail belongs to him, the same way the question in the bathroom belongs to him—’what if none of it fits, what if there isn’t a word for it’—and you don’t get to hand that to Jason Calloway like a hall pass just because you’re cornered and scared and your lungs won’t open all the way.

You don’t get to sacrifice someone else’s secret to win your own argument.

So you stand there. Hands shaking. Jaw shut. Pulse hammering against the rain charm on your wrist.

And you have nothing.

No defense that doesn’t betray someone.

No explanation that doesn’t expose something.

“I shouldn’t have to justify hugging my friend,” you say, and it comes out cracked.

“Nobody’s asking you to justify anything. I’m asking you to be aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“Of how you come across. Of the signals you’re sending. Of the fact that you’re at a party with me—with me—and you spent the last hour hanging off other men and barely looked in my direction.”

The compression in your chest is getting worse. Heavier. Like someone’s stacking books on your ribcage one at a time—each sentence another volume, another weight, another reason you can’t get enough air into your lungs to fight properly.

Your eyes burn.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You are not going to cry in front of Jason Calloway in a Medusa costume with two pot brownies dissolving in your bloodstream. That’s not happening. That is a thing that will not occur.

“I think,” he says—and there’s a softness to it now, a careful softness that’s worse than the accusations because it sounds like kindness, it sounds like concern, it sounds like someone who loves you explaining for the fifteenth time why you’re doing everything wrong, “that sometimes you don’t realize the way you act around men. And I don’t think that’s your fault. I think it’s—a pattern. And I think if you were a little more self-aware about it, a little more…”

He pauses. Looking for the word.

“…mature, you’d...”

You tune out the rest of the sentence.

Because that word.

Mature.

One single, careful, well-chosen, precisely deployed word that lands in the exact center of the thing your parents built inside you—the architecture of not-enough, the blueprint of every dinner table correction and every lowered voice and every ’when are you going to grow up and start acting like the person we raised you to be’—

And inside you something buckles—a load-bearing wall giving way, a structural failure that’s been building since the shower, since the orange, since circles, since the prayer hands and what’s going on with him—and you are not going to cry here.

You are not going to cry here, you are not going to cry here, you are not—

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Y/N—”

“I need to use the bathroom, Jason.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

His expression is doing the thing again—the hurt, the confusion, the genuine inability to understand why his reasonable words keep producing unreasonable reactions—and part of you, the part that’s still rational, knows he doesn’t get it.

Knows he thinks he’s being fair.

Knows he genuinely believes that everything he just said came from a place of care and concern and wanting the best for you.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

That he means it.

That the cage is lined with good intentions and the bars are made of ’I just want what’s best for you’ and the lock is turned by someone who thinks love and management are the same thing.

You grab the door handle. Pull.

“Can we at least—”

The door closes behind you.

The hallway is empty. The sconce flickers. The fog machine’s output has crept up the stairs and is hanging in thin wisps along the baseboard and you walk through it on legs that don’t feel entirely connected to your body—one foot, then the other, mechanical, automatic, the way you used to walk from the dining room to your bedroom after the conversations that left you feeling like this, small and wrong and taking up too much space and not the right shape and never, ever, ever enough—

The bathroom door.

You push through it. Lock it behind you.

Slide down the door until you’re sitting on cold tile with your knees pulled up and the Medusa skirt bunching around your thighs and the snake cuff digging into your bicep and the gold chains in your hair pressing into the back of your skull against the wood.

The first sob comes out silent.

The second one doesn’t.

It’s ugly. Wrenching. The kind that starts in your stomach and rips upward through your chest like something with claws, and you press your hand over your mouth to contain it because there are thirty people downstairs and the last thing—the absolute last thing you need—is someone hearing you fall apart in a bathroom at a Halloween party because a boy used the word ’mature’ and your nervous system couldn’t tell the difference between him and your mother.

Tears streak through Jimin’s perfect eyeliner, wings dissolving, the careful symmetry ruined, and you think stupidly, absurdly, through the wet gasping wreckage of your breathing, that he’s going to be so disappointed when he sees what you did to his work.

That thought makes you cry harder.

Which makes you laugh.

Which makes you cry again.

You pull your knees tighter. Press your forehead to them. Let the gold chain belt dig into your thighs.

On your wrist, the rain charm catches the fluorescent light.

You don’t take it off.

He can taste purple.

Not like—grape. Not like candy or medicine or anything that’s supposed to be purple. Just the color. Just purple, sitting on his tongue like a frequency, and the ceiling is doing something interesting with its textures and Jungkook is pretty sure the decorative cobwebs have been moving for the last ten minutes but in a chill way. A friendly way. Like they’re also at a party and having a good time.

He shouldn’t have eaten that third brownie.

He knows this.

He also shouldn’t have taken that last shot of whatever Hobi poured out of a bottle with no label—a liquid the color of antifreeze that tasted like someone dissolved a green apple Jolly Rancher in paint thinner and then blessed it with a prayer and a middle finger.

But rational decisions have never been his forte and they’re not going to start now.

Not when the ceiling has this much going on, anyway.

“Hoseok deserves jail,” Taehyung mutters next to him.

He says it to the ceiling too. Both of them, heads tipped back against the couch cushions, staring up at the crown molding like it contains the answers to questions neither of them are smart enough to ask right now.

Jungkook chuckles. “Federal.”

“Minimum.”

“Consecutive sentences.”

“No parole.”

They sit with that for a moment. Satisfied with the verdict.

This lounge is on the far side of the house—quieter, dimmer, tucked away from the main party like a VIP section nobody asked for. Somebody dragged a floor lamp in here at some point and aimed it at the wall, which means the light is amber and indirect and makes everything look like a memory. There’s a smaller couch, an armchair with an afghan thrown over it, and a coffee table covered in jack-o-lanterns that Jungkook carved this morning with a steak knife and what he’d considered, at the time, artistic vision.

He looks at the decorations. The cobwebs he stretched across the doorframe. The battery-operated candles on the mantle. The little plastic spiders he positioned along the bookshelf with deliberate spacing because—film major.

Composition matters. Even in novelty arachnids.

“You know what,” he says. “I did a pretty good job with all this.”

He gestures broadly at the room. The gesture is meant to encompass the whole house but his arm is heavier than expected so it mostly encompasses the lamp and half of Taehyung’s face.

Taehyung snorts.

“Sure. If you don’t count the pumpkins.”

Jungkook’s head rolls sideways on the cushion. “What’s wrong with my pumpkins?”

Taehyung stops staring at the ceiling. Lifts his head. Rights himself into something approaching a seated position, which is a production—because Taehyung is currently dressed as Gomez Addams and the costume is committed.

Pinstripe suit. Actual pinstripe, not printed. A burgundy pocket square folded into something that probably has a name—triangle? pyramid? fabric origami?—that matches the deep red of Irika’s dress because of course it does, because Kim Taehyung looked at his girlfriend’s Morticia costume and said ’I will restructure my entire wardrobe around your color palette’ without a single beat of hesitation. The mustache is drawn on with eyeliner. Thin, precise, curling slightly at the ends. His hair is slicked back—every strand cemented into place with what smells like an entire can of product—and there’s a fake rose pinned to his lapel that Jungkook watched him steal from a vase in the entryway and present to Irika on one knee in the living room while she pretended to swoon and Hobi filmed the whole thing for Instagram.

Disgusting. Truly disgusting behavior from a man Jungkook respects and loves.

“Are you kidding me,” Taehyung says.

Jungkook rights himself too. Sits up. Squares his shoulders. The Ghostface robe shifts around him like a bathrobe at a very dramatic hotel.

“The pumpkins are perfect.”

“They’re not perfect. They look stupid.”

“They don’t—”

“Dude.” Taehyung points—hazily, finger drifting slightly left of center—at the jack-o-lantern sitting on the coffee table directly in front of them. “Look at it. Actually look at it.”

Jungkook looks at it.

It’s… okay, the mouth is a little wide.

And the eyes are slightly different sizes, which he’d thought was characterful at the time but might, in the current lighting, read more as neurological event.

And the nose—he’d tried for a triangle, landed on something more rhomboid—

“It looks like Willy Wonka,” Taehyung says. “Or some shit.”

“Willy Wonka’s attractive.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain clears them and he hears them land in the room and thinks, ’well, that’s a sentence I just said with confidence to another man on a couch.’

Taehyung’s entire head rotates toward him. Slowly. Like a surveillance camera.

“What.”

“What? He is. Didn’t you see that TikTok guy? The one who dressed up as Wonka and got like—millions of followers?”

“What the fuck is on your For You Page, dude.”

“Bro, I swear. He went viral. Hold on.”

Jungkook pulls out his phone. Unlocks it. The screen is brighter than the sun and he squints against it like a vampire encountering daylight for the first time—which, given the costume, feels thematic.

“Look. Wait.”

He opens TikTok. His thumb is slower than usual. The letters in the search bar are behaving strangely.

“How do you spell Wonka.”

“How do you—Jungkook.”

“No, I know how, I just—is there an H?”

“There’s not an H in Wonka. There has never been an H in Wonka. Where would the H go.”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking—”

“W-O-N-K-A. Five letters. No H. You went to college.”

“Technically I’m still going to college—”

“You—“ Taehyung groans, snatching the phone, “gimme the phone.”

Somehow, his friend manages to write with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t have three brownies and Hobi’s prison cocktail dissolving his neural pathways.

Two seconds later he’s scrolling through results.

Jungkook, on a sober note, would call that blasphemy.

“This one?”

He holds the phone up. A guy in a purple velvet coat and a top hat, abs out, doing a grinding motion to some remix of ‘I wanna love you’.

“That’s him! See?” Jungkook takes the phone back. Points at the screen. “Tell me that’s not attractive.”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to sit on this couch, in this suit, and confirm or deny the attractiveness of a TikTok Willy Wonka to you at midnight on Halloween. I have limits. I have a pinstripe situation happening.” Taehyung tugs his lapel. “Gomez wouldn’t do this.”

“Gomez would absolutely do this. Gomez would rate every man in a room if Morticia told him to.”

“That’s—” Taehyung pauses. Snatches his phone again. Narrows his eyes. “That’s actually accurate and I’m mad about it.”

“So the pumpkin looks like an attractive man. What’s the issue.”

“The issue is that a jack-o-lantern is not supposed to look like an attractive man, Jungkook. It’s supposed to look scary. That’s the—that’s the whole assignment. Scary face. On a gourd.”

“A gourd?”

“A pumpkin is a gourd.”

“Since when?”

“Since—botany? Since agriculture? Since the dawn of gourds?”

“I feel like you’re making that up.”

“Google it.”

“You Google it. You have my phone.”

Taehyung looks down. He does, in fact, still have Jungkook’s phone. He stares at it for a long moment, like he forgot how it got there and is now reconstructing the timeline.

“…Your wallpaper is still Griffin,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“From when he was a kitten.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cute.”

“I know.”

They look at each other. Two grown men on a couch. One dressed as a fictional serial killer, the other as a fictional husband. Both profoundly, catastrophically, beautifully stoned.

Taehyung hands the phone back.

“Your pumpkins still look stupid.”

“Noted. Rejected. Moving on.”

“The one in the hallway looks like it’s having an allergic reaction.”

“That one’s abstract.”

“It’s abstract in the way that a car accident is abstract.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to argue, but his brain has already lost the thread—gone, dissolved, replaced by the observation that the cobwebs on the ceiling are still moving and he’s kind of into it. Like a mobile. Like a very goth baby mobile.

He tips his head back again. Taehyung follows a beat later.

Ceiling.

Cobwebs.

“Hey,” Taehyung says.

“Yeah.”

“The decorations are good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Not the pumpkins. Everything else.”

Jungkook grins at the ceiling. “Thanks, man.”

“The pumpkins are, like, honest-to-god dog shit.”

“Got it.”

“But the rest is solid.”

“Appreciate that.”

They sit with it. Content. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who've known each other long enough that not talking is its own form of conversation.

Somewhere in the house, someone drops a glass. A cheer goes up.

Neither of them moves.

Then Jungkook's thumb finds the silver ring. Starts turning it.

He doesn't notice he's doing it. Never does. It's the kind of habit that lives below the threshold of awareness—a background process, automatic, the way some people tap their foot or chew their lip. He just spins the ring. Round and round. The pad of his thumb catching the flat edge, pushing, rotating, catching again.

"Jason bothers me."

He says it to the ceiling. Same way he said the thing about the pumpkins. Same way he said Willy Wonka was attractive. Just out there. A sentence released into the room without a permission slip.

Taehyung doesn't move. Doesn't look over.

"You've mentioned."

"No, I mean—" The ring spins. "He bothers me."

"Yeah. You've mentioned that too." Taehyung shifts on the couch. Gets slightly more upright. The jacket creaks. "Multiple times. Extensively. At length. I believe the phrase 'trust fund guidance counselor' was used. And 'discount therapist with a cologne budget.' And my personal favorite—"

"I'm not joking around right now."

Something about the way he says it—the flatness, the absence of the usual punchline, the punchline that should be there because Jungkook always has a punchline, that's the deal, that's the contract between him and every serious moment he's ever been in—makes Taehyung's head turn.

Jungkook is still looking at the ceiling. But he's not seeing the cobwebs anymore.

"Something's off about him."

"Off how?"

"I don't—" His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek. Searching for the word. The right word. "I don't know. Off. Just off, bro. The way he—"

He stops. Starts again.

"She used eucalyptus soap."

Taehyung blinks.

"...What?"

"Earlier. The showers. Y/N. She used the eucalyptus soap that was in the stall instead of her own stuff."

Taehyung stares at him. The Gomez mustache—what's left of it—crinkles with the specific bewilderment of a man who was just having a perfectly good conversation about gourds and is now being asked to care about shower products.

"I'm gonna need, like... significantly more context than that."

"She's vanilla, Tae." Jungkook says it like it's obvious. Like it's a fact of the natural world, on par with gravity or the boiling point of water. "She’s vanilla everything. Everything. Soap. Lotion. The stuff in her hair. She's got like six different vanilla products in the shower caddy and she didn't bring any of it. She used the generic eucalyptus shit in the stall and she doesn’t—she still smells like vanilla underneath because it's basically her, like her actual—"

“Jungkook.”

"—but it's off. There's this—this layer on top of it that isn't her and I'd bet you anything—anything—that he said something. About the vanilla. That he made some comment about it being basic or juvenile or whatever the fuck and she just—adjusted. Without even—she probably doesn't even know she did it."

The silence that follows has a specific quality.

…The quality of someone deciding whether to call an ambulance or a therapist.

"Jesus, man. The weed really did a number on you. You’re having an episode over body wash, are you hearing yourself—"

"It's not—" He swats at Tae. "It’s not about the body wash. It's—" He drags a hand down his face. "Okay, the body wash thing sounds insane. I know it sounds insane. That's the problem. Every individual thing sounds insane if I say it out loud. It's only when you put all of it together that it—"

He makes a vague, frustrated gesture at the air. Like he's trying to grab the shape of what he means and it keeps slipping.

"She doesn't do her tea thing anymore."

"Her tea thing."

"She used to leave the tea bags in the sink. Every morning. Just—sitting there. On the sink. Drove me insane. I texted her about it. Twice. She left me on read and then told me where I could shove the tea bags. It was a whole thing."

He's talking to the ceiling again. His thumb hasn't stopped.

"And then she starts seeing this guy and the tea bags are gone. Just—poof. Not in the sink. Not anywhere. And the thing is—I should be happy about that, right? I wanted them gone. But they didn't stop because she decided to stop. They stopped because he—"

No, but that doesn’t sound right. Because he doesn’t know for sure, does he?

Did you stop the tea bag situation after Jason?

Was it before him? Was Jason the reason?

He wishes he could trust his memory. Or his own brain.

"I’m really trying to follow the thread here, Jungkook."

"It’s—it’s just—the way she is after she's been with him for a while. Like she’s been adjusted or something."

Taehyung is quiet for a second. Processing.

Runs a hand across the back of his neck, seemingly choosing words carefully, which is very unlike him.

"Look, man… She's a grown woman. People date shitty guys all the time. That's, like... a universal experience. It's not really—"

"I know."

"—your problem. She's your roommate. You guys argue about milk. It's not—"

"I know, Tae."

"So then why are you—" Taehyung's hand comes off his neck. Gestures at all of Jungkook. The ring spinning, the jaw set, the whole rigidness of a man who's clearly been carrying this around for longer than tonight. "Why are you like this about it? Since when do you even—I thought you guys just coexist. She leaves her shit around, you leave your shit around, Yoongi mediates. That's the dynamic."

The ring stops.

Spins again.

"We're friends."

Taehyung's eyebrows go up. Genuinely up.

"You're friends?"

"I think so. Yeah. I've been trying to convince her of that for like a month and she basically just gave in earlier tonight—anyway, that's not the point, dude—"

"No, I—I'm just—since when? Last I heard she was 'the menace in room three' who used all the hot water—"

"She's not a menace, she's—okay, she is a menace. With the hot water specifically. But that's a separate issue and it has nothing to do with—"

He's losing the thread. Can feel it unraveling. The way it always does when he tries to explain something that lives in the space between what he sees and what he can prove—the words come out wrong or come out in the wrong order or come out sounding like a conspiracy theory narrated by a guy who's had three pot brownies and a shot of Hobi's antifreeze, and he knows that, he can hear himself, but the alternative is shutting up and the alternative is worse because shutting up means the thing stays in his chest and eats.

"Okay. Forget the soap. Forget the tea bags. Forget all the—the individual things, because individually they're all nothing. Right? Each one is nothing."

He sits up. Slightly. Enough that his feet plant on the floor and he's not talking to the ceiling anymore. He's talking to his hands.

"But it's like—when you watch a movie. And you can't point to the one thing that's wrong with it. The lighting's fine, the acting's fine, the script is fine. But you walk out and you feel bad and you don't know why, and then two weeks later at three in the morning you sit up and go 'the pacing'—it was the pacing the whole time, the pacing was off and it made everything else feel wrong even though everything else was technically fine."

Catches his breath.

"Jason is the pacing."

Taehyung opens his mouth. Closes it. Tilts his head.

"That's..." he says slowly, "genuinely one of the most unhinged analogies I've ever heard you make. And I was there for the 'risotto is emotional labor' speech."

"It made sense in context—"

"It didn't, but go on."

Jungkook's face is on his hands now, resting his weight on his elbows. The way he does when the frustration of not being able to translate the thing in his body to the thing in the air hits critical mass.

"I'm not saying this right."

"You're really not."

"I just—I see her, Tae. I see her before she goes to his place and I see her when she comes back and she's different. And I can't—I can't point to the exact frame where it changes. But she's smaller when she comes back. Not like—not physically. Just... the volume on her goes down. And it comes back up when she's home for a while and then she goes back to him and it goes down again and I—"

He stops. Presses his palms flat on his thighs. Pushes down. Grounding.

"Something about him makes my skin crawl and I don't know if that's real or if I'm—"

«…making it up, Jungkook. You’re seeing things that are not there, baby. You’re projecting.»

"—or if I'm just... seeing shit that isn't there because of my own stuff. I'm aware that's possible. I'm aware I could be the problem here. But every time I try to talk myself out of it something else happens—something small, something that doesn't matter by itself—and the feeling comes back and it's—it's—"

He makes a sound. Not a word. The verbal equivalent of throwing a pen across the room because the sentence won't cooperate.

"I'm really not saying this right."

"Hey." Taehyung's voice has changed. Not all the way. Still casual, still on the couch, still Kim Taehyung at a Halloween party. But the tone is softer. "You don't have to get it perfect, man. Just say the part that matters."

The part that matters.

The ring spins.

"He—" he gulps down, the pronoun stumbling over itself, "he reminds me of—"

And the sentence stops. Not because he chose to stop it. Because the word that comes next has a weight to it—actual, physical, gravitational—and the weight wins. Holds it in his chest. Behind the sternum.

In the exact place where things live that he brings to Dr. Liao's office and puts on the table between them and says ‘I don't know what this is but it won't leave.’

He doesn't finish. Just turns his head. Looks at Taehyung.

The look does what the word won't.

Taehyung, who knows what lives on the other side of sentences Jungkook doesn't finish, nods softly.

"Mia?"

Jungkook takes a couple seconds. But then he nods.

Taehyung sits up. All the way up. Elbows on his knees. The stolen rose on his lapel bends sideways.

"What do you mean he reminds you of—like, specifically. What is he doing?"

"It's—it's just a hunch, man. I don't know him. I've barely talked to him, so for all I know I could be paranoid. I'm aware of that." He sighs. "But something about his presence makes my skin fucking crawl and—when I see her—when I see her after she's been with him for a while, every time she's..."

Loses it. The sentence. The thread. The bridge between the thing he can feel and the thing he can say.

Starts over.

"I feel like he makes her think she's the problem. Like the way she is—her personality, the way she takes up space, the way she's loud and leaves tea bags everywhere and wears vanilla everything—like all of that is this flaw he's generously helping her with. And she just—she takes it. She adjusts. And she doesn't even know she's adjusting, that's the—"

His hands are moving now. Not gesturing. Just moving. Restless energy that needs an exit.

"—and I can't say anything because we're barely—I've been her friend for like five hours, I don't get to walk up and be like 'hey, I think your boyfriend is psychologically dismantling you one tea bag at a time.' That's insane. That's—"

"Hey." Taehyung's hand on his knee. Firm. "Slow down. Start from the beginning. What specifically has he—"

The door to the lounge swings open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Jimin comes through it like the hallway spat him out—fast, slightly off-balance, costume rumpled. The quill pen is gone from behind his ear. His eyes are wide and scanning the room with the specific urgency of someone who needs something and needed it thirty seconds ago.

"Sorry—sorry, is there water in here?"

Jungkook lifts one hand from the armrest. Swallows. Rubs the back of his neck. Points vaguely at the side table where someone abandoned a cluster of bottles and cups sometime around the second hour of the party.

"Over there."

Doesn't take long to notice Jimin's chest is moving too fast.

"Yo." Sits up.

The weed is still there—still fuzzing the edges, still making the room feel like it's wrapped in felt—but something underneath it is starting to sharpen. An instinct. The one that monitors rooms, reads exits, clocks the difference between someone who's out of breath from running and someone who's out of breath from something worse.

"What's up, Jim?"

Jimin picks up the cup. Puts it down. Picks it up again.

Licks his lips.

"It's—"

He says your name.

Everything in Jungkook's nervous system goes from THC-saturated haze to full alert in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

"She's—" Jimin swallows. Runs his hand through his hair and the careful side-part collapses, which he doesn't notice, which means whatever this is ranks above vanity. "She's in the bathroom. Crying. And Yeji and Irya are outside the door but she won't—they can't get her to come out. I think—I think her and Jason had a fight or something."

Jungkook is standing before the sentence ends.

He doesn’t remember deciding to stand. His legs just did it—unfolded beneath him, pushed him vertical, and now he’s crossing the room toward Jimin and Taehyung is sitting up behind him making a sound that means ’what’s happening’ but Jungkook’s already there, already in front of Jimin, already close enough to see the specific kind of worry on his face—not the general kind.

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What the fuck did Jason say to her.”

Jimin blinks. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“I don’t—I don’t know exactly, she was crying and talking really fast and not making a lot of sense through the door and the music, but she said—” He stops. Regroups. His fingers are gripping the cup and the plastic crackles under the pressure. “She said something about feeling trapped. That he was being controlling, or she felt controlled, or—I couldn’t hear everything, she’s high and emotional and Yeji was yelling at someone to turn the music down so—”

Trapped.

The word hits different than the others.

The others—fight, crying, bathroom—those are bad, those register, those go into the filing cabinet under urgent and get processed accordingly.

But trapped doesn’t file.

Trapped doesn’t go into a cabinet.

Trapped goes into his chest.

Right next to the place where a different face lives—a word from a different room, a different year, a different woman, except it’s not different, it’s the same fucking word, the same four walls closing in, the same air running out, the same—

“—and so I wanted to grab some water because I thought maybe if she just has some water and—Jungkook?”

He’s already at the door.

“Jungkook, wait—”

He doesn’t wait. His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek—hard, pressure that’s keeping something behind his teeth that wants out, something with a shape and a heat to it that he recognizes from a long, long time ago.

Not anger. Anger is manageable. Anger is a thing he’s learned to sit with, to breathe through, to hand to Dr. Liao in pieces and say ’I felt this, I didn’t act on it, are you proud of me.’

This isn’t anger.

This is the thing underneath anger.

The thing that has no name in his vocabulary because he’s never let it stay long enough to need one.

The thing that only shows up when someone he cares about feels trapped.

His jaw clenches. The silver ring bites into his finger where his fist has curled without permission.

He rounds the corner into the hallway and the party noise swells and none of it reaches him.

Footsteps behind him. Fast. The pinstripe suit wasn’t built for pursuit but Taehyung’s making it work—long strides, dress shoes clipping the hardwood, and his voice has lost every trace of boneless ice and Willy Wonka and ceiling cobwebs.

“Jungkook.”

Doesn’t stop.

“Jungkook—wait.”

Doesn’t stop.

“Wait, man. Think this through—”

He cuts through the living room like it’s not there.

Beer pong table, fog machine, centurion, bunny, bodies in costumes he registers as shapes and colors and none of them are the shape he’s looking for.

The music is too loud and someone’s laughing near the speakers—high, a sound that scrapes the inside of his skull—and his hands are at his sides and his jaw is locked so tight the pressure reaches his temples.

Trapped.

The word keeps playing. Looped. Skipping like a scratched record.

«This is what men do.»

Not now. Not fucking now.

He reaches the french doors to the garden. Open. Night air. Cold enough that it should register but doesn’t. Patio stones under his boots. String lights overhead making everything amber and warm and the warmth is wrong—everything about this scene is wrong because it looks like a party and sounds like a party and somewhere upstairs you’re on a bathroom floor and the door is locked and you said trapped—

“You’re not doing this.”

Jungkook doesn’t turn. Steps off the patio onto the lawn.

“Hey. Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Doesn’t turn.

The grass is wet. His boots sink.

None of it registers as information worth processing because the only information that matters right now is the distance—a hundred feet, closing—and the shape of Jason’s silhouette against the string lights and the sound the word trapped makes when it loops inside a skull that’s stopped filtering anything else.

“Jungkook—you’re gonna catch a charge. You understand that? A criminal charge. At a Halloween party. In a costume. That’s what you’re walking toward right now. An assault charge in a Ghostface robe. That’s the legacy. That’s the headline.”

Eighty feet. The fountain is to his left now.

“And you know who’s not catching a charge tonight? Him. You know why? Because he didn’t do anything illegal. He was an asshole to someone. That’s it. That’s all it was. And you can’t break someone’s face for that, Jungkook, not—not in the way that counts, not in the way that a cop is gonna care about when they show up and see—”

A breath. Not a pause—a reload. Taehyung’s stride lengthens. He’s beside him now, not behind, shoes squelching on wet grass.

“—when they show up and see you. Standing over him. With blood on your hands. And they’re gonna look at you and they’re gonna look at him and who do you think—” His voice trips. Catches. Goes harder. “Who do you think gets the benefit of the doubt in that scenario? Huh? You? Asian? With the tattoos and the—and him with the PhD program and the glasses and the fucking vest? You think that’s a coin flip? You think that goes fifty-fifty?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Doesn’t slow down. Seventy feet.

“His parents probably have a lawyer saved in their contacts. You know that, right? People like him—they don’t fight back, they call their dad’s buddy at whatever firm and suddenly it’s not a Halloween party anymore, it’s depositions and court dates and you trying to explain to a judge why you—” Taehyung’s hand cuts through the air. “A judge who’s gonna see the exact same thing the cops saw. Who gets believed. I shouldn’t have to spell this out for you.”

He shouldn’t. They both know why.

They’ve both been in the rooms where it gets spelled out without anyone saying a word—where looking a certain way in a certain zip code means the margin for error shrinks to nothing and the assumption of guilt arrives before the explanation does.

Taehyung knows. He’s been in those rooms with him.

Same parking lots, same bloody knuckles, same cops who looked at two Asian kids with split lips and didn’t ask who started it.

“This is exactly what he’s not worth. You’ve been saying it for weeks. You said he was a prick, you said he was a snob, you said he gave you bad vibes—great, you were right, congratulations, and now what? Now you’re gonna prove it by giving him a reason to press charges? By handing him the one thing he actually needs to make you the problem? That’s the play?”

Sixty feet. Jungkook picks up speed.

“Because that’s what happens. That’s exactly what happens. You know this. I know you know this because we had the same conversation in high school after Joey Cho got expelled for defending himself in a fight he didn't start. Remember that? Remember what his mom said? She said it doesn't matter who started it. It matters who they believe. And they're not gonna believe you. Not over him. Not when he looks like that and you look like this."

A beat.

“You hit him and he’s the victim, Jungkook. He’s the guy who got attacked at a party by his girlfriend’s unhinged roommate and he gets to tell that story for the rest of his life and she—” He stumbles on the word. “—she becomes the girl it was about. The girl whose psycho roommate couldn’t keep his hands to himself. And that’s his version. That’s the version that wins. You get that, right? You get that his version wins?”

Taehyung is still talking and talking and talking and none of the words are landing because words are noise to him right now.

“Are you listening? Can you even hear me right now? Because I’m talking and you’re walking and I’m running out of ways to say the same thing which is that you’re about to fuck your entire life up and he gets to watch. He gets to stand there with his busted lip and watch you get put in the back of a car and that’s—” Taehyung’s voice goes mean with the effort of keeping it whole. “That’s not justice, man. That’s not protecting her. That’s not gonna make you feel any better, Jungkook, you know that. You know why you know that.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue and picks up speed.

Taehyung swears under his breath and matches it. “You’re not hearing me. You’re not—okay. Okay.”

Taehyung cuts in front of him. Gets there fast—one long diagonal stride and a pivot—and plants himself in the path with his hands on Jungkook’s chest.

“No.”

Hands. Flat on his sternum. Holding.

“No. I told you, bro. You’re not doing this.”

Jungkook tries to step left.

Taehyung shifts left. Blocks it. Doesn’t budge.

Tries right.

Same thing. Mirror image. The hands stay on his chest.

“Do not.” Taehyung’s pointing finger finds Jungkook’s chest. “Don’t play me right now, Jungkook. Back the fuck up.”

He grabs Taehyung’s wrist and shoves it off his chest. Sidesteps.

Gets two steps.

Taehyung grabs a fistful of the Ghostface robe from behind and hauls him backward.

Jungkook’s balance goes—boots sliding on wet grass, the robe yanking tight across his throat—and the stumble turns into a pivot and he rounds on Taehyung and swats the grip off the fabric, forearm connecting with Taehyung’s wrist hard enough to crack, and Taehyung doesn’t let go, just tightens his hold and braces and Jungkook shoves forward into his chest and Taehyung pushes back and for three ugly seconds they’re tangled—grunting, grabbing, both of them too angry for technique.

Taehyung gets both hands on the front of the robe and pushes—hard, this time, the full force of his weight behind it—and Jungkook’s back foot slides out and he catches himself and surges forward and Taehyung meets him and pushes again and they break apart.

Three feet of grass between them. Both breathing through their teeth. The pinstripe jacket wrenched sideways on Taehyung’s shoulders, pocket square crushed, and the Ghostface robe twisted half off Jungkook’s frame like someone tried to unwrap him.

“Alright, you know what.” Taehyung spreads his arms.“Come on then. You wanna fight so bad? Fight me. Right here. Let’s go. I’m right here, Jungkook.”

His chest is heaving. His hands are open. His chin is up in the specific way that means he isn’t bluffing and Jungkook knows damn well he’s not bluffing.

“Hit me. Come on. Hit me. Get it out. Because I promise you—I promise you on everything—you’re not getting within ten feet of that guy tonight. Not while I’m standing. So either you put me down first or you stand here and breathe like a fucking adult. Those are your options. Two options. Pick one.”

Jungkook’s tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek. Copper taste. His whole body is a live wire looking for ground and the ground is just some feet away laughing and Taehyung is in the way.

He takes a step.

Taehyung takes one to match. Closes the gap. Gets in his space.

“I’ve had your back in every stupid fight since we were sixteen, dude.”

Quieter now. Which is worse. Taehyung getting quieter means the real thing is coming.

“Every single one. I was there. So believe me when I tell you—if you try to get past me right now, I will lay you out on this lawn and I will not feel bad about it. Not even a little. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever. Because the alternative is watching you throw your entire life at some guy who’s not worth the skin on your knuckles, and I’m not doing that. I’m not watching that. That’s my line. You’ve found it. Congratulations.”

Jungkook’s chest hurts. It hurts and he wishes he could rip what’s beating underneath his chest out.

“You’re better than this.” Taehyung’s throat works. “You know you’re better than this. So act like it or I swear to god I’ll drop you myself, Jungkook. You know I will.”

The silence feels like the canteen, like sixteen, like bloody knuckles behind a 7-Eleven after someone mocked Jungkook’s mom and Taehyung took care of it.

“I did not spend two years watching you put yourself back together just to let you blow it up tonight. Not over this. Not over him.” His jaw flexes. “You wanna get to Jason? You’re going through me. And I don’t go down easy. You know that.”

A beat.

“So help me god, Jungkook, test me and find out.”

“What’s happening.”

From the left, from the direction of the garden wall where the smokers are thinning out—

Yoongi.

“One of you talk.” He stops. Positions himself at Taehyung’s shoulder. “Now.”

Jungkook is a locked system. Nothing’s coming out of him that isn’t breath and body heat.

Yoongi looks at Taehyung.

Taehyung runs both hands through what’s left of the slicked-back hair. Wreckage. His chest is still heaving but his voice comes out forced-steady, the way it does when he’s physically holding himself together to deliver information that matters.

“Jason. The TA. Him and Y/N had a fight—she’s locked in a bathroom upstairs. Jimin came in, said she’s crying, said she told him she felt trapped. That he was being controlling.”

The word lands between the three of them.

Trapped.

Yoongi’s gaze tracks to Jungkook. To the fists. The jaw. The set of his shoulders. The readiness.

He looks at this for a long moment.

Then he looks at the direction Jungkook’s body is pointed. At Jason fifty feet away.

Then back at Jungkook.

He steps forward. Even with Taehyung. Shoulder to shoulder.

His hands go into his pockets.

“Okay.” He sighs. “Okay, Jungkook, tell me what happens next. You get past us. Then what. You feel better for ten seconds and then you’re the guy who assaulted someone at a Halloween party and she’s the girl it was about. That what you want?”

No.

That’s not what he wants.

What he wants is to go back in time fifteen minutes and be in whatever room Jason took you to and stand between you and whatever sentences made you say trapped.

What he wants is to have been there.

He wasn’t.

“Use your head for a second here, Jungkook.” Yoongi hasn’t moved. Hasn’t blinked. “Come on.”

Jungkook’s jaw works. The pressure in his chest is unbearable—a full-body hum of something that needs to go somewhere and has nowhere to go because every exit is blocked by friends who are right, and that’s the worst part, he knows they’re right, and knowing doesn’t do a single fucking thing about the voltage running through his body looking for ground—

Over Yoongi’s shoulder, past the fountain, Hobi.

Standing near the garden wall. Drink in hand. Mid-conversation with the Mia Wallace girl.

He catches Yoongi’s gaze across the patio and Yoongi does something—small, barely visible. A head tilt. A jaw set. The kind of signal that exists between people who’ve done this before and have a protocol.

Jungkook knows this and hates it.

Hates it more because Hobi’s smile drops and he knows he’s read the entire scene in the time it takes to set his drink on the wall and say something short to Mia Wallace and start crossing the patio.

He tries to cut between Yoongi and Taehyung.

To no avail.

Because an arm suddenly loops around his shoulders.

“Hey!”

The specific weight of Jung Hoseok’s arm, which has the density of someone who’s been dancing professionally for a decade and casually manhandles grown men like it’s a love language.

“Have you seen the music room?”

Jungkook’s whole body is rigid under the arm.“Hoseok—let go, I swear to god—”

“The music room.” Hobi doesn’t let go. Steers him. Smoothly, like they’re two friends walking somewhere together, nothing to see here, just guys being guys at a party. “Other side of the house. Past the library. Tessa’s grandfather was apparently some kind of collector.”

He’s walking Jungkook away from the garden and Jungkook is aware of the maneuver, so he tries to sidestep with all his might because he will not be persuaded this time—

“There’s an electric guitar in there.”

Jungkook’s stride falters.

“I’m serious.” Hobi’s voice drops a half-register. “Vintage, I think. Hanging on the wall. Looked expensive.”

Over his shoulder, Hobi makes a gesture. Quick. Two fingers, a direction.

“Come on.” Hobi squeezes his shoulder. “Show me if it’s any good. I can’t tell with guitars. They all look the same to me.”

“They don’t all—” Jungkook’s voice comes out scraped. Ruined. He clears his throat. “They don’t all look the same. That’s like saying all dance styles look the same.”

“Exactly. Terrible. Tragic. I need you to educate me.”

The arm stays around his shoulders. The garden gets smaller behind them. The french doors pass. The hallway opens. The party noise dims.

His hands are still shaking.

Hobi doesn’t mention it.

You’re still hiccuping and you feel so stupid.

That’s the worst part. Not the crying—the crying has a reason, the crying has a source, the crying is a physiological response to emotional stimulus and you can rationalize it later into something manageable.

But the stupidity of it. The exact specific humiliating stupidity of sitting on a bathroom floor at a party in a costume you felt good in thirty minutes ago, mascara running, eyeliner destroyed, hiccuping like a child who lost her balloon at a county fair because someone said a fucking word.

A word.

It doesn’t get more embarrasing than this.

Except it does, because you’ve been here before.

Not this bathroom. But this exact posture. This exact tile-against-spine, knees-to-chest, face-in-hands architecture of feminine collapse, because you are apparently a person who processes her worst moments in bathrooms, and that’s—

That’s a pattern, isn’t it?

Sophomore year of high school. Alicia Gutierrez’s house party. You wore the denim skirt you’d been saving for something that mattered and David Morrison kissed Noor Adil in the living room with his hand on the back of her neck, the exact hand that had been on the back of your neck two hours earlier behind the bleachers, and you walked to the bathroom and sat on the floor and cried.

Different tile. Same posture. Same girl.

Everything big happens in a bathroom. Everything that matters, everything that shifts the axis of your stupid little life—it all happens against porcelain and tile and horrible lightning.

The day Jungkook propositioned you in 6B. Leaning in the doorframe like he owned the square footage, smelling like rain and bad decisions, saying words that should’ve made you slam the door but instead made you stand there with wet hair and a racing pulse trying to formulate a comeback while your brain buffered.

The day he mentioned your cologne before Emma’s birthday. Just—said it. Casually. Like noticing what someone smells like is a thing you mention to your roommate while she’s brushing her teeth.

«You changed it.»

Two words that sat in the steam of the bathroom for three seconds too long and rearranged something behind your ribs that you’ve been pretending didn’t happen.

The first time Jimin did your eyeliner, it was in that bathroom too. And today as well, in the bathroom of the suite you might no longer share with Jason, quill pen behind his ear and his careful fingers on your jaw and the question he asked that wasn’t really about labels or aisles or boxes on shelves but about whether it’s possible to exist without a name for what you are.

All your big moments happen in bathrooms.

There’s something poetic in that, if you ignore the toilet.

The brownies are definitely hitting now. Everything has a shimmer to it. The grout lines between the tiles look deeper than they should.

Also your fingers feel very far away from your body. Like they’re suggestions. Theoretical fingers.

Great. You’re having an emotional breakdown while slowly becoming one with the bathroom tile. This is the human experience at its most dignified.

A knock. Soft.

“Hey. It’s me.”

Irya.

Not Yeji—Irya, which means Irya got to the door first or elbowed Yeji aside, and there’s a difference between those two arrivals that matters.

Yeji arrives like a SWAT team. Irya arrives like an EMT.

Both are trying to save you. Only one is going to kick the door down to do it.

“I brought your phone,” Irya says. “You left it on the loveseat.”

You don’t answer.

“You don’t have to open the door. I’m just going to sit out here, okay? Just me.”

A pause.

Then, farther away, Yeji’s voice—gritted like it comes between her teeth.

“And me. I’m also here. With knives.”

“She doesn’t have knives,” Irya says.

“I have metaphorical knives. I have the energy of knives.”

“Yeji.”

“What? I’m being supportive. I’m supportively enraged.”

You press your forehead into your knees. Hiccup.

A sound against the door. The soft thud of someone sitting down on the other side—Irya, you think, based on the gentle way it happens. Yeji sits down the way she does everything: with intent and aggression toward the furniture.

“Babe.” Irya’s voice is close now. “Can you tell me what’s happening? Just—whatever you want. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s okay. That’s totally okay. Tell me anyway.”

Something about the way she says that—’tell me anyway’—like your not-making-sense is not a problem to be solved but a thing to be held.

“He said I should respect myself more.”

Silence.

Then, from further back: “He said what?”

“Yeji—” Irya, steady.

“No. No, repeat that. He said she should respect herself? Those words? In that order? From his mouth?”

“Yeji, hold on—”

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to walk downstairs and I’m going to commit a crime that will be studied in law schools—”

“You’re not killing anyone. Sit down.”

“I wasn’t gonna stand up—”

“That’s only because I’m holding your wrist down.”

A huff. Yeji sits quieter.

“Okay.” Irya again. Closer. You can hear her shifting, getting comfortable against the door, settling in for however long this takes. “He said respect yourself. What else?”

You swallow. The hiccups are slowing but your throat is raw and everything tastes like salt and chocolate.

“He said—that I should be more mindful. About how I act around other people. That I was being—”

You search for the word.

It comes back coated in cedar and bergamot.

“Inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate how?”

“He said I was draped all over—that I was hanging on someone and it looked bad. In front of people. That I need to think about how I come across.”

“Draped,” Yeji repeats from behind Irya. She says it the way you’d say ’cockroach’. “He described physical affection between friends as draping?”

“And that I should have more consideration. And be more—”

The word.

“More mature.”

Silence. A long one.

You hear Irya exhale.

“Can I say something?”

You nod.

Then realize she can’t see you.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not going to tell you he’s wrong about everything. Because that wouldn’t be helpful, and I think what you need right now is honesty, not just someone being angry on your behalf.” A beat. “That’s Yeji’s job.”

“Damn right,” Yeji mutters.

“But I want you to hear this. The way someone says something matters as much as what they say. And a person who frames their discomfort as your character flaw—who says you need to respect yourself instead of saying I felt uncomfortable—that person is not having a conversation with you. They’re managing you.”

The word cracks something open.

Managing.

That’s—

That’s exactly what it felt like. Not a discussion. Not two people navigating something messy and complicated.

A performance review. A parent-teacher conference.

‘Here’s what you did wrong, here’s what you need to fix, here’s the version of you I’d prefer to be dating.’

“He’s not—” You stop. Start again. “He’s not a bad person.”

“Nobody said he was, babe.”

“He’s not—it’s not like he was mean. He didn’t yell. He was calm. He was being—totally reasonable—”

“Totally reasonable is how they get you.” Yeji. “Totally reasonable is the whole con. Being calm while you say controlling shit doesn’t make it not controlling. It just makes the other person feel crazy for having a reaction.”

You know that. You know that.

You’ve read the articles. You’ve had the conversations.

You just didn’t think you’d be sitting on the other side of it with mascara on your chin.

“Can I ask you something?” Irya. Gentle. “And you don’t have to answer.”

“Yeah.”

“When he said those things—the maturity thing, the respect thing—did it feel new? Or did it feel… familiar?”

You swallow.

Irya waits. Patient in that way she has—not passive, not absent, just genuinely unhurried, like she’d sit outside this door all night if that’s what it took.

“Familiar,” you whisper.

“Okay.” Soft. Like she expected that. “Okay, that’s important. That’s really important. Because when something hurts more than it should, it’s usually because it’s landing on something that was already bruised.”

The sob comes before you can stop it. Just one. Hard, sharp, ripped from somewhere below your sternum.

“I know,” Irya says. “I know.”

“It’s—it sounded like my mom.” You’re saying it before you’ve decided to say it—the words just coming, tumbling out through the crack in the door like water through a broken seal. “The way he said it. The tone. The calm. She used to—she used to do this thing where she’d sit me down and explain, very patiently, why everything I was doing was wrong. Very gently. Very reasonably. And I’d sit there and just—take it. Because how do you argue with someone who’s being nice about it? How do you say stop, you’re hurting me when they’re smiling?”

“You can’t.” Yeji. Not angry now. Quiet. “You can’t because the smile is the point. The smile is what makes you feel insane.”

“I feel insane,” you say, and it comes out small.

“You’re not insane.” Irya. Steady as gravity. “You’re having a very sane reaction to a very specific kind of hurt. And the fact that you can name it—the fact that you can say this felt like my mother—that’s not insane. That’s the opposite.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes. Gold shimmer and black liner smear across your skin.

“Babe, please.” Yeji’s voice is closer now. She’s moved up. Right beside Irya, if you had to guess. “At least drink some water. You had Hobi’s drinks and those brownies and you need to hydrate or you’re going to feel even worse.”

“I don’t want water.”

“You say that, but—”

“Yeji. I’m fine.”

“You are audibly not fine.”

“I am choosing to be not fine in private, which is my right as a—”

“If you say ‘as a feminist’ I’m picking this lock.”

Shuffling outside the door. Footsteps, the clipped sound of dress shoes on hardwood.

A male voice: “Hey, is she—”

Yeji is on her feet so fast you hear the combat boots squeak.

“No.”

“I just—”

“No. Absolutely not. Turn around.”

“Yeji—” That’s Irya. Mediating.

“The last thing she needs right now is another fucking man outside this door.”

“I’m not—I’m just trying to—”

“Oh great. Another man who’s just trying to. Fantastic. Groundbreaking. Never heard that one before.”

“Can you stop for one second—”

“Can you stop? Can you maybe read the room and understand that a girl who’s crying because a guy made her feel like shit does not need a different guy showing up to—”

“I’ve been where she is.”

That stops Yeji.

Not completely—you can feel her resistance from inside the bathroom, can practically hear the argument building behind her teeth—but the sentence cuts through the momentum the way a stick cuts through water. Not by force. By changing direction.

“Yeji.” Irya. Quiet. A hand on an arm, you imagine. “Let him.”

A paus, long enough to contain a full conversation between two people who love each other so much they can negotiate in microseconds.

“If she says go away, you go away,” Yeji says finally.

“Yeah. Got it.”

The boots retreat. Not far—you know Yeji, she’s pulling back ten feet and maintaining line of sight like a Secret Service agent in Doc Martens—but far enough.

Then a sound.

A sigh, long and gusty and annoyed, like he’s been personally inconvenienced by the existence of feelings and the floor and gravity and the entire concept of sitting down in a suit.

Then the thud of a body dropping against the other side of the door with the grace of a man who committed to this before he fully thought through the logistics.

“Hey.”

Taehyung.

His voice is different than it was ten seconds ago with Yeji. Quieter.

“You don’t have to talk. I just—I’m gonna sit here for a minute. If that’s okay.”

You don’t answer. Your throat is raw from the crying and your sinuses are packed with concrete and the hiccups have slowed but not stopped, punctuating the silence at irregular intervals.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

A beat.

“I just know what that door feels like from your side.”

Something in your chest clenches.

“I locked myself in Hobi’s bathroom once.” His voice is steady. Calm. But there’s a grain to it—something rough, something lived-in. “For like… three hours? Maybe four. Hobi sat outside the whole time. Didn’t leave. Didn’t push. Just sat there.”

You hear him shift his weight.

“I was—going through something. Something bad. And I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think and I felt really, really stupid for not being able to just—handle it. Because it’s breathing, you know? You’ve been doing it your whole life. How hard can it be.”

A hic escapes your mouth before you can stop it. Loud in the quiet.

“That was a good one,” he says.

And despite everything—despite the mascara and the tile and the word mature still rattling around in your skull like a bullet in a tin can—the corner of your mouth twitches.

“Hobi didn’t try to fix it,” Taehyung continues. “He didn’t say the right thing or give me advice or tell me to come out. He just… sat there. Told me about this dumb thing that happened at rehearsal. Some dancer who accidentally kicked another dancer in the face during a lift. And I was crying and laughing at the same time and it was—really messy. But it helped. Just having someone on the other side of the door who wasn’t trying to make it better. Who was just… there.”

He pauses.

“So I’m just here. That’s it. That’s the whole pitch.”

You press your lips together. Hard. Because if you open your mouth right now what comes out is going to be ugly—not sarcastic-ugly, not defense-mechanism-ugly, just real ugly, the kind of honest that has no style to it, no wit, just a girl on a floor who doesn’t know how to stop feeling too much about everything all the time.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying this hard,” you say.

It comes out broken. Scratchy. Barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to know why.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. He didn’t even—he didn’t yell. He didn’t do anything wrong, technically. He was—” Hic. “He was being reasonable. That’s the fucked up part. He was being totally calm and rational and saying things that sounded right and I just—”

“Sometimes it’s the calm that gets you.”

The sentence stops you.

“The loud stuff—the yelling, the throwing things—that’s easy to point at. You can say ’that, right there, that’s the problem.’ But when someone’s calm…” He exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s letting something out that’s been sitting in his lungs for a while. “When someone’s calm and reasonable and says things that sound almost right, it makes you feel crazy for being upset. Like the problem is you. Your reaction. Not what they said.”

Silence.

“That’s worse,” he says quietly. “That’s so much worse.”

Your chin is trembling. You clamp your jaw around it.

“Taehyung.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you—” Hic. Fuck. “When did it stop? The feeling like—like you were too much. And also not enough. At the same time. How did that stop?”

The door is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you wonder if he’s deciding whether to answer or deciding how to answer, and you know the difference because you live in the gap between those two things.

“I’ll let you know when it does.”

Your breath comes out in a rush.

First one since you locked yourself in this room.

“But it gets—I don’t know. Quieter? It doesn’t go away. You just get better at hearing other stuff over it. People who actually mean it when they say you’re enough. People who don’t need you to be less.”

A thump against the door. Soft. His head, you think. Tipping back against the wood.

“And you learn who to listen to. That’s the hard part. Because the ones who make you feel small usually sound the most reasonable. They’ve got the best arguments. The best vocabulary.” A pause. “Real ones don’t need a vocabulary. They just show up and sit outside your door at midnight dressed as Gomez Addams and hope it helps.”

That breaks you.

Not the word mature. Not Jason’s calm reasonable hands folded in prayer. Not even the memories of marble countertops and correctly angled forks.

This. This stupid, quiet, honest thing from a guy you barely know who’s sitting on a hallway floor in a pinstripe suit because he once locked himself in a bathroom too and somebody sat outside for him.

The sob that comes out is different from the ones before. Softer. Rounder. Less like something being ripped from your chest and more like something being released. A pressure valve opening. Steam instead of shrapnel.

“Okay,” you manage. Watery. Wrecked. “That was—you can’t just say stuff like that to someone who’s—”

“Too late. Already said it. No returns.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s fine. I’m very hateable. Ask Jungkook. He has a list.”

You laugh. It comes out wet and awful and it hurts your ribs and it’s the best sound you’ve made in an hour.

On the other side of the door, you hear him exhale. Relief. The kind someone makes when they weren’t sure it was going to work and then it did.

“For the record,” he says. “Your eyeliner’s probably ruined.”

“I know.”

“Jimin’s going to be devastated.”

“I know.”

“Like, genuinely distraught. He might never recover.”

“Please stop.”

“I’m just preparing you for the grief.”

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. It comes away black and gold and wet.

“Can you just—” Hiccup. “Can you sit there for one more minute.”

“Yeah.” Immediate. “Yeah, I’m here.”

So he sits.

And you sit.

And the door stays between you, and that’s fine.

That’s actually the whole point.

Sometimes the best thing a person can do is be close enough to hear and far enough to not see, and let the wood do the work that words can’t.

A minute passes. Maybe two.

The hiccups stop. Your breathing evens out. The brownies are still doing their thing, but the room doesn’t feel like it’s shrinking anymore.

It feels like a room. With a floor. And a girl on it who cried the right amount for the right reasons and is probably going to feel embarrassed about this in the morning but right now, in this specific minute, feels something closer to emptied out than broken.

Your hand finds your wrist. The rain charm, cool against your pulse.

You flick it.

Then you stand up.

Your knees protest—stiff, cramped, the tile having done nothing for the cramps that are still low and persistent in your abdomen—and you catch yourself on the sink.

Your reflection in the mirror is a horror show. Mascara tracks. Eyeliner smeared into grey-black smudges beneath your eyes. Gold shimmer streaked across your cheeks where the tears dragged it. The dark berry lipstick is mostly gone, bitten off, leaving just a stain at the edges.

Medusa, post-battle. Snakes wilted.

Whatever.

You unlock the door. Pull it open.

Taehyung looks up at you from the floor.

He looks like a 1920s husband who got left at a train station and decided to wait.

His eyes move across your face. The damage. The evidence.

He doesn’t comment on any of it. Just gets up. Unfolds himself from the floor, brushing off the back of his trousers with one hand, and stands there. Not too close. Not too far.

“Do you know where Jungkook is?” comes out of your lips.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know where he is.”

next | index

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'⸌⸌'♡

✧ taglist✧

@Mina4556 @latinxbipride @kokochxnel @libra04 @yoongssi @gaebestie @yoonxmint @kenickieshickies @rockstarjeonjk @mikrooms @xcallmetaniax @lilbitcherries @bangpink3gen @indyuhhhhh @sadiayn @elinaki92 @jimineepaboya @odetomeringue @yooniepot @jeonmaleficent @jksusawife @kimyishin @silverozy @svnk1ssd @idontsayblehblehbleh2010 @endlesssolace @army7-013 @yeahimacapricorn @6rnde @mimi1097 @whothefuckisthishoe @akirawhore @cherryreadsfics @sassyshyt @nemelkawar @dreamersparacosm @tremblementdesfleurs @bonzoirparis @vialattea00 @safira9497 @celliez @megatroncam07 @Asstaeticcc @melizzzie @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr

© jungkoode 2025

The pause that follows is a fraction too long. "Their daughter got some amazing desserts from Spain" she says finally, with great dignity. He laughs before he can stop himself, a short, disbelieving exhale and sits down on the edge of the bed amidst the half-packed chaos. "I'm not coming over."

"Just to say hello -" "I'm not coming over, I'm going to New York, and when I come back we are having a real conversation about this." He stands again, reaching for the shirt. "Enjoy the desserts"

"She has a very nice smile, so beautiful, perfect height for you" "Bye, Mom, I’ll see you in two weeks" He hangs up. Stares at the open closet for exactly three seconds, then gets back to packing. His phone buzzes again, information for the Lee’s daughter, like he’s really convinced by the hard sell his mother gave.

The elevator dings and slides open, and Yoongi steps in without looking up, wheeling his carry-on in front of him. He adjusts his mask, tugs his beanie down a little further, and stares at the floor numbers like they owe him something. He does not notice, at first, that he is not alone.

She's standing in the corner with her coat half-buttoned and her bag hiked up on one shoulder, the posture of someone who had also left a situation slightly faster than was polite.  She'd walked into her parents' living room an hour ago expecting a quiet visit and had instead been subjected to an unsolicited slideshow. Her mother and Mrs. Min, two women who clearly missed their calling as matchmakers, had walked her through approximately twenty photographs. Career highlights, candid shots, one that looked suspiciously like a press photo with the watermark cropped out.

So she recognizes him from a maternal ambush conducted over barley tea and the good plates. She says nothing at first. The doors slide shut. 

"Congratulations on the album," she says, pleasantly, the way you'd say it to a colleague in a lift. "My mother played me three songs from it this morning. Without warning."

That gets him, his head turns. Not just the sideways glance he'd given her when she shifted her bag a proper turn, eyes finding her face with something between confusion and alertness. The look of a man trying to locate the context.

"She what?" "The one with the soft intro," ___ continues, thinking back. "She said it proved you were sensitive. I think that was meant to sell me on you."

There’s complete silence from Yoongi’s side, he just stares at her. She can only see his eyes above the mask but it's enough she watches the exact moment the pieces assemble themselves. 

"The daughter," he says slowly. "You're ___ Lee?" he recalls from the last contact information his mother sent. "And you're the son" She tilts her head. "Twenty pictures, by the way. I counted."

He makes a sound that isn't quite a word, more of a groan. His hand moves to the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry," he says, and he means it with his whole chest.

"It's fine." She smiles, and there's no edge in it, just genuine amusement. "Honestly the album part was good. I'd have preferred to find it on my own terms but-" she lifts one shoulder, "-here we are."

"Well, great to meet you." She steps out of the elevator first, one hand coming up absently to tuck a piece of her bob behind her ear before it falls back against her jaw anyway. Her coat is oversized, something vintage-feeling in a warm camel tone.

"I saw you guys in concert in 2019 and now we're being set up." She glances back at him with a grin that's more amused than anything else, fingers brushing through her bob again, a quick, unconscious sweep. "Funny how life works."

Yoongi follows her out into the basement, and for a moment he just looks at her. The way she says it, not starstruck, not awkward, just stating a fact, like it's a mildly interesting observation about the weather, catches him somewhere off guard.

He's used to two kinds of reactions. The overwhelmed kind, and the overcorrected kind, people who perform so hard at being normal around him that it becomes its own thing. She is neither. She's just standing there in her excellent coat, bag slouched on one shoulder, apparently entirely comfortable with the absurdity of the situation in a way that he, who has been mentally managing this airport run since Tuesday, is decidedly not.

"I'm sorry about my mother," he says again, because it warrants repeating. "You've said that already." "It deserves two apologies."

She laughs at that a real one, quick and unguarded, her hand going up to push her hair back from her face. It falls forward again immediately. She doesn't seem to mind. "She means well. They both do."

"I didn't know any of this was happening," he says, and he needs that on the record somehow. "I found out when she sent me your contact details. I was in the middle of packing."

"My mother sent me a voice memo," ___ offers. "Forty seconds. Very thorough." He closes his eyes briefly. "What did she-" he starts, then stops. "Actually, I don't want to know."

"She called you a great catch." ___ says it with complete neutrality, like she's reading from a grocery list. "Said you're the perfect husband material." A small pause. She tilts her head. "She mentioned the cooking specifically. Twice."

Yoongi stares at the concrete floor of the basement parking lot and says nothing for a moment. "The cooking," he repeats. "She seemed very proud of it."

"I made her one birthday dinner-" "Apparently it was very good." ___ is visibly enjoying this now, just slightly, the corner of her mouth giving her away.

He looks up at the ceiling. "I have to go to New York," he says in the tone of a man who has never wanted to board a flight more in his life. ___ laughs, warm and bright in the dim parking lot. "Go," she says, waving a hand. "Your perfect husband reputation is safe with me."

"Please forget everything she told you." "Absolutely not." She hoists her bag up and turns toward the exit, one hand ruffling to find her car keys "Have a good flight, Yoongi-si."

She disappears around the corner, still smiling.

His manager is at his elbow. "The car's ready." "Yeah." Yoongi watches her go for just a beat longer than necessary, the camel coat disappearing around the corner. "Yeah, okay."

The private lounge is quiet in the way airports never quite manage to be anywhere else — insulated, dim, the chaos of Incheon existing somewhere beyond the frosted glass. Their bags are lined up near the door. Someone has already claimed the couch. There's coffee on the table that Yoongi is already on his second cup of.

He sits down, sets his phone face down out of habit, and looks around at the others.

"Are your mothers also aggressively trying to set you up with someone," he says, with the careful delivery of a man who has been sitting on this all morning, "or is something wrong with mine?"

Namjoon looks up from his phone slowly, the way you look up when you want to assess the energy of a room before committing to a response. Jimin, who has been reorganizing his carry-on for the past ten minutes, stops and looks up. "What happened?"

"She left the apartment," Yoongi says. "While I was in my room packing, I thought she was in the living room… I was talking, going on and on-" he gestures vaguely, "-and she was already gone. At the neighbor's place."

"Doing what?" Hoseok asks. "Setting me up." He says it flatly. "Their daughter was there too. She sent me her contact details before I even knew any of it was happening. Then called me and told me to come over." He pauses. 

"What did she do to sell you?" Seokjin asks, because he knows how mothers operate and he wants the full picture. "Apparently she played her our music." Yoongi stares into his coffee. "To prove I was sensitive. And she told her I could cook."

"She said I was the perfect husband," Yoongi continues, with the energy of a man reading from a police report. "To a stranger. That she had never met before."

"To be fair," Hoseok starts. Yoongi looks at him, Hoseok closes his mouth knowing when to not fan the flames. 

"And then," Yoongi says, "I ran into her. The girl. In the elevator on the way down."

The lounge goes very still. "The girl your mother set you up with?" Namjoon says slowly.

"In your elevator." "Yes." "She was just, there?" "Apparently she left early too." He wraps both hands around his cup. "She must have been flustered by the set up too."

Then Taehyung, who has been sitting in the armchair with his chin in his hand and the expression of someone watching a very satisfying drama, asks the only question that matters.

"Was she cute?" Yoongi opens his mouth, closes it, looks down at his coffee, sets it down, picks it back up, like he doesn’t know what to say or what to do with his hands.

"We're boarding soon," a manager says. “Let’s get going” but none of the members move, waiting for Yoongi’s answer

“Hyung!!" Jimin says, slowly, the way you speak to someone who has already given themselves away. “We should go, board" Yoongi offers as he stands up.

"Was she cute?" Taehyung repeats. "She was- " Yoongi stops to clear his throat, "It was a thirty second elevator ride."

"That's not a no," Hoseok observes. "That's not what I-" He picks up his coffee again even though he's not drinking it, just to have something to do with his hands. "She was normal. She was a normal person. Can we drop it."

"He's flustered," Jimin says to Namjoon, delighted. "I'm not flustered, I'm tired, there's a difference-" "Hyung." Taehyung is grinning now, fully, without shame. "Just say she was pretty."

Yoongi stands up, reaches for his carry-on, and says nothing. Which is, somehow, the loudest answer in the room.

Every month’s second Friday dinners with Sunhee and Wonik are non-negotiable. They have been, for years, the kind of standing plan that survives busy seasons, travel schedules, and the general chaos of three people who probably have no business being as close as they are given how differently their lives run. 

They're halfway through the meal when ___ sets down her chopsticks. "I want to tell you guys something," she says, "but you need to swear on your life and mine that you won't overreact."

Wonik looks up. "That is the single most alarming way to begin a sentence." "Swear first." "I'm not swearing on anything until I know the category of information I'm dealing with," Wonik says reasonably. "Is this a work thing, a family thing, or a-"

"Swear." Sunhee is already sitting up straighter. She has the posture of someone whose instincts are firing. "I swear," she says immediately. "Wonik, swear."

"Fine, I swear, I swear." "Okay." ___ picks up her glass, takes a sip, sets it down. "My mother set me up this morning. With the son of her friend Mrs. Min."

Sunhee's chopsticks hit her bowl, the sound is very loud in the small restaurant. "Say the full name," Sunhee says, in a voice that is very carefully controlled. "Say his full name out loud right now."

"Sunhee-" "___." Her eyes are very wide. "Say. The name."

___ looks at her. "Min Yoongi." Sunhee puts both hands flat on the table.

"I met him in the elevator," ___ continues, talking over whatever is happening on Sunhee's face, "for about thirty seconds. It was fine, he was normal, we were equally mortified because his mother had already sent him my contact details-"

"What about you?" Wonik asks. "Did you get his number?" "No." ___ shakes her head. "I mean…he's. You know how famous he is. That's not really something you just-" she gestures vaguely. "I have his mother's number. That's it."

"You have his mother's number," Wonik repeats. "She put it in my phone herself. Before I could leave." "Resourceful woman," Wonik says, almost admiringly.

"You were in an elevator," Sunhee says slowly, still processing, "with Min Yoongi." "For thirty seconds, yes-" "Of BTS."

"Sunhee-" "SUGA!" "I need you to not do that-" "How are you this calm right now? How are you sitting there like that?"

"Because it was thirty seconds in a basement parking lot and then he left for the airport," "Did he seem interested?" Wonik asks, cutting straight through it.

___ opens her mouth and closes it, well she couldn’t see much of his face other than the eyes, and his eyes were more irritated at his mother than interested, "He apologized twice for his mother."

"That's not what I asked," Wonik says. The table is quiet for a second. "He watched me walk away," ___ says finally, very casually, into her drink.

Sunhee makes a sound that is not words, close to a manic laugh. "You said you wouldn't overreact," ___ reminds her.

"I SWORE I WOULDN'T OVERREACT, I DIDN'T SAY I WOULDN'T HAVE FEELINGS-" "Same thing" ___ says with an incredulous laugh as she downs her shot of soju.

"It is absolutely not the same thing!" Sunhee shouts as she downs her drink. Wonik refills everyone's glass quietly, the expression of someone who knew from the word swear that it was going to be a long dinner.

Yoongi thinks about ___ the way he thinks about songs that aren't ready yet, circling it, not touching it, waiting to see if it still feels like something after enough time has passed.

It does. The contact has been sitting in his phone since the morning he left for the airport. ___ Lee. His mother had sent it with a string of hearts he had not acknowledged. He'd told himself he saved it by accident. He'd told himself a lot of things.

He's in the back of a car heading to some schedule. His life is mostly cars heading to schedules, he's come to understand, when he opens the contact and stares at it for long enough that the city outside the window blurs entirely. It's the jacket that does it in the end, or that's what he tells himself.

He picks up his phone, puts it down and picks it back up.

Yoongi: Where did you get the jacket you were wearing?

___ is in Hong Kong, sitting cross legged on her hotel bed with client notes open on her laptop, when her phone buzzes. Unknown number, she frowns at it slightly.

No hello. No name. No context whatsoever. Just that, from a number she doesn't recognize, as if the conversation had already been happening somewhere she wasn't aware of.

___: Who is this?

His response comes quickly, even if it’s pretty late in New York, mostly because he had been on his phone watching something when he couldn’t sleep. Yoongi immediately sits up, realizing what he’s done, just asked about a jacket without introducing himself, of course she’s skeptical.

Yoongi: from the elevator

She stares at that for a second. Then it lands, all of it at once, the basement parking lot, the beanie, the mask, the carry-on, their mother’s voice doing their best to convince her.

She puts her laptop to the side, the client notes can be taken care of later in the day. 

___: It's vintage. There's no link I can send you 

She has a ghost of a smile as she helpfully types. 

___: I can lend it to you

___: No you’re rich rich, buy it from me

In New York, Yoongi reads that last message and something in his face does a thing he's glad nobody is around to see. He is not good at whatever this is, that’s what he’s realizing.

Yoongi: How much

___ reads that and laughs, a real one, sudden enough that it surprises her. She pushes her hair back and looks at the ceiling for a second.

___: I'll think about it

In New York, Yoongi chuckles as he turns around in bed, a real laugh, like he’s amused, like he wants to talk more, like he’s fascinated.

Yoongi: Take your time

He puts the phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling of his hotel room, the city humming its endless New York hum somewhere beyond the glass, and he thinks that this is perhaps the most words he has willingly initiated with someone new in a very long time.

He also thinks that I'll think about it is not a no. He falls asleep twenty minutes later with the phone still in his hand, which has not happened in recent memory either.

___ thinks about that for a moment. The hour it must have been in New York. The fact that he had her number this whole time, sitting there, and this is what finally made him use it. A jacket. An excuse so thin it was practically transparent and he'd sent it anyway.

She wasn't even looking, she rarely is when she finds the best things. She'd ducked into the thrift shop on a whim, killing twenty minutes between a gallery visit and a lunch she was already slightly late for, and there it was. Black leather, clean lines, interesting hardware on the collar. The kind of jacket that looks like it has a history without looking tired.

___ takes the mirror selfie without thinking much about it. One hand holding the phone up, the other shoved in the jacket pocket, her hair slightly disheveled from pulling it on. She looks at it for approximately one second to confirm it's not blurry.

___: Tan will wash you out a bit

___: How about something like this? 

She sends the message with the image as she’s already buying the jacket, something in her telling her that she just needs to get this today.

Yoongi is somewhere over the Pacific, when the flight's wifi finally decides to cooperate. His phone loads a backlog of messages and he's scrolling through them automatically, half asleep, when he sees her name.

He sits up as the picture loads.  The jacket is perfect. He knows it immediately, the same way he knows when a song is working, something just settles.He stares at the photo for longer than necessary.

In the seat beside him Namjoon is reading, headphones on, entirely in his own world. Across the aisle Jimin is asleep, nobody is watching as he smiles at his phone like an idiot. He makes no effort to mask the smile as he types back.

Yoongi: I like it

Yoongi: Where are you?

Her reply doesn’t come instantly, it comes as he’s being driven home from a long flight, trying to stay up to fight the jet lag.

___: Hongkong for the Art Basel event

___: I was there, now I am at the airport, waiting for my cab to pick me up

___: Do you like it?

Yoongi doesn’t stop to contemplate as he types, Jimin looking at him suspiciously as he does so with a faint smile.

Yoongi: Yes

___: Good, then you can pick it up from my studio when you’re free

He reads that once and then again.

A studio. She has a gallery. She was at Art Basel. He turns that over quietly, this small new piece of her that just landed without ceremony in the middle of his exhausted morning, offered the same way she offers everything, casually, like it costs her nothing, like she isn't handing him a reason to see her again wrapped in a sentence about a jacket.

He's smiling again as he mutters, "I think I've done something stupid," he mutters, to nobody in particular, to the window, to the general concept of his own decision making.

"Yes," Jimin says from approximately four centimeters away, "flirting via jacket is stupid." A beat. "It's also very you." Yoongi turns to look at him. Jimin is gazing out the window with the serene expression of someone who has absolutely been reading every message off the bright screen this entire time and feels no guilt about it whatsoever.

Yoongi: I can come by monday morning if that works for you

Yoongi: Send me the address

He locks his phone for a brief second before it buzzes again.

___: Perfect, but don’t come in too early, I’m useless before 10

Yoongi: I’ll be there by 11 then

Yoongi puts his phone in his jacket pocket and closes his eyes, the city still moving outside, home getting closer. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't particularly try to.

___ spends a bit longer getting dressed that morning, which is not the case on a monday morning when she doesn’t have any clients to meet, she doesn’t even go into work on a monday most weeks. She straightens the pale white dress one last time when she drops her handbag and goes around switching on the studio lights.

“Where are you off too? I thought you didn’t have any schedule” his mother asks as he continues to fix his hair, “Just some work came up, I’ll be back by dinner” he announces as he tries on three different pairs of glasses, landing on the same dainty one’s he’s been wearing for weeks now.

Yoongi is there quicker than imagined, parking the Mercedes quietly as he puts on a mask on, he doesn’t know who all are going to be there, and he’d much rather not have this visit becoming a bigger deal than it needs to be. The studio is located in a quaint neighbourhood, plants all around the glass door entrance as he walks up, coffees hand, he didn’t want to show up empty handed. 

The door announces him,  not a bell exactly, just the particular sound of glass and marble connecting, his footsteps suddenly loud and deliberate in the quiet of the space. He slows instinctively. His sunglasses are on his head, pushed up to get a proper look, and his eyes move around the room the way they do when he enters somewhere new, taking inventory, settling, trying to understand a space before the space understands him.

"You're early." He turns.

She's coming from the back of the gallery, and he stops. Not visibly, not in any way she'd necessarily catch, but something in him just pauses for a moment and takes inventory of her the same way he did with the room.

The dress is pale linen, short, simple in the way that only works when someone has a very good eye for what suits them. Her hair is pinned away from her face today. She looks entirely at ease in the space, the way people look at ease in places they've built for themselves.

And then he notices the tattoos. He doesn't stare. He notices, the way he notices the jacket, the coat, the glasses she isn't wearing today and darts his eyes away

"Traffic was light," he says. She glances at the carrier in his hand and one brow lifts slightly. "That's more than one coffee."

“Uh yeah, I didn’t know how you take your coffee, there’s an iced americano, hot latte and an iced latte” he explains and ___ smiles, picking up the hot latte for herself. “Thank you” she murmurs and he hums to himself, picking up the americano for himself.

“So, this is my uncle’s gallery, I’ve been working with him for god, ten years now” ___ explains as she walks a few steps ahead of him, showing him around, he hums every once in a while, he’s not very talkative, as she’s noticed.

He does the mental math quietly. She would have been young when she started, almost 20.

"We work with private collectors mostly. Finding them legacy pieces, introducing them to new artists, hosting shows sometimes." She pauses in front of a series of smaller works along the eastern wall, studying them for a second like she's seeing them for the first time. "It's quite fun, actually. Every collection is different. Every collector is different." A small smile. "Some of them are insane, but in the best way."

He looks at the series she's stopped at. Three pieces, related but not matching, a conversation between them rather than a repetition. "How do you find the artists," he says.

She turns, slightly surprised, not that he spoke, but at the specificity of it. Most people ask about the collectors. "Everywhere." She leans against the wall beside the series, arms crossing loosely, the tattoos catching the track lighting. "Art fairs. Studio visits. Sometimes someone sends me something and I can't stop thinking about it." She tilts her head. "Sometimes I find them in thrift shops in Hong Kong."

He looks at her then, and there it is again, that sideways almost-eye-contact, landing just adjacent to direct. The corner of his mouth does something small.

She pushes off the wall and keeps moving. He follows, hands in pockets, in no hurry,  taking everything in. 

"Your uncle started it?" he asks, after a moment. "Mmhm. Thirty years ago, almost." She stops at a large photograph mounted simply, no frame. "He took me to my first auction when I was nine. I didn't understand any of it." She pauses. "But it did flame the fascination inside me”

He looks at the photograph. Then at her, briefly, the way he does, quick, considered, like he's filing something away.

Yoongi’s phone is vibrating in his pocket, he knows that it’s his manager checking if he’s on the way to practice. They’re currently in the beautiful backyard, what Yoongi’s leart is that this used to be ___’s grandparents home before it was turned into a gallery. She’s on the other end of the bench as she places her empty coffee cup down.

“Anything that caught your eye in there?” ___ asks and he briefly looks at her before he looks away, his eyes falling on her red heels, quite high for a monday. 

“A few things” he confesses with a faint smile as he looks around, at anything but her. “I’m not cultured enough to understand art so haven’t bought much as of late” he offers more, he knows that she’s been the one leading the conversation, he doesn’t want her to think that he’s not listening. 

"I don't think people need to be cultured to understand art," she says. "There's art in almost everything." She says it without any weight to it, not a lecture, just a thing she actually believes.  

He looks back down. At the floor, at the middle distance, briefly at her hands where they rest against her knee,  the tattoos more visible from here, something intricate in the design, leaves or maybe something older than that, he can't quite tell without looking properly and he's not going to look properly.

She's in the middle of saying something about the artist, a story beginning to take shape, her hands moving slightly the way they do when she's getting to the good part of something when his phone rings.

Loud with no respect for the moment whatsoever. He pulls it out and silences it immediately, the name on the screen requires no explanation. He closes his eyes for approximately one second.

“You need to leave don’t you?” ___ asks as she stands up, “I do, we have a tour starting in two weeks” Yoongi offers as she leads them back in, her heel slipping in some mud before he catches her briefly. 

“Thank you” she murmurs, steading herself as she fixes her posture, all he does is softly smile as he drops his hand from her arm.

“So, the jacket, it’s a vintage Ralph Lauren jacket” ___ speaks as she appears from her office, a bag in her hands. “Thank you, I don’t think I own any vintage pieces” Yoongi shares as she hands him the bag, their fingers brushing just for a second.

“Um, how much-” “Please, no, consider it a gift” ___ says with a soft smile, the smile that is making Yoongi late for practice. He holds the bag and looks at it and then looks at her. She can see him trying to find another angle on this and coming up short.

“We have a few concerts in Goyang, you should come,” Yoongi suggests and she presses her lips together like she’s thinking long and hard about it. “You got me a jacket, let me get you concert tickets, our come by rarely” he brags a bit, trying to sell her on this.

“Sure, but can I get a plus one on that?” ___ asks knowing full well Sunhee would quit on the friendship if she doesn’t get him a ticket. The plus one confuses him, like there’s someone already in the picture and she catches that confusion almost immediately. 

“My friend, she’s a huge fan, she wasn’t able to get tickets” she says and he huffs, not quite a laugh but adjacent to one and looks away, and she watches him do it with the ghost of a smile that she doesn't bother hiding because he isn't looking at her anyway.

“Of course, I’ll text you the details?” he asks as he mentally prepares himself to leave. "Thank you," she says. "I really enjoyed the 2019 concert." She turns one of her rings, slowly, around her finger. Then another. He glances at her hands briefly. "And Sunhee fainted, which in this situation I think counts as a good sign."

He looks up at that. "She fainted?" "Briefly. She was fine." ___ pause, looking up at him "Mostly fine." The almost-laugh again, slightly more this time. He looks away before it becomes anything. "Okay." He takes a small step toward the door. "I'll see you. I really, really need to go."

He still doesn't turn around, she notices. "Yes, please." There's warmth in it, no edge. "You're a busy man, Yoongi-si." He turns then, just slightly, and there's something in his expression that she hasn't seen yet, something a little looser than his usual careful composure.

"Let's just -" he starts, stops and tries again. "We should talk informally. I'm not that strict, and not that much older than you"

She looks at him. He looks somewhere adjacent to her, the way he does, the tips of his ears faintly pink in the studio light, and she realizes with some delight that this small thing, dropping the formality, asking for it plainly, has cost him something, not much. 

She tilts her head. "Okay," she says simply, no teasing. She gives him that much.

He nods once, like something has been settled. "I'll text you," he says.

"Go," she says. He is almost jogging out of the gallery. The glass door swings shut behind him and she stays exactly where she is for a moment, rings still warm from where she'd been turning them, the studio quiet around her.

Yoongi’s mother has made something good, as promised. The table is full and warm and she is asking about his week with the particular casualness of someone who has decided not to ask about anything specific, which means she is asking about everything specific indirectly.

He answers in the usual way. Fine, busy, yes he ate properly in New York. No he doesn't need her to call his manager about the schedule. His phone is face down beside his bowl.

He picks it up, checks it once, puts it back down. His mother says something about his aunt. He nods. She says something about the weather this weekend. He nods again.

His phone buzzes twice in quick succession. Then once more when he finally turns it over.

___: So I see you sunday?

___: I have to meet this client in Dubai and I fly in late afternoon on saturday, can I come to the stadium with a suitcase?

___: Can’t do saturday because Sunhee has a scheduled c-section for a patient

He reads them once, then again. He's smiling at his phone before he's decided to, the particular involuntary kind, and he catches it and schools his expression back to neutral approximately one second too late.

His mother is looking at him. "What," he says. "Nothing," she says, in exactly the tone she used that morning about the glasses. She turns back to her food with the serenity of a woman who has already won something and knows it.

They've been texting for two weeks now. Properly, not just the jacket, not just small talk, but the kind of texts that start about one thing and end up somewhere else entirely an hour later. She's funny over text in the same way she is in person, dry and quick, and she asks him questions that are more specific than people usually bother with.

He'd much rather call her. He knows that about himself already, that he'd rather hear her voice than read the words, that a call would be easier and faster and better in almost every practical sense. He's not ready to call her yet. He's not entirely sure what that means but he knows it's true.

Yoongi: I’ll have someone from the team meet you, they’ll take care of everything

Yoongi: Your friend is an OB-GYN?

___: Yes, she’s also my doctor, and will be for free for the rest of my life so I gotta treat her right. Also because I love her

He reads that and something about it lands warmly, the easy way she says it without any performance in it. He's about to type back when , "Have you reached out to any of the girls I sent you?"

He looks up, his mother is across the table, expression pleasant, chopsticks down, in the posture of someone who has been waiting for a natural opening and has decided this is it.

"No," he says. "None of them?" "None of them." She considers this with the gravity of a woman receiving disappointing quarterly results. "There was a very nice one, works in finance, you said you wanted someone independent"

"Mom." "And the architect, you didn't even look at her profile-"

"I looked." "For how long?" He doesn't answer that. She sighs with her entire body. "The concerts are this week?"

"Thursday, Saturday, Sunday." "Which day can we come? Me, your dad and your aunt-" "Saturday," he says immediately with no hesitation whatsoever.

She blinks. "Saturday? Not Sunday?" "All the parents will be there on Saturday" Yoongi says this like it’s a sure think which he knows isn’t, but he’s going to have to plan it so that it is.

"Your aunt was hoping for Sunday" He picks up his chopsticks with great authority. "I’ll have to check, but I already have your tickets for Saturday”

“Okay, but what about the Lee’s daughter? Mrs. Lee said she's very busy with work, always travelling, very independent, the hair cut was a disappointment to the parents but she’s still such a pretty woman, and she’s short enough for you” “I’m not that short mom” “It’s my fault, I should have married a taller man” His mother says with complete sincerity and Yoongi stares at her.

"That's" he stops. "What does that have to do with " "Your father is a good man." She picks her chopsticks back up serenely. "But the height. I should have thought more carefully."

"Dad is right there." From the other end of the table, his father, who has been eating in peaceful silence through this entire conversation with the practised serenity of a man who checked out of these discussions some years ago, looks up briefly.

"She's not wrong," his father says. "Dad." "I'm just agreeing with your mother." "You're agreeing that you're too short"

"I'm agreeing that she should have thought more carefully." He goes back to his food. "Very different thing." Yoongi looks between them. His mother is eating with great satisfaction. His father has returned to his bowl.

___ hasn’t changed in a bar’s bathroom before, so this is a first as she slips herself in a black dress right from the airport. Her hair is not the best, but that’s the good part about having a bob, it doesn’t need a lot of styling. What does need help is her face.

“How do you have no makeup?” ___ asks with disappointment as she slides back onto the bar stool, she’s swapped the beer for hard liquor because the dress she packed doesn’t allow for a beer belly.

“I have chapstick, but it’s not hygienic to-” “I have like five lip products but nothing for my face, I need to start carrying around a cushion foundation or a tinted sunscreen or something” ___ says as she she downs her drink, third drink of the night and with the little amount of rest she’s had all week, she knows she’s going to be hitting a wall soon.

“___ are you nervous?” Sunhee finally asks as the food comes, it would be normal for Sunhee to be nervous, but ___ is never nervous. “I don’t know, I am mostly tired” ___ offers as she stuffs her face with the fries, food should help her. She’s about to speak up again when her phone buzzes loudly against the table.

Yoongi: I’ve forwarded your contact to my manager, he’ll find you and get you guys to your seats

Yoongi: I’ll see you after the concert

___: All the best for the concert, I’m sure it’s going to be great

She types as Sunhee pays the bill, ___ might be nervous but Sunhee is anxious to leave this pub and be at the venue as soon as she can

Yoongi: Thank you, I’ll see you soon

___ doesn’t have a change to respond back before her phone is already ringing. It’s all too quick from there, they barely find a cab to the event, which Sunhee spends meditating like she does before operating, this is as she says, a spiritual experience for her.

“Why am I the only one that drank?” ___ asks as they sit down in their seats, the massive crowd all around her leaves her awestruck for a second. “I am on call” Sunhee answers, her eyes wandering, her short answers give her away.

“Come on, chill out, we’re going to be having a lot of fun” ___’s just the right kind of drunk now, the four drinks when everything is amazing and all you can think about is a drunk cigarette. The crowd around her is the kind of happy that's collective and contagious and she can feel it getting into her bloodstream alongside the liquor.

"Sunhee, your hand is shaking." Sunhee looks down at her hand. Places it flat on her knee with great effort. “That's adrenaline," she says. "It's a physiological response, it doesn't mean-"

The lights drop all the sudden, Sunhee grips her arm so hard ___ loses circulation for a moment. The crowd becomes something else entirely, a single enormous sound, and ___ feels it before she hears it, in her chest, behind her eyes, somewhere wordless and immediate. She stops thinking about the cigarette immediately as the music starts playing.

Between the singing and dancing that ___ and Sunhee have been doing, they almost miss Sunhee’s phone going off. She reads the message and is immediately a different person, “My patient just went into labour” she announces to ___ as she’s picking up her bag.

“How’ll you get back?” ___ yells over the music, "I'll call a cab-" "Are you sure-"

"___." Sunhee stops for a second and looks at her properly for one second, the exit forgotten. Her expression does something warm and knowing and slightly unbearable. "Stay."

"I was going to stay-" "I mean after." She squeezes her hand once. "Stay after."

___ opens her mouth and closes it, not able to form any words at the moment. The crowd surges around them as the last few songs begin to play, enormous and bright, and Sunhee is already moving toward the exit, bag on her shoulder, phone to her ear, slipping through the crowd with the quiet efficiency of someone who has somewhere more important to be.

___ sees him, her eyes almost involuntarily finding him every now and then, smiles to herself seeing him so happy on stage, his cute mannerism that she’s finding too endearing. How the crowds cheer for them, the heart that they sing and dance with, this kind of passion could move anyone.

The final note ends, the roar that comes after is physical, a wall of sound, and the boys walk back out for their bow, all of them, together, the stage lights warm on them, and the crowd sends everything it has left toward the stage in one long unbroken wave.

___ stays seated as the people around her continue to gather their stuff and move around, ready to leave. She's not sure where to go or what the protocol is or whether there even is a protocol, the text that said see you after suddenly very present in her mind now that after is here.

She's still sitting when someone appears at the end of her row. Yoongi's Manager, the same one who met her outside the venue, was efficient and unhurried, with the quiet competence of someone who has done this exact thing many times.

"Ms. Lee." He nods once. "If you'll follow me."

She picks up her clutch and stands too quickly, smoothing her dress in one swift motion, she walks as she reapplies her lipstick, hoping this can mask the lack of makeup.

She follows him through the emptying stadium toward the back, the crowd thinning around her, the stage growing closer, the noise of the night shifting into something quieter and more specific the further in they go.

The hallway outside the green room is not what she expected, though she's not sure what she expected exactly. It's busy in the contained way of post-show logistics, staff moving with purpose, and people. Guests, she realizes, a few of them, recognizable faces standing in the particular way that recognizable people stand when they're in a space that isn't quite public, relaxed but not fully, aware but performing unawareness. 

Jimin notices her first as they emerge from the resting room, having caught their breaths after the concerts and now ready to greet their guests. His eyes land on her and then move to Yoongi in the same second, quick and unnoticeable to anyone not watching for it. She catches it.

The group collectively greets a few people as ___ stands on the side, not wanting to be in people’s way when Yoongi stops right in front of her.

Still slightly out of breath, towel around his neck, water bottle in hand, his eyes find her sneakers first. They make her considerably shorter than him and she watches him register this, his gaze traveling up slowly before it finds her face.

"Hi," he says softly, a small smile spreading on his face, she’s about to say something when he pulls her by the arm, away, in another quiet room, away from the people. 

"Oh my god, you guys were incredible. I think my throat actually hurts from how much I was cheering, which has never happened to me before in my life-" Yoongi sets his water bottle down and disappears behind a curtain at the far end of the room, changing, and she can see his silhouette moving and hear the quiet sounds of someone pulling off a jacket, a shirt, the efficient undressing of someone who just wants to be in normal clothes as quickly as possible.

"-the production, the stage is so massive, and the crowd, every one having the best times of their life, my hearts still beating like crazy, I can’t even imagine what yours is doing” she talks naturally, like a person who had a life altering experience and needs to share it. There’s a faint laughter from his end as he continues behind the curtain. 

“Seriously, the scale of this is crazy, you guys were amazing” He says nothing for a moment. She can hear him pulling on something. 

He's tired, she can hear it underneath the silence, the particular quality of exhaustion that has gone past the point of showing itself and become something quieter. He performed for three hours, he's been doing this for days and he's here, behind a curtain, listening to her talk about the lighting.

She stops talking suddenly, very aware of how much she’s rambled on, "Sorry," she says. "You're exhausted." “I want to hear everything you have to say ___” he speaks softly as he emerges from behind the curtain. 

“I always have a lot to say Yoongi,” she stops, copying the same emphasis he just placed on her name, “You might get tired of how much I have to say” she continues as he stops by a table, dropping all the clothes he was just wearing now that he’s in a simple jeans and black shirt. 

Yoongi isn’t just tired, he’s exhausted, exhausted enough to do what he’s done each night after a show, and rush home. But he simply takes a seat on the sofa opposite to hers, he wants to continue listening to her voice. 

“Seriously, it was amazing, congratulations, I would have brought flowers or something if I didn’t directly come from the air-” “You have freckles around your nose, they’re um” Yoongi interrupts. It comes out before he's made a decision about it. The exhaustion, probably. The way tiredness removes the small delay between thinking and saying, the buffer he usually relies on.

The briefest pause where his senses catch up with his mouth and he considers his options and decides on honesty anyway. "Very pretty." 

The silence between them is the particular kind that has too much in it to be comfortable and too much in it to break carelessly. “Your friend? I didn’t see her-” “Oh her patient went into labour so she had to rush out, but she caught most of the concert and is now probably prepping to deliver a baby” 

“Oh” that’s all Yoongi can muster now that the buffer of a friend is gone, when Yoongi was imagining seeing her after the concert, he kept imagining the friend. “Yeah, but I should get going too, you must be tired” 

“I am tired, but I can still drop you home?” Yoongi asks, knowing full well that he should have probably asked her for dinner, given the thin smile on her lips. “Please, I can find my way-” “There’s going to be a lot of traffic ___” Yoongi offers and she smiles briefly as he says her name again, the particular softness that he uses. 

"It's late," she says. "Which is why there'll be traffic."

"Yoongi-" "My car is already outside." He says it simply. "It's not out of the way." She looks at him for a moment. He looks her straight in the eyes for a second, like he really means this and isn’t offering this out of some formality. 

“You don’t know where I live” she says with a teasing tone as they both stay seated, not quite ready to move onto what comes next. “Today I learn your address then”

The car is quiet, not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind where neither of them knows what to say. None of them imagined the string of events that led to this, it almost makes Yoongi chuckle to himself as he thinks about how vehemently against this he was, his mother can’t know any of this yet. Not until he knows why he keeps reaching for his phone for her text back, why he saved her address without thinking about it, why he's sitting in a car at midnight when he should be in bed.

He doesn't know yet. He'd like to figure it out quietly, without his mother's involvement, which is the only way anything survives in its early stages.

“So, the tour, you guys must leave soon” ___ speaks up as they stop at a red light, the traffic is indeed awful. “Yes, Japan, then the US, Mexico, back to US and then back in Korea around mid June” Yoongi hears himself say it. All of it, laid out in sequence, the shape of the next several months suddenly made concrete in the quiet of the car. 

Somewhere in the middle of the list he understands, clearly and exactly why he told his mother he didn't have time for a girlfriend. Why he'd meant it. Why it was true then and remains true now regardless of freckles or the jackets or the way she says his name.

He can't do this to someone. The disappearing, the timezone math, the months of existing primarily as a name on a phone screen. He knows what that looks like from the inside and he knows what it asks of the person on the other end and it's a lot. It's always been a lot.

"Mid June," she says quietly, doing the math the same way he just did. "Mid June," he confirms with a long exhale.

"Do you get used to it?" she asks. "The schedule."

He thinks about it for a few seconds, deciding on how honest he should be, "You get used to moving," he says. "You don't really get used to leaving."

The car stops at another light. Somewhere outside a group of people are spilling out of a restaurant, loud and warm on a Sunday night, and she watches them through the glass.

She’s almost thirty two, a gallery she loves, clients she's spent years building relationships with. A life that moves exactly the way she designed it to move. She doesn't need to complicate that. ___ knows this.

She can't quite bring herself to be realistic about this, even if she has been realistic about way less complications in the past.

"What are you thinking about," he says, he needs to know just what she’s thinking because he knows it can’t be good.

She glances at him, he's looking ahead at the road, not at her, but his attention is entirely on her answer. "The tour," she says. Which is true but not all of it.

He nods, something in his jaw shifts slightly, the way it does when he's decided not to say something.

"Yoongi." "Mm."

"It's a long time to be away." "It is," he says, simply with no argument, he knows there isn’t one.

The light turns green. "Do you…" she starts and stops to try again "Is there ever a point where it gets easier? The coming back. Picking things back up."

He's quiet for a moment. "Depends what you're picking back up," he says.

She looks at him. He's still looking at his hand now and the city lights are moving across his face in slow intervals and she thinks distantly that this is an unreasonable amount of person to have discovered in an elevator.

She looks back out her window. "I'm not twenty anymore," she says, mostly to herself.

"Neither am I." "I mean-" she turns her rings once. "I used to be better at not thinking ahead."

"What do you see?" he asks. "When you think ahead." She's quiet for a long moment, outside Seoul continues, indifferent and bright.

"A very long tour schedule," she says finally. He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, almost a laugh like he’s had this discussion before, "Yeah, that’s just the first leg" he says quietly.

The car moves through the city and neither of them solves anything and somehow that's alright, the silence settling back around them like something they've agreed to for now, the kind of quiet that isn't an ending, just a pause.

The car stops outside her building and they both get out, the night air cool after the warmth of the car. She tilts her head back slightly to take in the street, familiar and quiet, and he falls into step beside her naturally, walking her to the entrance the way he'd stood up to walk her out of the green room.

They stop at the entrance. The streetlight catches everything, her hair, her rings, the white sneakers. He's still in his cap and mask pulled down, hands in his pockets, adjusting his cap without meaning to, forward, back, forward again.

Neither of them starts the conversation. She looks up at him and he looks somewhere just past her, and the comfortable quiet of the car has followed them out onto the pavement.

"I think we should go on a date," she says. He goes very still as his eyes find her.

"A real one." Even, practical, like she's proposing something with a clear agenda. "Before Japan. Before our rational sides catch up with us and decide this is a terrible idea." A beat. "An experiment. To find out if there's actually anything here before we decide there isn't."

He knows what he should say. He's been doing the math since the car, since she said mid June in the quiet way she said it. He knows what this looks like, the beginning of something, the successful experiment she's predicting, and he knows what comes after that too, what he'd be asking her to sign up for.

___ deserves someone who comes home on a regular basis. Yoongi knows this.

"You know it won't stop there," he says quietly. "If the experiment works."

"I know," she says. "The tour is-" "I know, Yoongi."

"I'm just saying you might-" "I know." She says it gently, firmly, the way she says things when she's already thought them through and doesn't need him to think them through on her behalf. "I'm aware of what I'm suggesting."

He looks at her for a long moment, the way she’s fidgeting with her rings, "Okay," he says.

"Okay?" "One dinner." He holds her gaze. "Before Japan."

She nods once, that's when he looks down.

The height difference from here, standing on the pavement, is… notable. He does the mental calculation of exactly what his mother said and feels the smile coming.

"What," she says immediately. "Nothing." He presses his lips together and fails entirely. "My mother said you were short enough for me."

She stares at him. "She said that."

"Among other things." "Short enough for you," she repeats.

"Her words, not mine" "And what do you think?" He looks down at her from the full, considerable distance of his height, cap crooked, mask around his chin, and says with complete straightness,

"I think she was right."  She laughs brightly and he lets himself smile properly this time, all the way, and for a moment they're just two people standing outside a building at midnight laughing about height and mothers and the specific absurdity of how they got here.

She steps back and looks up at him one last time. "Goodnight, Yoongi." "Goodnight, ___."

She turns and goes inside, the door closing quietly behind her, he stands there a moment longer than he needs to. Reaches up and adjusts his cap.

Gets back in the car and looks at the ceiling for a long moment, the city moving quietly around him.

He knows how this goes. He knows himself well enough to know that one dinner won't be one dinner, that the experiment is going to tell them both exactly what she predicted it would, and that she said I'm aware of what I'm suggesting with the confidence of someone who has never actually done this before. Not with someone like him. Not with a schedule like his.

She'll be realistic about it eventually. Everyone is, eventually. He just hopes she is the anomaly in the experiment that his dating history has been.

"-so you just decided, so young, that music was your calling?" "I didn't decide anything." He turns his glass slightly on the table, a small rotation, thinking about how to explain it to someone who hasn't lived it. "It was more like…the decision had already been made somewhere and I was just catching up to it."

She rests her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, the way she settles in when she's properly interested in something. She's been doing it on and off all evening and he's stopped pretending not to notice. "That's how it feels with the work I love too," she says. "Like you didn't choose it so much as recognize it."

He looks at her. "Exactly that." The restaurant is quiet around them, the kind of quiet that Tuesday buys you, a handful of other tables, low light, no one paying attention to anyone else. 

"Okay," she says, picking up her glass. "Worst part of the job. Honestly." He thinks about it and she waits, turning the stem of her glass between her fingers, patient.

"The losing yourself of it," he says. "Not in a dramatic way. Just…" he pauses. "You're performing a version of yourself for long enough and you start to lose track of where that version ends."

She's quiet for a moment. "Does it come back?" she asks. "The original version."

"I'm still figuring that out." She nods slowly, like she's filing that somewhere careful. Not with pity. He'd noticed pity immediately and she seems to know that. 

"Your turn," he says. "People assume I do this because I come from money," she says, the same even tone she uses for everything. "That it's a hobby dressed up as a career. Something for a well bred woman" She pauses to take a sip of her wine. "I would have done this regardless of the money. The money just meant no one could stop me from starting early."

He nods. That he understands, the specificity of a thing choosing you rather than the other way around. She looks at him for a moment. Something shifts slightly in her expression, a decision being made.

"Can I ask you something personal?" she says. "We’ve been doing that for some time now" Yoongi notes with a light chuckle.

"More personal." He leans back slightly, arms loose. "Okay."

"Do you actually want this? Not the date, not…" she gestures between them. "In general. A person. Do you want one or do you like the idea of wanting one?"

The table goes quiet. He looks at her steadily and she looks back, unhurried, leaving the question exactly where she put it.

"That's a good question," he says. "I know."

He takes a sip of his wine as he prepares to talk, "I miss it," he says simply, like something admitted for the first time in a while, to someone actually listening. "Having a girlfriend. Having someone who… knows your schedule well enough to know when you're tired before you say it. Someone to call when something happens. Good or bad." He pauses. "Someone to just, be there."

She's quiet as she leans in, like she wants him to know she’s listening. "I've told myself that life makes it impossible," he continues. "And it's not untrue. It's hard, it's always been hard." He glances up at her. "But I think I've been using it as a reason not to try. Which is different from it actually being impossible."

"That's honest," she says. "You asked."

"I did." ___ says with a small smile. "Your turn. Same question."

She exhales softly, "Yes," she says, without hesitation, which means she's known it for a while. "I'm not complicated about it. I just want someone, I've always wanted someone." She turns her ring once. "I've just been spectacularly unlucky."

He looks at her., and then her glass, and then the residual of her lipstick on the glass, "Unlucky how?"

She laughs, short and genuine, the kind that comes from a story that has lost its sting and kept its absurdity. "The last person I was serious about decided to move to London for work and forgot to mention it until two weeks before he left." She picks up her fork. "Before that there was someone lovely in every way except that he was still in love with his ex. Which he also didn't mention."

"I have good instincts about art," she continues, "and terrible instincts about men. Which is a very specific combination of traits to be living with” He presses his lips together, like he’s trying to suppress a smile.

"You can laugh," she says. "I'm not laughing."

"You're doing the thing where you're not laughing." He looks away briefly and then back at her, the wine really helping him look at her, "I'm not laughing at you."

"I know." She sets her fork down. "It's tiring, mostly. Being caught off guard by people when you're not someone who gets caught off guard easily."

The table settles into a quiet with something real in it now. The lightness still underneath but something more honest sitting on top as their plates get cleared, signaling a clear end to their date, or at least their time at the restaurant. 

"How's the experiment going," he says, after a moment as he quietly places his card in the bill book.

She looks at him, steady and warm. "Terribly," she says with a pleasant smile.

He smiles into his glass. "Yeah," he says. "Same." Yoongi reaches into his pocket for his mask as they step outside, pulling it up with the practiced ease of someone who has done it ten thousand times, adjusting it once.

The street is empty and still. Tuesday midnight belongs to no one in particular. "I'll walk you home," he says, naturally, already falling into step beside her. “It’s a long walk” ___ retorts as they walk, hands brushing every now and then.

“It’s a two minute walk ___” Yoongi offers plainly as he doesn’t move away. They fall into step together and talk as they walk, nothing important, nothing that needs to be, she says something about a show she's been meaning to see, he says something about a track he's been sitting on for weeks, small things, the kind of conversation that exists just to keep the evening going a little longer.

It’s all light and breezy till they reach a crossing, he reaches out and takes her hand. His hand just finds hers as they step off the curb, the way you do something you've been doing for years. Fingers wrapping around hers, already looking both ways, already moving.

She looks straight ahead, hoping her hair masks some of her blush. They cross, but he doesn't let go.

She doesn't say anything. Neither does he. They just keep walking, her hand in his, and she looks at the street ahead with the expression of someone being very deliberate about not smiling and not quite managing it.

He looks at the building and looks back at her. Her hand still in his, the evening sitting between them with nowhere left to go, he leaves for Japan tomorrow, the night air cool and still around them.

She tilts her head up at him. "Do you want to come up?" she says. "I have dessert. Ice cream" she says as she tries to tug her hand to gesture with her hand, which he doesn’t let go.

He's looking at her with the particular expression she's learning, the one that isn't quite a smile but is adjacent to one, the one that lives mostly in his eyes, quiet and certain and slightly devastating at close range.

"Ice cream," he repeats. "Yes."

"What kind?" "Does it matter?"

He considers this with complete seriousness. "Somewhat."

"Yoongi." "I'm asking a reasonable question-"

"Come upstairs and find out," she says, and turns toward the entrance, and this time he lets her hand go, only to hold the door open for her, which she walks through without looking back at him because her face is still doing the thing and she needs another three seconds before she can be a normal person again.

Her apartment is exactly what he would have guessed and nothing he was fully prepared for.

Organized chaos, the particular kind that has a system even if the system isn't immediately visible. Paintings leaning against the walls in clusters, some framed, some not, some wrapped in brown paper with labels in her handwriting. Books on every surface, some closed, some splayed open face down. Magazines stacked in a way that suggests they're referenced rather than decorative.

It's lived in. Genuinely, thoroughly lived in, and it suits her so precisely. They end up on the sofa without deciding to, the way they keep ending up places without deciding to. Her legs tucked under her, turned slightly toward him. Him at the other end, bowl in hand, looking at the painting propped against the wall directly across from them.

They talk. The ice cream disappears somewhere in the middle of a conversation that moves from her uncle to his producing to a collector in Geneva who cried when she found him a specific work he'd been searching for for eleven years. He tells her about what it feels like when a track finally becomes what it was supposed to be. She listens the way she always listens, fully, without waiting for her turn.

It's past one when his phone lights up on the cushion between them. Mom.

She sees it the same moment he does. He reaches for it. "Pick up her phone," she says sternly, the tone of teasing right there.

"I'm not -" "Do not cut your poor mother’s phone, she might be sick and worried" ___ adds dramatically and he huffs and picks up the call anyway.

"Mom." "Where are you?" She’s wide awake, unbothered by the hour. "You're never out this late, are you sick-" "I'm not sick-"

"Have you eaten?" "I had dinner" "With who-"

___ opens her mouth with that same teasing smile and his hand moves before he's decided to move it, swift, certain, palm covering her mouth completely, cutting off whatever she was about to contribute to this situation as he closes the distance between them.

She goes still as he keeps his eyes forward, continuing the phone call, entirely composed. "With a friend, Mom, I'll be home soon"

___ looks up at him over his hand. She very aware, in the specific silence of having nothing to say because there is a hand preventing her from saying it, of his hands. The size of them. The warmth. The way it covers most of her lower face with a kind of easy certainty that she is finding deeply inconvenient given the current context of a first date and his mother on the phone and her own heartbeat which has made a unilateral decision she hasn't approved.

"You sound strange," his mother says. "I'm fine." 

"Which friend?" "Mom -" ___ raises her eyebrows at him. He finally looks at her, briefly, and whatever he sees makes him look immediately back at the painting on the wall across the room.

His hand stays and she stays still beneath it.

"Come home soon," his mother says. "Soon," he confirms. "Go to sleep"

He hangs up with a huff and neither of them moves. His hand is still there, warm against her face, and the apartment is very quiet around them, the painting on the wall offering no commentary whatsoever.

Slowly, with the careful deliberateness of someone making a considered decision, he lowers it. She looks up at him. He looks back at her, right beside her.

"You were going to say something," he says shyly as his hand comes to rub his neck.

"I was going to be helpful," she says. "You were going to be a problem." "Same thing," she says with a smile, and her hands come up without much deliberation and fix his hair which the sudden movement moved out of place.

He goes very still, not uncomfortable. Just, very still. The way he goes still when something catches him off guard in a way he wasn't prepared to be caught. Her hand drops back down, briefly touching his thigh when she leaves them.

He's looking at her now, properly, the full direct version he allows himself in small increments, and from this close it's a lot. “I didn't expect to have this much fun," he confesses, his voice quieterl, like he's admitting something he hadn't planned to. "Not that I doubted you, I just-" he pauses, choosing the words carefully the way he does, "I haven't been on a first date this good in a while."

He looks at her when he says it, waiting for her reaction with the particular stillness of someone who has said a true thing and is now at the mercy of what happens next.

"I know," she says, and there's warmth in it, no teasing yet, just the honest version first. "I was kind of rooting for you to be this brooding, nonchalant musician, actually. Would have made it all much easier."

"Easier," he repeats. "To not like you," she says simply, reaching for her glass of wine. "I had a whole plan. You'd be aloof and a little difficult and I'd think, well, lovely person, interesting work, not for me." She takes a sip. "Very clean. Very uncomplicated."

"I almost cancelled," he says, after a moment. She raises an eyebrow. "Not because-" he stops, tries again. "I almost talked myself out of it. On the way over." He turns his glass slightly on the table, the small rotation she's noticed he does when he's thinking. "I do that. Find the practical reason not to."

"What changed your mind?" she asks. He's quiet for a moment, looks at the table, at his glass, briefly at her hands where they rest near her wine. “I really liked the feeling of seeing you after the concert," he says. Simply, without dressing it up, the way he says true things when he's decided to say them. He pauses. "I kept thinking about it on the drive over and I couldn't find a practical reason that was bigger than that."

She looks at him for a moment, this careful, deliberate man who thinks before he speaks and means everything he says and had apparently spent an entire car ride arguing with himself about her and lost. "The feeling of seeing me," she repeats, softly.

"Yes," he says. He's looking at her now, noticing how she looks in these dim lights.

They talk for a while, about something and nothing in particular, the night settling into the easy rhythm that has become theirs without either of them formally deciding. She tells him about an artist she'd found earlier in the year, eccentric beyond what that word usually covers, a man who'd moved deep into the woods over concerns about wifi radiation and could only be reached by a forty minute hike up an unmarked trail. "I showed up in the wrong shoes," she says, gesturing at her feet like the memory is still personal. "He didn't apologize. Just handed me a cup of something that tasted like tea and started showing me the work." She pauses. "It was extraordinary. The work, not the tea, the tea made me sick."

He's smiling properly now, elbow on the sofa back, chin in his hand, watching her the way he watches things he finds genuinely interesting. "Did you sign him?" 

"I'm working on it," she says. "He doesn't have a phone so it's mostly letters." A beat. "Actual letters. With stamps." He laughs, low and warm, and she tucks her feet further under her, satisfied.

He talks about tour, stories that surface easily now in the comfortable quiet of her living room, the way they don't always in interviews or in rooms full of people waiting for something quotable. A night in São Paulo where the rain came down so hard they could hear it over the speakers and the crowd stayed anyway, every single person, standing in it. The particular feeling, he says, quieter now, of standing in the wings before a show when everyone is there together, all seven of them, and the noise of the crowd coming through the walls like something alive.

"You miss them," she says, not a question. "It's different performing without all of them," he says simply. "It'll be good to be back."

She looks at him for a moment, the lamp throwing everything soft and warm, his profile against the dark of the window, the city quiet beyond the glass. She's been thinking about something, something which is a lot to ask on a first date, but asks anyway.

"How does it work?" she says. "A relationship. With you on tour." She says it evenly, no weight of accusation in it, just the genuine question, the one that has been sitting underneath the whole evening. "Practically. What does it actually look like?"

He's quiet for a moment, turning his glass slowly.  "A lot of texts," he says. "Voice notes when there's time. Video calls that get cut short because of schedules." He pauses. "Having them fly out for tour dates, as often as I can, as much as they can" He looks at the glass, talking in hypotheticals. 

“The hardest part isn't the being away," he continues. "It's not being there for the small things. The ordinary ones." He glances up at her briefly. "Someone has a bad day and you're in a different timezone and a text isn't the same as being there."

She's quiet for a moment, turning her ring. "No," she agrees. "It isn't."

"I'm not going to pretend it's easy," he says, and she can hear the care in it, the way he's choosing honesty over reassurance because he thinks she deserves the honest version. "It asks a lot of the other person."

"It asks a lot of both people," she says. He looks at her then. "You'd be the one leaving," she continues. "That's not nothing either." He holds her gaze for a moment, something shifting slightly in his expression, like she's said something he hadn't expected to be said. "No," he says quietly. "It's not."

It’s about three am when Yoongi yawns for the first time, ___ chuckles as she stands up, they’ve talked for a while, they could keep going, but he also leaves for the tour tomorrow.

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” ___ asks as she walks over to the kitchen and refills her glass, “Around 7 pm” Yoongi says as he checks his watch, very aware of the time. He stands up, swiftly putting on his jacket.

“I should go, we both have stuff in the morning” He says as he stands awkwardly, he isn’t sure how to say goodbye, or if he even wants to.

“Yeah…yeah we do” The silence that follows is different from the ones before. He shifts slightly, hands sliding into his pockets, then out again, like he can’t quite decide what to do with them.

He’s not usually like this, but there’s something about this, about her, that’s throwing off his usual rhythm.

“Tonight was…” he starts, then stops, he exhales lightly, glancing away for a second before meeting her eyes again. “A successful experiment” ___ adds as she walks over, stopping just a few steps away from him.

“___,” he starts again, quicker this time, like if he hesitates he won’t say it at all. “I’d like to see you again.”

The words land between them, steady but unpolished, so painfully honest. “My life is complicated,” he continues, glancing at her briefly before looking back, like he’s choosing not to hide behind anything. “But I feel like we’ve got something good.”

He pauses there, watching her, trying to read her before he goes any further. He continues quietly, “something real”

For a second, she just looks at him, and then her smile grows. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she admits, closing the small distance between them.

Now they’re close, closer than before, close enough that she can see the growing blush on his face, “Because I was about to say the same thing.”

That catches him off guard, just slightly, his expression shifting to relief and something more warm. “Good,” he says, softer now.

“You know,” she adds lightly, her voice dropping just a little, “for an experiment, this went pretty well.”

“Mm.” “Almost like we should repeat it.”

That earns the faintest hint of a smile from him. “I was planning on it.”

Her eyes flick briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes, the movement subtle and quick, but not quick enough to escape him, and in that fleeting moment something in him settles, something quiet but certain, like a decision finally catching up to a feeling he’s been circling all night.

His hand lifts again, more deliberate this time, coming to rest at her waist, fingers curling slightly as if he’s grounding himself, or maybe holding onto the moment just a little longer, like he’s aware of how easily it could slip past them if he rushes it.

He doesn’t rush, and he doesn’t overthink it either, which for him is saying something, because there’s usually a pause, a calculation, a reason to hold back, but not now.

He stops just short of her, close enough that the space between them feels intentional rather than hesitant, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, to give her the chance to pull away if she wants to, to change her mind, to set the boundary before he crosses it.

But she doesn’t, instead, she closes that last bit of distance herself, leaning in just slightly, just enough to meet him halfway, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

When he kisses her, it’s softer than expected, not because he’s unsure, but because he’s choosing to be careful with it, choosing to let it build rather than take, and there’s something in that restraint that makes it feel more intentional, more real.

Her hand comes up almost immediately, pressing lightly against his chest, not to stop him but to steady herself, or maybe to feel something tangible in the middle of everything that suddenly feels a little too charged, a little too new.

And that’s what shifts it, that simple contact. It deepens the kiss, not dramatically, not all at once, but enough to change it from something tentative into something that lingers, something that holds, something that neither of them seems in a hurry to end.

___ didn’t know how to feel when Yoongi sent her the flight tickets. She isn’t even sure if they’re in a relationship, how does one qualify this as a relationship when it went from a phenomenal first date to flying across continents for the second one.

They’ve been constantly in touch with each other, texting, calling, even video calling a few rare times, each sending pictures from their day, and usually ___ would have classified this as something too difficult for 31 and moved on, but he’s just charmed her. His soft laughter, sending her flowers to the gallery, song samples that he genuinely wants her thoughts on. 

She's found herself laughing into her phone more than she has in recent memory. While she drives to work and he's somewhere between cities, still half asleep, voice low and unhurried. While he eats dinner and she scrapes together a lunch at her desk, their schedules overlapping in whatever small window the timezones allow. The video call where he talked her through using a power drill for twenty minutes with the focused patience of someone who genuinely could not rest until she could hang the paintings in her living room.

___ pushes all the doubts aside as she moves through the airport, it’s still early morning and a significant amount at the San Francisco airport. ___ spots Mr Shin right away, Yoongi’s manager standing there with a warm smile as he waves his hands to greet her. 

"Morning, Ms. Lee." He's quick, stepping forward to take her bag before she's even fully registered the intention. "How was the flight? Did you eat?" "I'm fine, really-" but the bag is already gone, and he's already moving, and she has learned enough about the people in Yoongi's orbit to know that efficiency is a personality trait they share collectively. She falls into step beside him.

The car is black, tinted, parked just beyond the terminal in the kind of spot that suggests someone made a phone call. Mr. Shin rounds the front of it and she follows, and that's when she sees him.

Yoongi is standing on the far side of the car, away from the flow of arrivals, away from the small clusters of people watching the arrivals gate. He's in a cap and a mask, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, she isn’t sure if he’s smiling, but his eyes light up for sure. 

She stops for just a second. Then she keeps walking and he straightens slightly, the way he does when he's trying to look like he wasn't just waiting, and she would tease him about it if her own face wasn't currently doing something she'd prefer it didn't.

"Hi," she says, stopping in front of him. "Hi." His eyes move over her briefly, the way they do, quick and considered. “Long flight?" Yoongi asks, almost instinctively taking the massive handbag from her hand, their fingers brush, the simple touch is enough to wake him up.

“Yeah, there was so much turbulence, I didn’t get a minute's sleep” ___ shares as they stand a few steps away from each other, none of them ready to be bold this morning. “How do you look this beautiful after fourteen hours of no sleep?” Yoongi comments, a compliment filled with genuine curiosity.

___ blinks once. Then she breaks into that familiar laughter, the real one, sudden and unguarded, her hand coming up to hit his arm softly. "That's not-" she starts, still laughing, shaking her head. "You can't just say things like that."

"I'm just asking," he says, and he's smiling now too, the full version, the one that takes over his whole face when he's not paying attention to stopping it. "You're not just asking, you're-" she gestures vaguely at him, at the general situation, at whatever this is, and he watches her do it with quiet satisfaction. 

“Mr Min, we’re ready to leave” Mr Shin speaks before he gets into the driver seat, they’re in the car quickly, ___ is the first to yawn then Yoongi when she laughs again, there isn’t much being said, both of them just glad to be in each other’s presence.

“Is there anything specific you want to do before you fly to LA?” Yoongi asks after three complete minutes of silence, he has five days before their dates in Stanford, but ___ has combined this trip with some work trip.

“Golden gate bridge for sure, lots of coffee” ___ talks as she looks ahead at the GPS, it’s going to be thirty minutes till they reach the hotel, “and eat all the food we can in Chinatown” she turns to face him, Yoongi is currently taking very serious mental notes, hoping he remembers this all. 

"Everything," she adds, because she means it. "Dim sum, noodles, everything." "Everything," he repeats, solemnly, like he's committing it to memory.

The city slides past in the early grey light, the fog sitting low over everything, soft and unhurried. ___'s exhausted in the particular way that crosses the point of feeling like exhaustion and becomes something closer to weightlessness, the fourteen hours and the turbulence and the airport and the adrenaline all catching up at once now that she's finally still.

He's warm beside her, warm and solid and here, actually here, not a voice through a speaker or a name on a screen, and she is tired enough and brave enough that when her head tips sideways and finds his shoulder. 

“Is this the shoulder with the surgery?” ___ snaps out of it, lifting her head slightly just to confirm things. Yoongi is still for a second, "No," he murmurs. His arm comes around her, slow and easy, like it's the most natural thing, settling at her back with a gentleness that she feels all the way through the exhaustion. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi shares a few moments later, knowing she’s fully awake. “Even more glad that you can stay a month” he murmurs softly into her hair as his hand gently rubs her shoulder. Her hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, fingers curling lightly against it, too tired to talk. Yoongi rests his cheek gently against the top of her head and looks at the road ahead with the expression of a man who is trying very hard not to think about how much he already doesn't want this month to end. 

___ feels like a zombie dragging herself, barely awake yet fully awake, full of food, desserts and coffee that they kept stuffing each other with. Yoongi walks back to the park bench, water in hand and he too feels like he’s ready to call quits on the day even if it’s only 6 pm yet. 

“You don’t look too well, do you have a fever?” Yoongi asks as he hands her the bottle, wiping his hand against his jeans before checking her temperature. ___ almost immediately falls into his touch, her eyes closing, her whole body leaning slightly into his hand like she's been needing to rest against something for a while now and this is close enough. 

"I am just-" she starts, then stops, organizing her words with some effort. "I can see how much you've planned, I know you looked things up and I know you had the whole route figured out and I genuinely loved today, all of it, the food and all of it-" she opens her eyes and looks at him, earnest despite the exhaustion, "-but can we just go back to the hotel and sleep." A pause. "You should stay out," she adds, because she means it, "get some air, do something, I just really really need to crash."

He looks at her for a long moment. His hand has moved from her forehead to the back of her neck, resting there lightly, and she hasn't moved away from it. “Let me call a car, we can go to that restaurant some other time” he whispers mostly to himself as ___ sighs with relief, going back to resting against the bench back. 

“I promise I’ll be a lot more fun tomorrow morning, I just need to sleep” ___ mumbles and Yoongi can’t help but be fascinated by this new side to her, the extremely exhausted that makes her whiny. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" he asks, looking at her sideways, and his arm comes around her naturally, his hand finding her far shoulder and drawing her back toward him, her head settling against him with the ease of something practiced.

"I hadn't seen you in so long," she says finally, her voice quiet and honest, the filter that exhaustion removes making everything simpler. "I didn't want to waste time sleeping."

He goes still, not visibly, not in any way she'd catch in the state she's in, but something in him just stops for a moment and sits with that. “Please just tell me the next time you’re too tired” Yoongi pleads as a car rolls in, hoping it’s theirs.

"Come on," he says gently, standing and bringing her with him, his hand steady at her back. She goes without complaint, leaning into his side, and he keeps his arm around her as they walk toward the car, her steps slow and his matching them without thinking about it. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything? Room service? Have food picked up?” Yoongi talks as he swipes the key card, “I can’t, I feel nauseous already” ___ answers with great delay as she picks up the pace, walking up to it but struggling to open it.

“Need any help?” Yoongi asks and ___ simply nods walking to the washroom, she is optimizing the time, going straight to washing up while Yoongi finds her pyjamas. He helps her out, wiping her face that she left damp, helping her remove her rings and watch, and is almost fascinated by the speed in which she gets into bed. 

Yoongi slips into bed approximately twenty minutes later, hoping she’s already asleep and it seems to be true until she stirs towards him. “I am so sorry” ___ mumbles and Yoongi’s eyebrows knit as she moves even closer, or he does, Yoongi’s not sure.

“___ you flew across continents for me, you’re allowed to be tired” Yoongi speaks softly, pushing some of her hair behind her ear. “I know, it’s just that I thought we’d be having sex and instead we’re falling asleep at 6 pm” she speaks against his arm and something in his chest does a complicated thing and he presses his lips together and looks at the ceiling for a moment, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and quiet and completely helpless, the kind that sneaks up on him. 

“We have an entire month” Yoongi reassures her, he isn’t sure what the move is, this is technically their second date, but he also wants to cuddle her, maybe even kiss her if he could be just a bit braver. “I counted, and with your work and mine, we only have 17 days together”

He pulls her in, properly, his arm coming around her, and she goes without stirring, fitting against him with the ease of something that has been doing this for years instead of days.

"Seventeen days is a lot," he says softly, into her hair. She makes a small sound, almost agreement, almost already dreaming. “We can still have a lot of fun, just tell me the next time you’re tired like this" he says, quieter now, his head leaning down but ___ seems to be fast asleep against his chest. 

Yoongi has rules about this sort of thing. No sleeping in the same bed before the fifth date. No inviting someone on tour before you're actually together. No cuddling before, he looks down at her, well.

He looks back at the ceiling. The rules were built for a specific kind of situation. A careful, sensible situation where feelings arrived in an orderly fashion. The rules had not accounted for ___ specifically, which in retrospect was a significant oversight in the design.

He exhales slowly, a bit scared of how much he’s already feeling but also very excited but it all, no one has been like her, she’s truly the anomaly to the experiment. 

“Come here, we should take pictures together as well” ___ gestures towards Yoongi who turns towards his security personnel with her phone. She’s banned pictures on his samsung, something about them just not looking right. Yoongi jogs beside her, the sun peaking through the golden gate bridge, the soft morning glow on her face, he can’t help but smile.

“You look very pretty in the morning” Yoongi compliments her, posing awkwardly beside each other. “You think I look pretty after a 14 hour flight, I don’t trust you” ___ teases as she shifts closer, the security guard continuing to take pictures.

“Well you’re always pretty to me,” Yoongi continues nonchalantly, like this is the most natural thing in the world, ___’s blush growing deeper. “Am I just that, arm candy Yoongi-si?” ___ teases as she looks up at him.

“Well that, also you're so terrifyingly confident and smart, so kind,” Yoongi says, his fingers intertwining with hers. “Wow, I’m arm candy for BTS’s Suga, I’ve finally made it in life” ___ jokes, mostly because she doesn’t want to process the other compliments he gave her.

"Okay," the security guard calls out, "I think I got some good ones." "Thank you," ___ calls back, and her voice only wavers slightly. Yoongi squeezes her hand once, still not looking at her, and starts back down the path, pulling her gently with him, away from the rocky terrain, his grip sure and unhurried.

“So, you fly to LA tomorrow morning?” Yoongi confirms as he drys his hair, he finds ___ staring at her phone intently, like she’s overanalysing something. “___?” he calls her again, walking closer. Yoongi sees her shuffling through the pictures from the golden gate bridge, stuck at one particular one where he’s looking at her instead of facing forward.

He sits down on the edge of the bed beside her. She looks up at him, then at the photo, then back at him. "What are we?" she asks. Not confrontational, not loaded, just genuinely asking, the way she asks things she actually wants answered.

He looks at her with the expression of someone who finds the question slightly puzzling. "What do you mean?" "I mean-" she gestures between them, "us. This. What is this."

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, simply, with complete confidence, the way he'd say something obvious, like the name of a street or the time of a flight. Then he tilts his head slightly, reading her face. "Was that not clear?"

She stares at him, “___ I begged you to join me for the tour, why would I do that? I didn't think we were dating?” Yoongi speaks, the towel coming up to her hair to dry it instead. “So, you’ve not brought girls around when they were just a fling?” ___ deflects again, teasing now that she’s gotten the answer she’s wanted.

“No” he says, flatly, no elaboration, the kind of no that closes a door completely. He keeps drying her hair, unbothered, and she lets him, looking up at him from where she's sitting, close enough now to see everything his face is doing in the quiet of the room. 

“Did you really think we were a fling or something, what’s it called now?” Yoongi stops to think for a second, “A situationship?” his amused tone is not helping the laughter escaping ___, her falling flat on the bed. 

“You grandpa, how do you know what that even is?” “Jungkook’s love live is complicated” Yoongi answers, pulling her up, but ___ just pulls him with her. She reaches up and pushes his damp hair back from his forehead, slow and deliberate, and he stays completely still beneath it, watching her, and when she doesn't move her hand away he turns his head slightly into it, just barely, just enough.

The kiss starts soft and then doesn't stay that way, his hand finding her waist, pulling her closer with the quiet certainty of someone who has wanted to do this all day and has run out of reasons not to. She goes willingly, her fingers curling into his shirt, unbuttoning his shirt almost immediately as his hands wander, his fingers running the length of her thighs, stopping just to pull her back up.

“Hey, you can’t do that” ___ complaints as Yoongi successfully makes her stand up, they have dinner reservations with the members in less than thirty minutes. “What? I didn’t do anything?” Yoongi answers with great restraint, knowing exactly what he just pulled.

“You know exactly what you just did Mr Min” ___ whines, going back to getting ready, very slowly putting on each piece of jewellery. “I kinda like being called Mr Min” Yoongi confesses as he watches her though the mirror, and the devious smile that immediately graces her lips scares him a bit. 

“Oh, do you Mr. Min?” ___ teases turning around, her blouse coming off in one swift motion. She's looking at him with the expression of a woman who has just evened a score and knows it, perfectly composed, completely unbothered. 

He looks at her, at the blouse on the floor, at her as she snaps off her bra in one swift motion, just standing there in a mini-skirt. "That's not fair," Yoongi mutters weakly, his eyes trailing all over her, clearly losing this as ___ pushes him back onto the bed. 

"Isn't it?" she says pleasantly, her hands moving quickly to unbutton his trousers. “How about, for the little move you pulled earlier, I just do this for a second and get dressed again?” ___’s voice is low as her hands rub against his bulge. 

“That’s just mean” Yoongi whines, propping himself against his arm, completely helpless to her whims as her soft hands wander, pulling his briefs low, “No what’s meaner is you pulling away after making me think you’re going to finger me” ___ complaints as Yoongi lets out a soft moan, her hand rubbing down his length.

“I am so sorry okay, but please keep going” Yoongi barely gets the words out as ___ gently kisses his tip. “Now what should we do, should I suck your dick or should we get dressed for dinner?” ___ knows they’re not making dinner when Yoongi moans a quiet please. 

Yoongi’s phone is going off on the nightstand, as Yoongi pulls ___ back to the bed, she’s spent far too much time on her knees and he needs to be inside her. “Darling you are so wet already” Yoongi murmurs in her ears as his nimble fingers rub in a circle. “Stop fucking teasing me” ___ whines, pushing his fingers inside her.

___’s breathless, so close to climax as Yoongi’s fingers keep going in a steady motion, no matter how much she wants, he refuses to pick up the pace, taking his sweet time. His phone rings just as ___ is shaking in his arms, the waves of orgasm sending shockwaves through her but Yoongi just keeps going.

Yoongi sighs with frustration as his phone rings once again, “Stay quiet, just for a minute” Yoongi mumbles, his fingers still going as ___ kisses his neck just to keep quiet. “Jimin-ah, we can’t make it, ___’s sick” Yoongi talks with a devious smile on his lips as ___ takes a sharp breath.

“Hyung be better with the excuses at least,” Jimin teases and Yoongi chuckles, “I swear, she’s not well, she’s been in bed all evening” Yoongi talks and ___ lightly bites his neck, so close once again. 

“Alright, if she’s sick, I hope she feels better” Jimin talks and all Yoongi does is hum as he ends the call. “You’re going to leave a hickey” Yoongi complains but ___ just cradles in his lap, facing him now, quickly putting on a condom.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped to pick up a call” ___ continues biting where she was as Yoongi thrusts inside her, the motion sending her in a frenzy as he just keeps going, slow and soft. “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken off your top” Yoongi teases, steadying her in his arms, the glow on her face, how her hair keeps sticking everywhere, he could get used to this view.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have teased-” ___ stops talking as Yoongi picks up the pace, arching back with pleasure, Yoongi’s takes a sharp breath, “Are you close, I am so-” Yoongi nods, biting her lower lip, kissing her rapidly as they orgasm. ___’s limbs give out, both of them falling back into bed. 

She reaches up and traces the line of his jaw lightly, just because she can, just because she's allowed to now, and he closes his eyes briefly beneath it.  “I don’t think I can walk Mr Min” ___ teases, pulling the sheets over herself. “You are beautiful” Yoongi notes as he turns to face her, her cheeks still flush as they both continue to catch their breaths.

“So are you” ___’s voice is uncharacteristically shy as he pulls the sheet even higher, “I am beautiful?” Yoongi teases, his breath finally even. “Yes, you’re also so buff, where did those arms come from?” ___ talks, running a hand over her heart, trying to calm herself down. 

“Are you okay? Just give me a few seconds and I’ll get you some water” Yoongi mumbles, tucking her hair away, it’s gotten significantly longer since the first time he saw her, reaching her shoulders now. “I am fine, but you were great, really” ___ talks, shuffling closer till she’s firmly resting against his chest. 

“And you are so evil, but also so amazing, taking off your top and we just derail our evening like this” Yoongi talks and he can feel her laughing before he hears it. He pauses and looks down at the top of her head. "I had a plan for this evening," he continues..

She tilts her chin up to look at him, her eyes still warm with laughter, her cheek pressed against his chest. "Was this better than the plan?"

He meets her eyes. Looks away and looks back. "Don't," he says. "Was it?" "You're so smug," he tells her.

"Yoongi-si" "Significantly better than the plan," he admits, quietly, which is the most she's going to get and she knows it and takes it anyway, her smile pressing into his chest as she settles back down. His hand keeps moving at her back, slow and easy.

___ goes around the apartment, picking up after herself. She really needs a cleaning lady or move because the mess around her apartment has only grown over the last six months. Her job’s always involved some travel, with a boyfriend on tour she’s been away even more and she doesn’t even remember the last time she was in the guest room.

___’s also cleaning because Yoongi is finally going to be back at home for a month, and the last time he was here he spent half the time helping her clean. She dials his number as she moves through laundry, but when the call doesn’t go through she just assumes he’s flying home, the last concert before the break was yesterday morning.

Yoongi: I’ve sent a few desserts your home as consolation for not being there to celebrate your birthday tonight, he should be there in 20ish minutes

Yoongi: Are you even home?

___: I am home, I’m not feeling the best and my apartment needed some TLC

___: You didn’t have to send anything, you’ll be here tomorrow anyway

Yoongi: Not feeling well? Oh, the first week of the month… you absolutely need desserts

___: Are you tracking my period?

___: It’s kinda cute but I don’t think I ever told you that explicitly?

Yoongi: We started fighting around the same day each month and I connected the dots

___: Are you saying that I pick pointless fights around my birthday? Because that’s rude

Yoongi: Darling, last month we fought about if a window should be opened or not and then you cried when I very gently explained why it needs to be opened for airflow

___: This feels like we’re fighting about a fight, am I that irrational on my period?

Yoongi: I don’t care, all those hormonal changes and pain would make anyone irrational

Yoongi: Just rest till the desserts arrive, I kinda like organizing your mess

___: It’s not my mess, it’s organized chaos

Yoongi: An organized mess where I can’t find the salt in the kitchen

___: okay, it’s a mess

___ goes back to cleaning when her phone doesn’t buzz for a while, Yoongi must have gotten busy with something, so does she as he hauls her laundry over the sofa. She’s mid-folding when the bell rings, for a woman living alone she should have checked through the peephole before swinging the door open.

But she’s kinda glad she didn’t, because the sheer surprise she feels at the view of her boyfriend standing outside with flowers and his carry-on dropped to his feet. “Surprise!” he musters up all his energy for that, engulfing her in a tight hug as he finally takes a deep breath.

“Oh my god, I thought you were flying tomorrow?” ___ talks into his jacket, momentarily lifting her face, only to be hugged tighter. “I didn’t want to arrive tomorrow and be groggy and tired on your birthday” Yoongi talks into her hair, taking a long whiff of her hair. 

“So you flew directly after the concert?” “Who cares about the logistics, the important thing is that I am here” Yoongi talks as he finally detaches, taking a long look at her as he smiles widely. ___ intertwines their hands, leading him in and giving him approximately two seconds to drop all his stuff before she holds his face, it’s been too long since they’ve kissed. 

"I missed you so-" she says between kisses, soft and unhurried, her thumbs against his jaw, "-so much, and I love you so so much and you're like the best boyfriend ever-"

He makes a sound against her mouth that is warm and amused and tired all at once, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer with the ease of something practiced, and she can feel him smiling into the kiss which makes her smile too, which makes kissing considerably more difficult and neither of them minds.

"Best boyfriend ever," he repeats, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eyes barely open from exhaustion, red rimmed from the flight and the concert and the night in between. "I also did a bunch of shopping for you at duty free. Does that get me any brownie points?” Yoongi asks his eyes trailing down the white dress she always wears just at home.

His eyes trail down the white dress she always wears at home, the one he's come to associate with her off days, her genuinely-at-rest days, the version of her that exists only in her own apartment with no clients to see and nowhere to be.

"Honey, baby, sugar plum buttercup-" she takes his face in her hands again, very seriously, "-that gets you so many brownie points, but you have got to stop spending so much money on me." She pushes her hair out of her face with one hand, still not used to the new cut, the layers falling everywhere, doing whatever they want.

"Why?" Yoongi says. He pouts, she's too busy dealing with the direct effect of it. "I have too much money to spend in a lifetime. I should spoil my girlfriend after being away for so long."

"Yoongi-" "Six weeks," he says. "Six weeks, one day, and-" he checks some internal calculation, "-about fourteen hours."

She stares at him. "You counted." "I'm just saying the math supports the duty free shopping." He reaches up and pushes the layered hair from her face himself, tucking it behind her ear the way he always does, watching it fall forward again immediately. His hand stays at her jaw. "I like the haircut."

"It does whatever it wants," she says, slightly mournfully. "I know." He tucks it back again, pointlessly. "I like it." She looks at him, at the exhaustion and the pout and the hand at her jaw and the duty free bags presumably somewhere in the carry-on she hasn't let him unpack yet, and she thinks that she has been thoroughly swooned by a man who is barely conscious.

"You're impossible," she says. "I love you” Yoongi states simply, the same way he did earlier this year in Paris. He just blurted it out one morning while leaving for rehearsal, never making a big deal out of it, like it was the most natural thing for him to say.

“Are you sure that you want to go on a trip before the last leg of the tour? You’ll be exhausted from travelling by then?” ___ talks through her airpod, her phone still somewhere in her purse as she continues to get the gallery ready for an event. 

“We haven’t just gone on a vacation just for us, it’s always been us trying to piece together a few days between the tour, that’s not a real vacation” Yoongi retorts as he sits down to get ready for the first Bangkok show. “There must be somewhere you want to go?” He continues already having shortlisted a few options.

“Oh this client last week was telling me about this amazing Maldives resort he went to, it’s so beautiful and private” ___ talks, fixing a few frames that still need to be put up. “He? Are you sure he was telling or was he offering?” Yoongi teases and ___ sighs. “I work in art, Yoongi,” ___ says. “Do you know how many men have tried to flirt with me by explaining private islands?”

He huffs out a laugh, the one that always sounds slightly disbelieving, like amusement caught him off guard. She can picture it immediately despite not being able to see him, head tipped back slightly in the makeup chair, phone balanced in one hand while someone fixes his hair.

“And?” he asks. “And what?” “Did the resort at least look nice?”

“Oh, unbelievable.” She bends to pick up a stack of exhibition cards from the floor. “White sand. Crystal water. Villas with pools bigger than my apartment.”

“See?” he says immediately. “You want to go.” She smiles despite how much they shouldn’t do this.  “I want to sleep,” she corrects. “You’ll be exhausted, I’ll probably have three openings back to back by then, and we’ll spend the entire trip unconscious.”

“You know,” he says after a moment, quieter now as the backstage noise fades slightly, “I think I miss you best when I’m tired.” Her hands still briefly over the stack of cards.

It’s such a Yoongi sentence, not dramatic or casual. Just honest in that careful devastating way he has. “What does that even mean,” she asks softly.

“I don’t know.” She hears movement, fabric shifting, maybe him leaning back in the chair. “When I’m busy I can ignore it because everything’s moving all the time. Schedules, rehearsals, flights. But when I get tired enough that my brain finally shuts up a little…” A pause. “You’re kind of the first thing I look for.”

“Honey you can’t just say stuff like that when I miss you like crazy” ___ speaks softly, all she wants is to see him, feel him, she’s just been missing him. Something in his chest pulls tight in that quiet painful way longing sometimes does when it lands at the wrong time of day. 

“Yesterday I was walking back home and all these couples were out,” she continues, absentmindedly straightening a stack of gallery brochures as she talks. “Getting dinner, holding hands, arguing about where to go, normal boring couple things.” A small laugh escapes her. “And I just kept wishing you were there.”

He looks down at the floor for a second. There’s always a specific kind of helplessness that comes with tour. He’s learned to live with it, mostly. The missing, the leaving, the constant temporary nature of things. 

“What would we have been doing?” he asks quietly. She smiles immediately at the question, hearing what it really is beneath it. 

“Probably arguing.” “About?”

“You refusing to let me smoke.” “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“You sound eighty years old.” “You cough for three business days afterward.”

“That’s not the point.” She walks toward the back office, lowering her voice instinctively once she’s away from the staff. “Maybe we’d stop for tteokbokki.”

“You always want tteokbokki at night.” “Because it tastes better at night.”

“That’s scientifically untrue.” She laughs softly, and he feels some invisible tension in himself ease at the sound. “And then,” she continues, settling into the fantasy now, “you’d insist on walking me home even though your place is in the opposite direction.”

“I would.” “I know.” Her voice gentles around the words. “That’s the problem.”

The thing about Yoongi is that he loves in practical ways first. Walking someone home. Buying three coffees because he doesn’t know which one they like. Remembering flight times. Sending weather screenshots. Calling managers to make impossible schedules work. But distance makes practical love difficult. 

Distance leaves him with words instead, and he’s still learning what to do with those. “I miss you too,” he says finally, the sentence low and steady and entirely unprotected. “More than I thought I would.” 

___ leans back against the desk behind her, eyes closing briefly. “Come home soon,” she murmurs.

There’s a long pause on his end, “I’m trying,” he says quietly, and she can hear the exhaustion underneath it now, the real one he saves mostly for her. “I think if I stay away from you much longer I’m going to start doing irrational things.”

She smiles immediately. “Like?” Another pause, she can practically hear him debating whether to say it.

“Looking at apartments closer to your gallery.” Her breath catches before she can stop it. Yoongi rubs his arm, not knowing if he’s said something utterly stupid, “Something for us maybe, I’ve just made one search” he continues honestly and ___ can’t help the tears welling in her eyes. 

On the other end Yoongi immediately notices the quiet stretching too long. “Hey,” he says softly, sitting up properly now. “I didn’t mean it like-” He rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly uncertain. “I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, I thought it’d be easier if I was closer to your gallery and then-”

He stops himself, he’s rambling. Which she’s realizing is rare enough from him that it almost makes her cry harder. “It was stupid,” he says quickly, already retreating from the admission. “Forget I said anything.”

___ lets out a wet laugh despite herself, shaking her head immediately even though he can’t see it.

“No,” she says quietly. “No, don’t do that.” He goes still. There’s noise around him again now, staff moving in and out, someone asking about wardrobe changes, but he’s listening to her so fully it’s almost tangible through the phone.

“I just…” She exhales shakily, pressing the heel of her hand briefly against her eyes. “You caught me off guard.”

“With the apartment thing?” “Yes, Yoongi, with the apartment thing,” she says with a laugh threaded through the emotion now. “You can’t casually mention moving in together while I’m actively suffering from how much I miss you”

He thinks about all the versions of them that exist lately only in transition. Her half asleep face on facetime at two in the morning while he’s eating room service in another timezone. Her voice breaking apart through bad hotel wifi. Him landing in Seoul already calculating how many hours they get before one of them leaves again.

This, exactly, was why he didn’t want a girlfriend. Not because he didn’t want love. Because he knew what happened when love had to survive logistics. Because somewhere deep down he understood that eventually another person would have to start structuring their loneliness around his schedule.

He drags a hand slowly over his mouth. “I used to think,” he talks carefully, “that if I never let myself really build something serious then maybe I could avoid doing this to someone.” A small humorless laugh escapes him. “Very logical solution. Very emotionally healthy.”

“Yoongi…” “No, it’s true.” He rubs at his arm absently now, exhaustion making him honest in that dangerous way it always does. “I know what this life feels like from the inside. I know how disappointing it can be sometimes.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Missing birthdays. Leaving dinners early. Watching someone you love get used to being alone.”

The gallery office suddenly feels too small around her. Because she can hear it now beneath everything he’s saying. Not fear of commitment, but the fear of becoming absent.

“I remember telling my mother I didn’t have time for a girlfriend,” he says quietly, a faint disbelieving smile touching his voice now. “And I meant it. I really did.” He pauses. “I think I thought wanting someone badly enough would just make the impossible parts hurt more.”

“And does it?” she asks softly. The room goes quiet on his end for a moment. “Yes,” he says honestly. Then, after a beat, “But not having you hurts more.”

The tears come properly then, silent and immediate. ___ presses her hand harder against her eyes, breathing out a shaky laugh because of course this is happening on a Thursday afternoon between exhibition setups. 

“I have to do math before I can even talk to you.” A wet laugh escapes ___. “Do you know how romantic it is calculating if your boyfriend is conscious?” That finally pulls a real laugh out of him, tired and warm and aching around the edges.

But she hears it fade quickly, because they’re both thinking the same thing now. How much work this is. How much wanting each other has become an active sustained effort. “That’s the part I didn’t expect,” Yoongi says after a while, quieter now. “How easy it would be to keep choosing you anyway.” 

___’s hand almost absentmindedly plays with the pendant Yoongi got her for her birthday, “Yoongi,” she says softly. “Mm?” “I love you.” The words leave her gently.

On the other end of the line he goes completely still. ___ keeps turning the pendant slowly between her fingers, eyes fixed on nothing now. “I love you when I’m exhausted and irritated and calculating timezones,” she admits quietly. “I love you when I’m angry at tour for taking you away from me.” A shaky breath leaves her. “I love you even when this feels impossible sometimes.”

His chest aches so sharply it almost feels like fear, not of her loving him. Of how badly he loves her back. Because Yoongi has spent most of his adult life believing love had to fit around ambition carefully or it would break beneath it. That eventually someone would ask him to choose. 

“I think,” she says softly, almost smiling through the tears now, “that’s how I know it’s real.”

He lowers his head briefly, eyes shut, he wishes she were here so badly it physically hurts. Wishes he could pull her into his lap and bury his face into her neck and stay there until this terrible restless homesick feeling finally settled. 

“You can’t say that right before I go on stage,” he says finally, voice rougher now. A soft laugh escapes her immediately. “I love you too, I love you in hotel rooms,” he murmurs. “In airports. Half asleep. Fully stressed. I love you enough that I catch myself looking for things to bring back for you in every country now.” A faint breath of a laugh. “Which is deeply embarrassing.”

Her eyes close tightly. “And I think…” He pauses, searching for the words carefully now because he wants to get this right. “I think loving you stopped feeling temporary a long time ago.” That one nearly undoes her completely.

“Hyung? Are you okay?” Jimin asks as they are once again leaving the airport, Yoongi quietly mumbles a no as they shuffle inside the car. “It’s been an exhausting tour, ___ and I had this big fight last week about something so stupid and god am I tired” Yoongi confesses as the car moves around the highway.

“What happened?” Jimin asks quietly. Yoongi lets out a humorless breath through his nose. “She fell asleep waiting for my call.” Jimin winces immediately. “Ouch.” “Yeah.”

“I know this life is hard,” he says after a while. “I knew it before we started dating. I just…” He laughs once bitterly under his breath. “I think I underestimated what it feels like when the person waiting for you is someone you actually can’t stand disappointing.”

Jimin watches him carefully for a moment. Yoongi has always carried guilt strangely. Quietly. Internally. Like he believes if he absorbs enough of it himself nobody else will have to. “I hate this part,” Yoongi murmurs eventually. “The feeling that no matter how hard I try, eventually my schedule still wins.” 

“Hyung,” he says softly, “you know what’s different though?” Yoongi glances at him tiredly. “You’re talking like someone who’s trying to keep her.” Jimin shrugs lightly. “Not someone looking for a way out.”

They’re quiet for the rest of the ride, Yoongi contemplating how he’s going to make it up to her, what he’s going to say. He almost dozes off till he’s being gently shrugged by Jimin, something about them being there. 

Yoongi steadies his bag as Jimin nudges his rib cage, hard. “___?” Yoongi can make her out of just her shadow as she leans against a car, they had discussed this a few weeks ago, he just didn’t expect her to be here after whatever yesterday was.

“What are you doing here?” She shrugs one shoulder lightly, though her eyes are already glassy in the parking lot lights.

“I wasn't going to show up just because we fought?” Something inside him breaks instantly at how simple she makes it sound. Yoongi looks down briefly, jaw tightening hard enough that she realizes suddenly he’s trying very seriously not to cry. 

“You shouldn’t have driven this late,” he murmurs instead because it’s safer than saying what he actually wants to say right now. “You shouldn’t have fought with me from another continent,” she replies softly.

That finally pulls a real breathless laugh out of him and then neither of them can really hold the distance anymore. Yoongi drops his bag carelessly onto the pavement just as she reaches him, and the second his arms wrap around her he exhales so deeply it almost sounds painful. Like his body’s been waiting to do that for days.

“I don’t want to say sorry because stuff like that might happen again and I can’t lie to you” Yoongi speaks truthfully. “I know,” she says quietly.

Yoongi’s expression shifts faintly at that, like he wasn’t entirely expecting this. “I just…” He exhales shakily, forehead dropping briefly against hers now. “I need you to know I’m never not trying.” His voice lowers. “Even when I get it wrong.”

“You know what the worst part is?” she murmurs softly. “What?” “I wasn’t even angry because of the phone call.” His hands tighten around her waist slightly. “I was angry because I missed you so much already.” A weak laugh escapes her. “And then I had to miss you disappointed too.”

Because that’s exactly what yesterday felt like, not conflict, longing with nowhere to go. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against hers, eyes closing briefly. “I hate that you cry because of me.” “You also make me very happy because of you,” she whispers immediately.

“That grammar was terrible.” “I’m emotional.” A tired laugh slips out of him then, quieter now, warmer. God, he missed this too. The way she can pull him back toward something lighter before he disappears too far into guilt.

“Now kiss and make up,” Jimin calls as he walks backwards toward his building entrance, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder. “I can’t take brooding Yoongi hyung anymore. He’s been unbearable all week.”

Yoongi sighs deeply without even looking at him. “Please go inside.” “I’m serious,” Jimin says, grinning now. “He kept staring out the van window like a divorced father.” ___ laughs against Yoongi’s shoulder immediately, the sound finally pulling a reluctant smile onto his face too.

“And he snapped at me because I asked if he wanted ramyeon.” “You asked me three times.”

“Because you looked emotionally unwell.” Yoongi shakes his head tiredly as Jimin snickers to himself. “Anyway,” Jimin says, swiping the card to the building gate, “fix him please”

Then a softer, fond voice follows, “You look better already, hyung.” And with that he disappears inside, leaving the two of them alone again beneath the parking lot lights. The silence settles differently now.

___ brushes her thumb lightly beneath his eye before speaking quietly. “Your parents are still on vacation, right?” He nods once slowly. “They left for Jeju yesterday, come home with me,” he says quietly. Yoongi’s hand slides up slowly into her hair, fingers curling gently at the base of her neck before he pulls her toward him and kisses her like he’s been hungry for her. 

His mouth soft against hers as he exhales shakily into the kiss, shoulders finally loosening beneath her hands for what feels like the first time since he landed. “You know,” he murmurs softly, voice rough with exhaustion and affection both, “I think this is the longest week of my life.”

She smiles faintly, brushing her nose against his. “Good thing you’re home now.” His eyes close briefly at that. Home, not Seoul, not the apartment, her.

And maybe that’s the thing that feels different tonight. Not just relief. Not just surviving another stretch of distance. The tour is over. For the first time in months there isn’t another flight looming somewhere ahead of them. No countdown ticking quietly in the background. No rehearsals stealing entire weeks before they can properly settle into each other again. Their first anniversary is in two weeks.

“You’ve been living like this all this time, what do you need a walk in closet for?” ___ complains as she walks around the dimly lit closet, admiring his watch collection. “Come on, lets go to bed” Yoongi whines from behind her, his arms loosely wrapped around her, he’s been clingy like this since they got inside the apartment.

“I have a meeting set with a realtor next week, you sure you still want to live with me, I never put away my laundry” ___ speaks as they finally slip into bed. Yoongi turns toward her immediately.

There’s barely a second of hesitation before he moves closer automatically, arm sliding around her waist underneath the blankets until she’s tucked against his chest like that’s where she’s been sleeping forever. “I’ve seen your apartment,” he murmurs sleepily into her hair. “It’s a mess”

She gasps softly. “That is unbelievably rude.” “You own a chair entirely dedicated to clothes.”

“It’s an organizational system.” “It’s a fabric mountain.” ___ laughs under her breath as he presses a lazy kiss against her shoulder.

“Are you sure about moving in together? We might not tour this year but there might be times when I’m still away?” Yoongi asks as he trails kisses downward. “Yes I am sure” ___ replies confidently as Yoongi bites her boob, knowing exactly where this is going. 

“Aren’t you tired?” ___ investigates as Yoongi mumbles a no, removing her slip dress in one go. She doesn’t get an answer. What she does get is Yoongi softly biting her nipple as she arches back. “Another perk of living together, we can have sex any time we want, anywhere we want” Yoongi says as his hand fondles her soft breast, the other hand trailing south.

“We can do it against the glass like we did in Maldives,” she murmurs. That finally pulls a real reaction out of him.

Yoongi groans softly into her skin, forehead dropping briefly against her chest like the memory alone exhausted him all over again. “You almost killed me that night.”

“You were very enthusiastic.” “You wore that bikini on purpose.” A faint smug smile appears on her face. “Maybe.” He looks up at her then, hair messy, eyes dark and sleepy and impossibly affectionate all at once.

Yoongi shuffles around the kitchen looking for a snack, all the fridge has is leftovers and fruit. He settles on an apple as he continues to wash it for a little too long, too lazy to do the whole peeling and cutting thing.

___: Why’d you leave this morning in such a hurry? Waking up all by myself is no fun

His phone pings and he stops mid-way, typing a response immediately, a ghost of a smile appearing the second her name appears. He exhales softly through his nose, drying his hand absently against his shirt as he types back. 

Yoongi: I told you, my dad had a doctors appointment, he won’t tell but he wanted me there

Yoongi: I am sorry, I can make up by coming over tonight and not leaving in the morning

___: I have a thing, might not come home

Yoongi: What thing?

___: Work thing

Yoongi: That’s very vague, but okay, I’ll see you on Saturday then? Can we go shopping?

“Who are you talking to smiling like that?” his mother shouts from the other end of the living room, startling him, almost into dropping his phone. It’s been a year and he’s successfully kept a lid on this relationship, the less she knows the better.

“No one, the guys are being funny in the group chat? Where are you off too?” he asks as his mother continues putting on her earrings.

“It’s the Lee’s 40th wedding anniversary and I thought I might bring them something, and ___ is going to be there” he stills not very noticeably, “I just love her,” his mother continues, completely unaware, stepping back into the kitchen to grab the baked goods she ordered earlier. “Too bad you never went out with her.”

He almost chokes on his own breath, covering it with a cough. “…Yeah,” he mutters, because what else is he supposed to say to that?

But his mind is already moving. So, ___ is in the same building as him and didn’t even tell him, is this why she won’t be coming home tonight? The wheels in his brain are going, a smirk almost appearing, “Maybe I also come with you, I was pretty rude last time when I didn’t visit them?”

“When?” she asks almost absentmindedly, forgetting that afternoon completely. “The time you tried to, you know what, I am going to change, wait for me”

Yoongi scrambles around, picking out a soft blue shirt and tucking it in almost instinctively. He fixes his hair next, more carefully than he’ll admit, adjusting it once, then again, like he’s trying to make it look like he didn’t try at all. 

“Why do you even want to come, you’re usually not interested in my friends at all?” his mother questions from outside his room, watching him contemplate between two belts. 

“That’s not true, you remember when I sent flowers for your friend Mrs Song?” “You didn’t send them, I did” she retorts almost immediately, “Well, I paid for them” he shoots back, not missing a beat. 

He tightens the belt, exhaling softly through his nose before grabbing his watch, fastening it around his wrist with a little more care than usual. “I’m just being polite,” he adds, tone deliberately casual, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. “You said it yourself, I was rude last time.”

His mother leans against the doorframe now, watching him more closely. “You didn’t care about being rude last time.” “Well, as I grow older, I am trying to be a better person, come on” he walks right past her, she nods her head in confusion but decides to go along with it anyway.

Yoongi wouldn’t admit it, but he’s nervous. Things have been going well, too well. They move in together in a month, all their free time is being spent decorating their new home. The next natural steps would be to meet the parents, something he’s never done. “Stop fidgeting” his dad comments as he continues to fiddle around with his collar, the shirt suddenly suffocating him.

Yoongi spends the entire elevator ride thinking of what he’s going to say, which isn’t a long time to prepare for something this monumental. What exactly is he supposed to say? Hello, surprise, I’ve secretly been dating your daughter for over a year and we accidentally bought an apartment together?

His mother rings the bell before he can spiral further. The door swings open almost immediately, to his relief it’s ___.  For one beautiful second her face lights up instinctively at the sight of him. Then she notices his parents standing there and immediately freezes.

“Oh! Hi, um” ___ stammers, fixing her hair the best she can as she tugs the sweater, well his sweater to be accurate that she stole just last week. “Hi, how are you ___, we just wanted to stop by with some treats before your parents leave for Europe” Mrs Min adds and ___ nods quickly, recovering with impressive speed considering she is currently trying to piece together why he’s here.

“Right, yes, come in,” she says, stepping aside quickly. “Mom and dad are inside.” Yoongi walks past her carefully, close enough to catch the tiny glare she shoots him under her breath.

“Ah, you made it!” Mrs. Lee says cheerfully as she appears from the kitchen carrying coffee cups.

Mr. Lee follows behind her with Yoongi’s father, already mid-conversation about travel routes and airport timing.

For a few blessed minutes, things settle.

Coffee is poured. Pastries are unpacked. The parents fall naturally into conversation around the dining table while Yoongi hovers awkwardly near the kitchen island pretending he isn’t hyperaware of every movement ___ makes.

“I’ve also made some sandwiches, let me just bring those out” ___ adds as she stands up, wanting a few minutes just to herself. “Oh, I’ll help” Yoongi adds and all the heads turn to him, none of them expecting this.

“It’s not much Yoongi-si, I’ll just be a few moments” ___ argues with a tight smile, hoping no one in this room catches onto this tension. “Oh I’m sure my mother’s told you what a great cook I am, I can help” Yoongi can’t help but tease, knowing this is going to cost him later.

“What is with these two?” Mrs Min murmurs to Mrs Lee as the two walk into kitchen, “Maybe he’s interested now, too bad she already has a boyfriend” Mrs Lee comments as they continue to sip on their coffee.

“She has a boyfriend?” Mrs Min asks with shock, she has secretly been hoping for her son to come to his senses all this time. “Well, she hasn’t told me explicitly, but she went to a vacation to Maldives and that’s such a couples destination” Mrs Lee adds and the wheels in Mrs Min’s head are finally going. 

“When was she in Maldives?” “Early January I think, she didn’t even send us any pictures-” “Yoongi was in Maldives early January” Mrs. Lee blinks.

Mrs. Min blinks back, silence.

“Oh my god.” “OH MY GOD SHE’S WEARING HIS SWEATER THAT I GOT HIM FOR CHRISTMAS” Mrs Min yells as she rapidly walks towards the kitchen.  The closer they get, the quieter they become. Because suddenly they’re not entering casually anymore.

They’re investigating and then they stop dead in the doorway. ___ is standing close enough to Yoongi that their bodies almost touch, fingers gently smoothing down the collar of his shirt while Yoongi looks at her with an expression his mother has never seen him wear before.

Soft and completely gone for her. Like the entire world narrowed down to the woman fixing his clothes in the kitchen.

“Oh.” The word slips out of Mrs. Lee before she can stop it. The couple freeze instantly. ___’s hand is still resting lightly against Yoongi’s chest.

Yoongi turns first and unfortunately, instead of looking guilty, he looks caught in the exact way a man does when he’s deeply in love and interrupted mid-moment. Which is somehow more incriminating.

“How long has this been going on?” Mrs Min asks softly, not entirely believing what she’s seeing. ___ immediately drops her hand from Yoongi’s collar like she’s been burned.  

Yoongi exhales slowly, knowing he needs to take the lead in this situation, “A year and a half” he answers, his hand coming up to ___’s waist like he’s trying to tell it all with a show but ___ swats his hands immediately, like she can still talk her way out of this. 

There’s silence and immediately there are questions, lots of them. “A YEAR AND A HALF” “Why didn’t you tell us” “Is this why you’ve been working late” “Is this why we couldn’t come to the Paris show?”

Mrs. Min’s eyes widened further somehow. “Oh my god, you traveled to see him during the tour?”

“No..well sometimes-” “How many times?” Mrs. Lee gasps. ___ looks ready to faint.

Yoongi, meanwhile, has reached the point of surrender where he almost finds this funny. “Enough that she has airline status now,” he says honestly.

“Min Yoongi!” ___ hisses in horror. “What? We’re already caught.” “That does not mean volunteer information!”

From the dining room, both fathers have fully abandoned pretending not to listen and are now standing in the doorway too. Mr. Min crosses his arms slowly. “I knew something was going on when he wanted me to check documents to buy an apartment”

The interrogation moves from the kitchen hallway to the dining room because ___ can’t keep standing without feeling like she’s about to faint and Yoongi wanted everyone to eat the sandwiches she made. 

“When were you going to tell us that you’re moving in together, after you had children?” Mrs Min asks her son incredulously, she’s still in shock from this all, happy nonetheless. “What you aren’t engaged are you?” Mrs Lee asks as she rapidly reaches for ___’s hand.

“I wouldn’t ask ___ to marry me without speaking to her parents first,” Yoongi says immediately. The room quiets slightly at the seriousness in his tone. Because despite the chaos, despite the interrogation and the absolute catastrophe of this reveal, he means that sincerely.

Across the table, Mr. Lee watches him carefully now and for maybe the first time all afternoon, Yoongi feels genuinely nervous. “I’m not irresponsible,” he says quieter now, gaze flicking briefly toward ___ before returning to her parents. “I know how serious this is.”

___ looks at him softly for a second. Because beneath all the teasing and disaster and accidental exposure, that’s the thing about Yoongi, once he loves someone, he becomes frighteningly earnest about protecting the future around them.

Mrs. Min’s eyes narrow suddenly, too suddenly. “Wait.” Every person at the table goes still. “You said you wouldn’t ask without speaking to the parents first.” She points at him slowly. “Not that you haven’t thought about it.”

Yoongi makes the catastrophic mistake of glancing at ___ for half a second. And unfortunately that alone is enough.

Mrs. Lee gasps loudly. “Oh my god.” ___ blinks between them in confusion. “What?” Mrs. Min sits forward immediately. “You’ve thought about marriage.”

“We’re in a happy long term relationship, of course we have” “Do you have a ring?” his mother throws that question like a  grenade in the middle of the dining room. ___ turns toward him so fast she nearly knocks over her water glass.

Yoongi suddenly regrets every decision that led him here. Because the thing is, he does have a ring. Hidden badly, according to Namjoon. Carefully and thoughtfully selected over weeks because once the idea entered his head, it never really left again.

“No,” he says too quickly. Mrs. Min narrows her eyes instantly. “That was suspicious.” “I don’t have it with me.” The second the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s doomed.

“YOU HAVE A RING?” both mothers shriek simultaneously.

___ just stares at him, like her brain genuinely stopped functioning for a second. Yoongi rubs a hand down his face slowly. “Well,” Mr. Min says calmly, sounding deeply entertained now, “this escalated quickly.”

“You bought a ring?” ___ asks finally, voice small in a way that completely destroys him. And suddenly all the teasing leaves the room a little. “We talked about it, we were on the same page about marriage?” Yoongi turns, like he needs to talk about it urgently. 

“We did, I just didn’t expect you to actually buy a ring” The vulnerability in her voice hits him square in the chest. Because he understands what she means, not disbelief in them. Disbelief in how real this all suddenly sounds out loud.

Yoongi shifts slightly closer to her instinctively. “I wasn’t trying to pressure you,” he says lower now, like he’s forgotten there are four other people listening. “I just saw it and…” He exhales softly. “It felt right.”

___ looks at him for a long second. “They bought an apartment,” Mr. Lee mutters. “The married couple part was already implied.” “That’s true,” Mr. Min agrees.

“Is there a date on your mind?” Mrs Min asks quietly and that earns another dramatic gasp from Mrs Lee. “Okay,” ___ says finally, standing abruptly before this spirals into someone discussing grandchildren. “I think this is enough for today. Mom, dad, you both need to leave for the airport soon.” Then toward Yoongi’s parents, polite despite the emotional destruction currently occurring in the dining room, “Mrs. and Mr. Min, the desserts were delicious, and I do love your son, so I hope today won’t leave the wrong impression on your minds.” 

“Yoongi and I are leaving because apparently we need to have a conversation.” That finally gets his attention fully. Yoongi blinks up at her once. “Do we?”

“Yes.” “Am I in trouble?” “You will be if you don’t get moving” ___ speaks with a smile but Yoongi knows better by now and stands up immediately. She’s quiet as they close the door behind them and it’s right at that moment when Yoongi’s phone rings. 

He declines it and ___ sighs as she presses the elevator button with no clear plan on where they’re actually going to talk. Yoongi groans softly this time before answering. “Hi.”

There’s a pause, then his entire expression changes. “Oh.” ___ looks over immediately. “Our mattress is going to be there in a few minutes, they need someone to let them in” Yoongi continues and ___ simply hands him her car keys, knowing where they’re going. 

“Oh, hi… that room,” ___ says quickly, pointing them toward the bedroom. They nod and disappear down the hallway carrying it carefully while Yoongi steps aside to answer yet another phone call.

Apparently every single thing related to this apartment needs attention today. “Yes, Tuesday is fine,” he says distractedly into the phone while pacing slowly near the windows. “Yes please early in the day, I’m busy post afternoon”

___ watches him for a second. It still catches her off guard sometimes, this version of him. Not a massively successful musician. Not the exhausted version surviving airports and tour schedules. Just… her boyfriend trying to do everything right with their apartment.

The mattress gets assembled surprisingly quickly considering it took them nearly three weeks to choose one. “So, the sofa will be here on the tuesday so we’ll have enough of a ready home to move in, rest we can tackle once we’re here” Yoongi adds as ___ gets them some water from the fridge, they might not be living here, but they still have a fully stacked kitchen already.

“And I’ve booked a moving company for your place for Sunday, I’ll be there too-” Yoongi continues and ___ shuts him up with a soft kiss. All the tension from today just melts as he helplessly kisses her, his hands all over her till they settle under the sweater. 

“You stupid idiot” ___ pulls back just to say that but Yoongi only smiles as he pulls her even closer. “Did you really buy a ring?” she continues and Yoongi sighs, resting his forehead against hers. “I swear my mother, can we not make a big deal out of this, it’s not happening that soon, I want us to live together first and you weren’t supposed to find out like this” he explains which only makes ___ laugh more. 

“Is it beautiful? It’s not too flashy is it? I know you have money but big diamonds don’t suit me” ___ teases and he groans gripping her waist even tighter. “Darling I know what you like, can we just please drop this?” Yoongi pleads and ___ nods knowing when to give up.

“I didn’t think I’d be doing this with you after our first date, I really wanted to see you again but I wasn’t sure it would work” ___ confesses as she moves around, finally getting the water she wanted. “I really wanted to see you again,” she admits. “But I honestly wasn’t sure it would work.”

Yoongi’s brows lift slightly. “Really?”  He watches her carefully now as she hands him a glass of water before continuing.

“And then you kissed me like that,” she says, pointing at him accusingly now, “and just left.” Yoongi looks entirely unapologetic. “I had an early flight.” “You kissed me after the best first date and just left and it felt like a romcom for a few hours till you didn’t text me for 12 hours”

“I was trying to seem calm.” That actually makes her laugh. Because if there’s one thing she knows now, it’s that Yoongi has never once been calm about her. “I was still dazed from the date and the kiss and I was all confused and and I um, was so surprised and I hated that I had to leave even if I really wanted to tour” Yoongi confesses and ___ smiles from the other side of the counter. 

“I for a very long time believed that this all, a girlfriend, living together, the eventual stuff, planning a life with someone wasn’t in my books and for the longest time I was okay with it” The apartment falls quiet around them. Suddenly he looks younger somehow. Not physically, emotionally, like she’s catching a glimpse of the version of him that spent years convincing himself wanting less from life was safer.

“You just thought loving someone would mean losing parts of yourself.” That catches him off guard.

Because unfortunately she’s right. Yoongi looks down briefly, jaw tightening faintly like he’s still a little uncomfortable being understood this clearly. “Yes,” he admits quietly. “And honestly…” A tiny breath leaves him, almost amused at himself now. “I didn’t expect you to be this stubborn.”

___ smiles faintly. “Excuse me?” “We fought,” he continues, stepping closer again like he physically can’t stay far from her for long anymore. “A lot sometimes. Especially in the beginning.” His hands slide back around her waist naturally. “But you always treated the problems like they were against us.” He pauses, gaze steady on hers now. “Not us against each other.”

Something soft flickers across her expression immediately, because that mattered more to him than she probably realized.

“So, shall we break in the new mattress, take a nap?” ___ jokes and Yoongi chuckles holds her from the behind. “Is this us now, napping? So painfully domestic” he says, his warm hands back under the sweater. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The second the sliding doors of Incheon International Airport opened, a wave of warm air hit your face, thick with summer heat and the unfamiliar scent of somewhere new.

You barely registered any of it.

Your suitcase bumped uselessly behind you while your eyes stayed locked on your phone, thumb scrolling through your emails before switching back to LinkedIn for the hundredth time that day. Empty inbox. No updates. No responses. No signs of life from any of the firms you’d applied to.

Then suddenly—your phone was gone.

“Oi—” You looked up sharply. “Are you insane?”

Hikari held your phone above her head with one hand, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “Are you insane? Babe, we just landed in South Korea and the first thing you do is open LinkedIn.”

“I was checking something.”

“You were checking unemployment.”

“I was checking my future.”

She barked out a laugh. “Your future can wait five minutes. There are men walking around built like final bosses and you’re reading rejection emails that haven’t even arrived yet.”

“No because that’s the issue,” you groaned, reaching for your phone and missing. “There aren’t even rejection emails. It’s been weeks since I sent like a hundred applications and not one firm has replied. At least tell me no so I can heal and move on.”

Hikari clutched her chest. “That is cruel. That is emotionally abusive.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s workplace harassment before you’ve even got the job.”

“Exactly!”

She handed your phone back at last. “You need serious help.”

“I need a training contract.”

“You need a man.”

You stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. “I need you to shut up.”

“I’m being so serious.” She hooked her arm through yours and dragged you toward the taxi rank. “You’re twenty-one, smart, mildly attractive on a good day—”

“Mildly?”

“Focus on the compliment. You literally know Korean. Utilise it.”

You stared at her in disbelief. “You know damn well I had no choice but to learn Korean for my poly-language course. I didn’t do it to hunt men.”

“Missed opportunity.”

“I did it to escape the trenches of public law.”

The two of you fell silent for a moment before physically shuddering in sync.

Hikari grimaced. “Don’t say that subject name around me again.”

“Judicial review,” you muttered.

She gagged dramatically. “You are vile.”

“Delegated legislation.”

“Stop talking.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening for the first time in weeks. Around you, taxis lined the curb, neon signs glowed in the distance, and the city hummed with energy that made your pulse quicken.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. A few months away from deadlines, applications, and the constant fear of failing before you’d even begun.

Hikari squeezed your arm. “Calling it now. By the end of this summer, you’re either getting a job offer or getting railed.”

You nearly tripped over your suitcase. “Hikari!”

She shrugged. “I’m just manifesting options.”

You shook your head, muttering something about needing new friends as the two of you joined the taxi queue outside the airport. Around you, people moved in quick, purposeful streams—families reuniting, business travellers already on calls, tourists dragging suitcases twice their size. Everything felt fast, polished, awake.

You, on the other hand, were one inconvenience away from lying down on the pavement.

Hikari raised a hand the second a black taxi pulled forward. “See?” she said smugly. “The universe provides.”

“The universe is a licensed driver.”

“It’s still on my side.”

The driver stepped out to help with your luggage, and before you could stop her, Hikari cheerfully gestured to you. “Go on. Use your Korean.”

You blinked at her. “Why am I suddenly customer service?”

“Because I’m pretty and useless.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

Suppressing a laugh, you greeted the driver in Korean and confirmed the hotel address. He nodded politely and loaded your suitcases into the boot while Hikari watched you like a proud stage mother.

“That,” she said as you climbed into the back seat, “was deeply attractive.”

“I said hello.”

“You said it internationally.”

The taxi pulled away from the terminal, merging into a stream of traffic as the airport lights gave way to long stretches of road and, eventually, the first hints of the city skyline. Tower blocks glimmered in the distance, neon signs flashing between darkened streets, everything looking cinematic in a way that felt almost unreal after months of grey lecture halls and library fluorescent lighting.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Hikari leaned over dramatically. “Do you think this driver knows any rich men?”

You closed your eyes. “I need silence.”

“You need networking.”

“I need eight consecutive hours of unconsciousness.”

She gasped. “You’re so negative.”

“I’m jet-lagged.”

“You’re spiritually jet-lagged.”

You turned to look at her. “What does that even mean?”

“It means your aura needs moisturising.”

“You make me tired.”

She patted your knee sympathetically. “That’s because I challenge you.”

The driver’s shoulders shook slightly, like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “He understands English.”

Hikari straightened immediately. “Sir, if you know any successful single men under thirty, please let me know. My friend is in crisis.”

You lunged across the seat. “Ignore her!”

The driver finally laughed outright, and humiliation burned hot across your face while Hikari looked delighted with herself.

“This is why no firm emails me back,” you muttered. “Bad karma.”

“No,” Hikari said, checking her reflection in the window. “It’s because they fear powerful women.”

“They don’t know me.”

“They sense it.”

The hotel came into view twenty minutes later—glass-fronted, modern, far nicer than anything you’d expected when booking on a student budget. You sat up straighter immediately.

“Oh,” you said. “Wait. This is nice.”

Hikari smirked. “Obviously. Did you think I’d let us stay somewhere tragic?”

“I thought we were staying somewhere affordable.”

“Same thing if you’re strategic.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

Once inside, the lobby was all marble floors, soft gold lighting, and the kind of expensive scent that made you suddenly conscious of how creased your clothes were. Staff moved around with impossible elegance while you dragged your suitcase behind you like a goblin.

Hikari, meanwhile, somehow looked refreshed.

“How do you still look normal?” you asked while she approached reception.

“Discipline.”

“You have mascara under one eye.”

“Fashion.”

Check-in was smooth, and the second you were handed the room key card, relief nearly made you emotional.

The lift ride up was quiet except for Hikari taking selfies in the mirrored walls while you stared blankly at your own reflection.

“I look like I’ve seen war,” you said.

“You look travelled.”

“I look damp.”

The room itself was compact but gorgeous—two neatly made beds, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, crisp white sheets, and air conditioning cold enough to heal trauma.

You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and threw yourself face-first onto the nearest bed.

The mattress accepted you instantly.

“This,” you mumbled into the duvet, “is where I live now.”

“Like hell you are.”

You felt the mattress dip as Hikari launched herself onto the opposite bed, then immediately bounced back up with renewed purpose. “We, my friend, are going to explore the city. Starting with what it has to offer my stomach.”

You didn’t move. “Tell your stomach I said congratulations.”

“It says thank you and get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, physically I’m past that point. My body has clocked out.”

She stood over you with her hands on her hips. “You are being dramatic.”

“I am being realistic.”

“You’re horizontal in jeans.”

“That’s how serious this is.”

Hikari grabbed one of the pillows and smacked you with it.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. “Violence. In a foreign country.”

“Get dressed.”

“I am dressed.”

“You look like you lost a custody battle.”

You groaned and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “Can we please just order room service and rot in peace?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because we did not come all the way to Seoul for you to fuse with hotel linen.”

“I came here for an internship.”

“You came here for character development.”

“I came here because every firm in London decided to collectively ignore me.”

The joke landed flatter than usual.

Hikari’s expression softened a little. She sat down at the edge of your bed and nudged your ankle. “Hey.”

You looked away toward the window. “I know it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does. We literally just got here and I’m sulking over emails.”

“You’re stressed,” she said simply. “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled slowly.

“It’s just…” You rubbed a hand over your face. “Everyone keeps acting like if I don’t get everything sorted now, I’m behind already. Vacation schemes, training contracts, applications, networking, grades. It never stops.”

Hikari was quiet for a second, then flicked your forehead.

“Ow.”

“Firstly, dramatic. Secondly, you are the smartest person I know.”

“That’s terrifying for society.”

“I’m serious.” She pointed at you sternly. “You work harder than anyone, you somehow survive on iced coffee and panic, and you’re going to qualify one day whether those firms reply this week or next year.”

“Next year would be suboptimal.”

“My point,” she said louder, “is don’t let silence from a few dusty firms convince you you’re failing.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Dusty firms?”

“Yes. Dusty, musty, probably using microsoft word 2007. They don’t deserve your tears.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“You were spiritually close.”

You smiled into the pillow.

“Even smart people need breaks,” she continued. “Even future solicitors need to eat dumplings and touch grass.”

“I hate when you’re right.”

“I know. It’s my burden.”

She sprang up suddenly and clapped once. “Now get up.”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me.”

“I have nothing left to lose.”

That was apparently the wrong answer, because she seized your wrist and began dragging you across the mattress.

You immediately went limp.

“Oh my God,” she snapped. “Did you just dead-weight me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re heavier than you look.”

“That was personal.”

With a heroic grunt, she managed to yank you upright until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking deeply offended.

“There,” she said, panting slightly. “Vertical. We’re making progress.”

“I’ll remember this betrayal.”

“You can journal about it over dinner.”

Ten minutes later, after Hikari physically handing you a cleaner top and threatening to leave without you, the two of you were back in the lift heading downstairs.

You leaned against the mirrored wall. “If I collapse in public, tell people I died pursuing culture.”

“I’ll tell them you died being stubborn.”

The city hit differently at street level. Warm air, bright signs, traffic humming, groups of friends laughing outside convenience stores, music drifting from somewhere unseen. Everything felt alive.

You tucked your hands into your pockets as Hikari looked around like she’d personally built the place.

“Where are we even going?” you asked.

“Somewhere with food.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Somewhere cute with food.”

“Still broad.”

“Somewhere with food and potential husbands.”

“There it is.”

She linked arms with you and began steering you down the pavement. “You joke now, but one good bowl of noodles and one handsome stranger later, your whole attitude could change.”

“My attitude is grounded in reason.”

“Your attitude is grounded in fear.”

“My attitude is grounded in case law.”

Both of you shuddered.

“Disgusting,” she muttered.

“Public law,” you whispered back.

She recoiled. “Don’t ruin the evening.”

For the first time in weeks, your chest felt lighter. The emails, the deadlines, the pressure—they were still there, waiting somewhere beyond this trip. But right now there was only the city, your ridiculous best friend, and the smell of food drifting through the street.

Maybe that was enough for one night.

The streets were quieter than they’d looked from the hotel window, the late hour thinning the crowds to scattered groups of students, delivery drivers, and people who looked far too awake for two in the morning. Most shopfronts were dark, shutters pulled down, chairs stacked on tables behind glass.

You yawned as Hikari dragged you past another closed café. “So your brilliant plan,” you said, “was to search for food at two a.m. in a city we don’t know.”

“My brilliant plan,” she corrected, “was to trust destiny.”

“Destiny appears to be shut.”

She ignored you, peering dramatically left and right like a detective on a case. “There has to be something open. This city loves me too much to let me starve.”

“This city doesn’t know you.”

“It can feel my presence.”

You pulled your phone from your pocket, instinctively opening your inbox. Still nothing. Then Outlook. Still nothing there either.

Before you could refresh for the third time, Hikari snatched the phone clean out of your hand.

“You absolute menace—”

“No.” She held it away from you. “We are not doing corporate self-harm in the middle of the pavement.”

“I was just checking.”

“You checked six minutes ago.”

“A lot can happen in six minutes.”

“Not in graduate recruitment.”

You reached for it. She dodged you with offensive agility.

“Give it back.”

“When you stop acting like outlook is your situationship.”

“It’s not a situationship.”

“It leaves you on delivered and ruins your mood. That’s textbook.”

You hated how accurate that was.

Hikari tucked your phone into her bag for safekeeping and looped her arm through yours before you could protest. “There. Free at last.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m necessary.”

You wandered another block, passing a convenience store glowing fluorescent white and a group of lads laughing outside a karaoke bar. Somewhere in the distance, music thumped through a wall. The city felt softer now—less like a postcard, more like something alive and still moving long after it should’ve slept.

Then Hikari stopped so abruptly you nearly walked into her.

“There,” she breathed.

Across the street, tucked between a closed stationery shop and a laundrette, was a tiny restaurant lit entirely in pink and blue neon. Steam fogged the windows, and a handwritten sign in Korean hung crookedly by the door.

Hikari clutched your arm. “That one is calling my name.”

“You’re insane.”

“Don’t you hear it?” She tilted her head. “It’s literally whispering… Hikari…”

“It’s probably the fridge humming.”

“No. It wants me.”

“It wants paying customers.”

She gasped. “Why do you always reduce magic to economics?”

“Because I study law.”

“That explains so much.”

Before you could say another word, she tugged you across the road.

“You know,” she said casually, “places like this are where life-changing things happen.”

“You mean food poisoning?”

“I mean meet-cutes.”

“I rebuke that energy.”

“You’re too closed off.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re twenty-one and allergic to whimsy.”

“I’m allergic to men who say ‘what do you bring to the table?’”

She shuddered. “Fair.”

You reached the door, and she paused to inspect your face. “Actually, maybe tonight’s the night.”

“For what?”

“You meet someone mysterious. Brooding. Beautiful. Emotionally available but with edge.”

“You’ve just described a fictional man.”

“They exist.”

“Name one.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “That is not the point.”

You smirked. “Exactly.”

Hikari pushed the door open anyway, warm air and the smell of grilled meat rushing out to meet you. “Come on,” she declared. “Worst case scenario, no husband. Best case scenario, noodles and character development.”

You stepped inside after her. “Why is everything to you either romance or personal growth?”

She grinned over her shoulder. “Because both look good on you.”

The restaurant was small but warm, the kind of place that felt lived in. A few tables were occupied by night-shift workers and students hunched over steaming bowls, low conversation humming beneath the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Neon light from outside painted the windows pink and blue.

Hikari slid into the booth first and immediately grabbed a menu.

“Oh my God,” she whispered reverently. “Look at this.”

You sat opposite her, shrugging off your jacket. “It’s a menu.”

“It’s an opportunity.”

“It’s laminated.”

She ignored you, eyes scanning wildly. “They have dumplings. They have fried chicken. They have noodles. They have rice bowls. They have desserts.”

“That tends to be how restaurants work.”

“I want everything.”

“You physically cannot have everything.”

“Watch me.”

“Hikari.”

“No, because imagine limiting yourself when life is this short.”

“Slow down before the waiter comes over and you embarrass us both.”

She gasped. “I have never embarrassed anyone in my life.”

You stared at her.

“Okay,” she amended, “not intentionally.”

A server approached with a polite smile and notepad in hand. Hikari instantly shoved her menu toward you.

“Your time to shine,” she whispered.

“You are shameless.”

“I am adaptive.”

You ordered in Korean, asking for two portions of dumplings, spicy noodles, fried chicken to share, and drinks. The server nodded, repeated the order back, then left with a small smile.

Hikari looked at you like you’d just levitated.

“Excuse me?” she said. “Since when was your Korean that good?”

You blinked. “What?”

“That was smooth. You sounded like you belong here.”

“I literally asked for food.”

“In another language.”

“Thank you.”

“No, seriously.” She pointed at you accusingly. “Why do you act like being impressive is casual?”

You laughed. “I learnt it for my degree, remember? International studies required a language component. I picked Korean.”

“And then just became fluent in secret?”

“I’m not fluent.”

“You just ordered chicken with confidence. That’s fluency.”

“That is hunger.”

She leaned back in her seat dramatically. “Brains, beauty, employable, bilingual. It’s honestly sickening.”

“Please stop trying to auction me off.”

“I’m just saying, if the law thing fails, marry rich.”

“The law thing is not failing.”

“It was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

You tried not to smile. “Maybe a little.”

She smirked. “There she is.”

The drinks arrived first, and the two of you immediately reached for the same one.

“Hands off,” she said.

“You ordered the wrong thing.”

“I ordered adventure.”

“You ordered peach soda.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed and took your own glass instead.

“So,” she said, stirring her drink, “how do you think your final assignment went?”

You groaned instantly. “Don’t bring academia into my safe space.”

“It’s a genuine question.”

“I think contract law went well.”

“Show off.”

“I said I think.”

“You say ‘I think’ when you know you ate.”

“I did not eat.”

“You devoured.”

You rolled your eyes. “Public law was rough.”

Both of you visibly recoiled.

“Vile subject,” Hikari muttered.

“Deeply unnecessary,” you agreed.

“Professor Bennett ruined constitutional theory for me.”

You frowned. “Bennett’s a man.”

“I know. I’m warming up.” She pointed a finger. “Dr Patel though? That woman hates me personally.”

You burst out laughing. “She does not know you.”

“She does. Every seminar she looks directly at me before asking the one reading I didn’t do.”

“That’s because you sit in the front row wearing sunglasses.”

“It’s confidence.”

“It’s insolence.”

Hikari clutched her chest. “Last month she asked me to define parliamentary sovereignty and when I paused she sighed like I’d killed her family.”

You were laughing too hard to respond.

“I’m serious,” Hikari insisted. “That woman has beef with me.”

“She has standards.”

“She has jealousy.”

“Of what?”

“My aura.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

At that exact moment, the food arrived in a wave of steam and glorious smell, cutting off your laughter. Dumplings, glossy noodles, crispy chicken piled high.

Hikari looked down at the table with tears in her eyes.

“See?” she whispered. “This city loves me.”

You looked down at the spread, then back at her. “This city tolerates you at best.”

“It nourishes me,” Hikari corrected, already reaching for a dumpling. “There’s a difference.”

“Can you at least wait two seconds?”

“No. Survival instincts.”

She bit into one immediately, then closed her eyes like she’d ascended.

“Oh wow.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“This is a religious experience.”

You picked up your chopsticks and tried the noodles, heat and spice hitting almost instantly. Your eyes widened.

“Okay,” you admitted. “That’s incredible.”

Hikari pointed triumphantly with half a dumpling in hand. “Exactly. Trust me more.”

“I trust you selectively.”

“You wound me.”

“I protect myself.”

The next few minutes were spent in near silence apart from the occasional hum of appreciation and Hikari trying to steal from your plate every time you looked away.

“Why are you touching my food?” you asked, catching her hand mid-reach.

“Because yours looks better.”

“It’s the same dish.”

“It tastes different when it’s yours.”

“That sentence was nonsense.”

“It was intuition.”

You pushed the chicken farther from her. “Have boundaries.”

“Boundaries are western.”

“That is not true.”

She laughed and leaned back in her seat, satisfied for all of ten seconds before speaking again. “So... what’s the actual plan for the internship?”

You wiped your hands on a napkin. “Orientation Monday. Then I’m placed with their comparative constitutional team for six weeks.”

Her mouth dropped open. “That sounds sexy.”

“It sounds like unpaid labour.”

“It sounds impressive.”

“It sounds like I’ll be formatting documents until my hands cramp.”

She shrugged. “Still. International law girl summer.”

You snorted. “That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You looked down at your drink, tracing the condensation on the glass. “I just hope I’m good enough.”

Hikari’s expression changed immediately. Softer. Sharper. The nonsense dialed down.

“You are.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I literally do.”

“It’s different there. Everyone else applying probably has better grades, better experience, better everything.”

“Wrong.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It’s enough from me.” She leaned forward. “You do this thing where you decide everyone else is more qualified before they’ve even opened their mouths.”

You said nothing.

“And meanwhile,” she continued, “you’re clever, hardworking, bilingual, doing a summer placement abroad, and somehow still convinced you’re behind.”

“I’m not convinced. I’m observing.”

“You’re spiralling.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being annoying.”

That pulled a laugh out of you. “There she is.”

“I never left.” She reached over and tapped your wrist with her chopsticks. “Listen to me. Some random firms not replying does not define your future.”

“They’re not random.”

“They are to me.”

“I hate when you simplify my problems.”

“I hate when you inflate them.”

You smiled despite yourself.

She smiled back. “Good. Better.”

Then, without warning, she reached into her bag and pulled out your phone.

You sat up. “Why do you still have that?”

“Because you can’t be trusted.”

She glanced at the screen and gasped theatrically. “Oh my God, she’s opening Outlook at the table.”

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were in your spirit.”

“Give it back.”

“No.” She tucked it under her thigh. “Phone jail until dessert.”

“There is no dessert.”

“Then sunrise.”

“Hikari.”

“Eat your noodles.”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary.”

You glared at her for another second before taking another bite.

“Also,” she added casually, “if you do become a big-shot solicitor one day, I expect compensation for emotional support rendered.”

“You’ve caused most of my emotional distress.”

“Exactly. Full-circle healing.”

You laughed so suddenly you nearly inhaled a chilli flake.

She grinned, pleased with herself. “There it is again. That noise. Keep making it this summer.”

Something warm settled in your chest that had nothing to do with the food.

Hikari was mid-laugh—head thrown back, chopsticks still in hand—when someone bumped into her hard enough to knock her slightly sideways.

“Hey—what the hell?” she blurted, steadying herself on the table.

You looked up instantly.

A girl had just rushed past your booth without even apologising, phone clutched tight in her hand, eyes wide with something between panic and excitement.

Then another followed. And another.

Within seconds, the calm hum of the restaurant shifted. Chairs scraped. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. People started standing.

And then—movement outside.

A sudden wave of footsteps. Fast. Coordinated. Almost like a stampede.

“What is happening?” you said slowly, putting your chopsticks down.

Hikari leaned toward the window, squinting. “Why does it look like Black Friday but emotional?”

Another group of girls rushed past the glass, pressing close to the street outside. Some were filming. Some were running. All of them were heading in the same direction.

The staff inside the restaurant started glancing toward the door too, murmuring to each other in quick Korean.

You and Hikari exchanged a look.

“…We’ve been in the country for like three hours,” you said.

“And already there’s a cult forming outside,” she replied.

“That’s not what that is.”

“It might be.”

A loud wave of screaming erupted from somewhere down the street—sharp, excited, overlapping voices that made the hairs on your arms rise slightly.

Hikari slowly set her chopsticks down.

“Okay,” she said. “That is not normal food enthusiasm.”

You shifted in your seat, craning your neck toward the window. “Is there like… a sale?”

“At 2 a.m.?”

“Midnight capitalism?”

Before Hikari could respond, another burst of screaming cut through the air—closer this time—followed by a sudden surge of movement outside the restaurant windows.

People were running past now. Not walking. Running.

Phones up. Voices high.

Your stomach dropped a little.

“…Okay,” Hikari said slowly, turning fully toward the window now. “Something is definitely happening.”

You stood up slightly, peering through the glass. “Why does it look like everyone is chasing the same person?”

“Or running from the same person,” she muttered.

A beat of silence.

Then you both looked at each other at the exact same time.

“No,” you said immediately.

Hikari pointed at the window. “Don’t say no like that didn’t cross your mind.”

“It did not cross my mind.”

“It sprinted across mine.”

You grabbed your phone off the table instinctively, then stopped yourself mid-motion.

Hikari noticed immediately. “Don’t you dare open Outlook in a crisis.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You were spiritually logging in again.”

Outside, the crowd thickened—more voices, more flashing screens, the street suddenly packed in a way that didn’t match the quiet, sleepy vibe from earlier.

A chair somewhere inside the restaurant scraped loudly as another customer stood to look.

Hikari leaned closer to the glass, narrowing her eyes.

“…Okay,” she said again, slower this time. “Either someone very important just walked past…”

She trailed off.

You leaned in beside her. “Or what?”

Hikari swallowed. “Or we’re about to find out what this city is actually like at 2 a.m.”

And for the first time since you’d arrived, neither of you had a joke ready.

The flashes hit first.

Not inside the restaurant—but outside.

Bright, rapid, almost violent bursts of white light strobed through the windows like lightning trapped in glass. Conversations inside the restaurant faltered. Someone near the counter let out a confused laugh. A chair scraped back.

Hikari squinted. “Okay… why does it look like we’re being photographed by angry lightning bugs?”

You were already standing again, instinctively edging closer to the window. “That’s not normal.”

Another wave of screams rolled down the street—closer now, louder, more concentrated. The kind of sound that didn’t belong to confusion anymore, but certainty. Like everyone out there knew exactly who they were chasing.

And then the door of the restaurant opened.

A sharp rush of cold night air swept in.

First came a man dressed completely in black—cap pulled low, face covered with a black mask, moving with the kind of controlled urgency that made the entire room shift its attention without thinking. Behind him, a blonde-haired boy followed quickly, equally guarded, glancing back toward the door like he was used to this kind of chaos. Two security guards entered after them, scanning the room instantly.

The atmosphere changed.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… tense.

Like everyone suddenly remembered how to breathe quietly.

Hikari, however, was not part of that collective silence.

“Oh.”

You turned your head slowly. “Oh what.”

She was staring straight at the blonde boy like she’d just discovered oxygen. “Oh mama likey.”

You slapped her hand immediately. “No.”

“What?” she hissed, not looking away. “I’m appreciating art.”

“That’s a human being.”

“A very aesthetically curated human being.”

One of the security guards spoke briefly to the staff in quick Korean, and the staff immediately nodded, flustered, motioning toward a table further inside the restaurant.

The masked man didn’t sit yet. He paused near the entrance, scanning the room once—slowly, carefully.

For a second, the noise outside felt very far away.

Hikari leaned closer to you, whispering loudly, “Okay but blonde one? That’s my type.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough.”

“You know hair.”

“I know potential.”

You nudged her again as she tried to lean forward for a better look. “Stop objectifying strangers.”

“I’m not objectifying. I’m evaluating.”

“You’re ranking.”

“I’m discerning.”

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Hikari pointed subtly again. “Also, masked one? Mysterious. Emotionally unavailable. Probably rich.”

“You’ve created an entire personality from three seconds of walking.”

“I’m efficient.”

The blonde boy glanced briefly in your direction while being guided to sit, then looked away again, slightly overwhelmed but polite. Hikari actually sighed.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

“You are insane.”

“Do you think they’re famous or something?” you murmured, eyes still fixed on the masked man as he finally stepped further inside.

Hikari didn’t even hesitate. “Either famous or running from a crime scene.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s realistic.”

Outside, more screams erupted, louder again, like the crowd had just shifted direction. Phones pressed against the glass from the street, silhouettes clustering tightly outside the restaurant now.

One of the security guards stepped toward the door and shut it firmly, blocking the view of the chaos outside.

Inside, everything felt suddenly too quiet.

Hikari leaned back slowly. “Okay,” she said. “So we’re either in a restaurant…”

She paused.

“Or we’re in the opening scene of something very expensive.”

You swallowed slightly, still watching the masked man as he finally lowered himself into a seat deeper inside the restaurant, posture calm despite everything happening outside.

“…I don’t like this kind of quiet,” you admitted.

Hikari hummed. “Me neither.”

Then, softer—just for a second—she added, “But at least dinner got interesting.”

The two of them settled into the booth behind you almost silently—like they were trying not to disturb the air itself.

You felt it more than saw it at first. The shift. The presence.

Hikari, on the other hand, saw everything.

The second they sat down, she leaned forward slightly, eyes wide, trying to peek past your shoulder without being obvious about it—except she was absolutely failing at being subtle.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath.

“I’m not moving.”

“You are vibrating.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re staring.”

She pressed her lips together like that would somehow make her less obvious, but her attention kept flicking behind you every two seconds.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice barely contained. “The blonde one just sat down and I feel like I’ve been chosen by the universe personally.”

You tilted your head slightly, blocking her view with your shoulder on purpose. “We just got here. Please allow yourself to breathe before you start planning a wedding.”

“I’m not planning a wedding.”

“You said ‘chosen by the universe.’ That’s basically engagement.”

Hikari slapped your arm lightly. “Move. You’re tall, use it for good.”

“I am using it for good. I’m shielding the public from you.”

She tried to lean again, and you gently pushed her back into her seat.

“Behave.”

“I am behaving.”

“You are absolutely not.”

Hikari opened her mouth to argue, but then—mid-sentence—she stopped.

Completely froze.

Her expression changed so fast you almost laughed.

“…Okay,” she whispered. “Wait.”

“What?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. Over your shoulder. Focused. Still.

You followed her gaze this time, turning slightly.

The blonde boy had stood up.

And now, without the mask, he was walking toward the counter at the front of the restaurant.

Up close, he was… unfair.

Not just attractive in a generic way—there was something almost unreal about how put together he looked even in a loose, late-night outfit. Blonde hair slightly messy, falling just enough into his eyes like it had been styled and then abandoned halfway through the night. He wore thin-framed glasses that made his features sharper somehow, more defined.

And as he turned slightly, you caught it—

A tattoo just behind his ear. Small. Clean. Intentional. Like it meant something.

He moved with quiet confidence, but not arrogance. More like someone used to being aware of every room he entered without needing to acknowledge it.

Hikari exhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she said.

You glanced at her. “Oh what.”

She didn’t look away. “Girl… I got a date with destiny.”

You blinked. “You don’t even know his name.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t. The city already told me.”

“What city—?”

She grabbed your wrist briefly, eyes still locked forward like she was witnessing prophecy unfold. “I told you. This city loves me.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m intuitive.”

The blonde reached the counter, speaking quietly to the staff. Polite. Controlled. Nothing about him matched the chaos outside anymore. Like he’d stepped into a different world entirely.

Hikari leaned forward again, completely ignoring your attempts to physically contain her.

“Okay,” she whispered urgently, “if I don’t talk to him, I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“You will regret it for five minutes and then forget.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is absolutely true.”

She finally tore her gaze away just long enough to look at you. “Do you think he likes confidence?”

“I think he likes peace.”

“Perfect. I’m peaceful.”

“You are currently plotting a romantic takeover.”

She sat back dramatically. “I’m not plotting. I’m aligning.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “We came here for food.”

“And I am getting food,” she said proudly. “And possibly destiny.”

The blonde laughed softly at something the staff said, the sound faint but noticeable even from across the room. Hikari immediately clutched your sleeve.

“Oh my God. He has a nice laugh too.”

“You’ve known him for twelve seconds.”

“And I already respect him.”

You sighed, leaning back. “Please just don’t embarrass me.”

Hikari gasped. “I would never embarrass you.”

A beat.

“…In public.”

You closed your eyes. “That is not reassuring.”

She leaned closer again, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.

“If I go over there and come back with his number, you owe me silence for a week.”

“You will not go over there.”

“I might.”

“You will not.”

“I’m feeling brave.”

“You’re feeling hungry.”

“I’m feeling fated.”

You opened your eyes slowly. “Hikari.”

She grinned. “Relax. I’m just saying hello.”

“You never just say hello.”

Behind you, the blonde finished at the counter and turned slightly, as if preparing to return to his table.

Hikari straightened immediately, energy switching like a light bulb flicking on.

“Okay,” she whispered, gripping the edge of the table. “If I survive this, I want it noted I died doing what I loved.”

“You are not dying.”

“I might be socially.”

And before you could stop her again, she stood up.

The blonde had barely settled back into his seat when Hikari made her move.

You saw it happen in real time—no hesitation, no internal debate, just pure Hikari instinct kicking in like a switch had flipped. She wiped her hands on a napkin, straightened her posture like she was about to walk into a job interview, and stood up.

“Hikari—no,” you hissed, already halfway out of your seat. “Absolutely not.”

She didn’t even look back.

“Relax,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m just saying hi.”

“That is how horror stories start!”

But she was already walking.

At the table behind you, the blonde looked up first—mid-conversation with the man beside him—expression shifting from neutral to slightly surprised, then politely attentive. The man in black reacted instantly, body tightening, shoulders squaring as Hikari stopped directly in front of them like she belonged there.

“Hi,” she said brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’m Hikari.”

There was a beat of silence.

The man in black didn’t move for a second. Then slowly, he lifted his cap just enough to see better, and tugged his mask down so his voice came through clearer.

His eyes were sharp. Focused. The kind of look that didn’t miss details—it analysed them.

“If you’re a sasaeng,” he said flatly in Korean, “you need to stop following people like this. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

The temperature at the table dropped instantly.

Hikari blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…I’m sorry?” she said, still polite, but now visibly confused.

The blonde immediately reacted—reaching out and lightly smacking the man’s arm.

“Bro,” he said, switching effortlessly into English, tone more amused than hostile. “That’s not nice.”

Then he looked at Hikari and softened immediately, offering a quick, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about him. Be nice to the pretty lady. She’s clearly not from here.”

That did it.

Hikari visibly short-circuited for half a second at “pretty lady,” like her brain had paused buffering.

Then she recovered instantly, posture resetting.

The blonde tilted his head slightly, still smiling. “Hi, I’m Park Jimin.”

Before Hikari could even react properly, the man in black let out a quiet scoff and turned sharply toward him.

“Are you serious?” he said, switching into English now, voice lower but edged with irritation.

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“You know damn well there are foreign sasaengs too,” the man in black continued, tone controlled but sharp. “They act clueless like they don’t know us, and next thing you know they’re trying to break into your house, telling security they’re your friends.”

Hikari went completely still.

You could see it—she didn’t understand every word, but she understood enough. The tone. The accusation. The assumption sitting under it like a weight.

Her expression shifted immediately from excitement to offence.

And something in your chest snapped into focus.

You were already standing.

“Hikari,” you said quickly under your breath, but she didn’t hear you.

Or didn’t register it.

So you walked.

Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just firm—cutting cleanly through the space between tables until you were directly in front of her.

You positioned yourself without thinking, shoulder slightly angled to shield her.

Then you looked at the man in black.

Up close, the intensity was worse. Not threatening—but guarded. Like someone who had learned to assume danger first and apologise later. Cap low, dark clothing, jaw set in a way that suggested he was already regretting having to deal with this situation.

You spoke in Korean, calm but firm.

“My friend is not a stalker,” you said clearly. “And she would never break into anyone’s house. We don’t even know who you are. So maybe don’t assume the worst of people and—” your eyes narrowed slightly “—pipe down on the ego a bit.”

Silence.

The blonde—Jimin—snorted softly under his breath, leaning back in his chair like he’d just witnessed something mildly entertaining.

“Okay,” he muttered, half-laughing. “She got you there.”

The man in black blinked once, caught slightly off guard—not by the words, but by how directly they landed. His gaze flicked briefly between you and Hikari like he was recalculating the entire situation.

Jimin tilted his head, still amused. “You really needed that.”

Hikari, still behind you, whispered urgently, “Wait—am I in trouble or did I just get defended?”

“Both,” you muttered without looking back.

The air at the table shifted. Less sharp now. Less hostile. More… uncertain.

Not resolved. Just recalibrated.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, then reached back and grabbed Hikari’s wrist.

“Come on,” you said firmly. “We’re done. Sit down. Finish eating. We’re leaving.”

“I didn’t even get to introduce my personality properly,” she protested as you tugged her back.

“You introduced enough.”

She stumbled slightly as you guided her back into the booth, still twisting her head over her shoulder like she was trying to process the entire encounter in real time.

“Okay,” she said slowly once seated. “That was… not on my bingo card.”

“Yes,” you replied flatly.

She picked up her chopsticks again like nothing had happened. “But also… I think I just got called pretty by Park Jimin.”

“You got accused of breaking into someone’s house.”

“Details.”

You stared at her. “That’s not details. That’s the main issue.”

Hikari leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like this was suddenly a private conversation again.

“I don’t think he meant it,” she said gently. “He was just… defensive.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know.” She reached across the table and covered your hand with hers, grounding. “But I’m fine.”

You frowned slightly. “I don’t like people speaking to you like that.”

Hikari squeezed your hand once. “I know.”

A pause.

The noise of the restaurant slowly filled the space again—the clatter of plates, low conversation, the faint hiss from the kitchen. The world moving on like nothing had just shifted.

Then Hikari nudged your foot under the table.

“Also,” she said lightly, “you fully just told off a man in Korean like it was a court cross-examination. That was kind of terrifying in a hot way.”

You let out a short, reluctant laugh despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

“Oh I’m starting a campaign,” she said immediately. “Future solicitor energy. Ten out of ten intimidation factor.”

“I want to leave the country.”

“After dessert.”

You were still staring at the table when Hikari nudged your foot again, gently this time.

“Okay,” she said, voice lighter, deliberately pulling the air back up. “We are not spiralling. We are resetting.”

“I’m not spiralling.”

“You’re doing the silent angry chewing thing. That’s spiralling.”

You paused. Slowly swallowed. “It’s just… unbelievable.”

“I know,” she said immediately, softer. “But it’s done. Gone. Out of our timeline.”

“That’s not how time works.”

“It is in my system.”

You let out a breath through your nose, finally picking up your chopsticks again. The food was still warm, untouched chaos on the table between you.

Hikari leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So. Internship.”

You looked at her. “What about it.”

“This is me redirecting your brain before it turns into legal rage soup.”

“I don’t have legal rage soup.”

“You absolutely do. It’s simmering.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “I’m in comparative constitutional law for six weeks. It’s going to be reading, note-taking, and pretending I understand twenty-page judgments in one sitting.”

“That sounds sexy,” she said instantly.

“It sounds like suffering.”

“It sounds like future lawyer main character arc.”

You shook your head, finally relaxing back into the booth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m supportive.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m optimistic.”

There was a pause, then Hikari tilted her head. “Okay but imagine. You walk into the firm, everyone’s stressed, everything’s formal, and then you walk in like—” she straightened her posture dramatically, voice dropping “—‘Good morning, I understand constitutional frameworks and I will ruin your ego in litigation.’”

You snorted. “That is not what I sound like.”

“It is in my dreams.”

“That’s terrifying.”

She grinned. “You’re going to be fine, though. You always are.”

You picked at your noodles. “I hope so.”

“You will be.” She said it more firmly this time. “You’re not the type to not figure things out.”

You glanced up at her. “That’s a lot of faith in someone who almost died emotionally over no internship replies.”

“I said almost.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened now. “What about you, then? What’s your plan for this trip? Besides traumatising strangers in restaurants.”

“I don’t traumatise—”

“You absolutely do.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “Besides enriching the local economy and being culturally immersive.”

“You mean flirting.”

“I mean networking.”

“Same thing in your vocabulary.”

Hikari smiled, unbothered. “I’m going to find you a nice Korean man.”

You froze mid-bite. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Did you miss the entire last ten minutes of my life?”

“That man was one experience,” she said, waving a hand. “We don’t judge an entire population on one emotionally constipated individual.”

“I am judging him specifically.”

“Fair. He was rude.”

“He called you a stalker.”

“He assumed incorrectly,” she corrected. “But still. We move.”

You stared at her. “We are not ‘moving’ into me finding a man.”

“Why are you so against it?”

“Because I didn’t come to Seoul for romance. I came for law. And peace. And maybe slightly less academic burnout.”

Hikari leaned in again, smiling mischievously. “And yet somehow you still got emotionally adopted by chaos in under three hours.”

“That was not adoption.”

“That was destiny.”

You pointed at her with your chopsticks. “Do not start that again.”

She raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No destiny. Just vibes.”

“Better.”

“But I am serious about one thing,” she added, softer now. “You need to stop letting one rude guy in a restaurant ruin your whole night.”

You exhaled. “He didn’t ruin my night.”

“You were two seconds away from prosecuting him in public.”

“He deserved it.”

“He might have been stressed too.”

“That’s not my problem.”

Hikari smiled gently. “Exactly. It’s not your problem.”

You looked at her properly then, tension slowly fading again. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Yes.”

“It’s working a little.”

“I know.” She tapped her glass lightly against yours. “Now eat your food before I decide your next emotional crisis is dessert-based.”

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not a thing.”

“It can be.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” she said proudly, “you love me.”

You shook your head, finally picking up another dumpling. “Unfortunately.”

“Good,” she said brightly. “Because tomorrow, we’re exploring properly. No phones, no LinkedIn spirals, no existential dread.”

“I don’t spiral.”

“You spiralled in the airport.”

“That was research.”

“That was despair.”

You were still halfway turned toward Hikari when you muttered, “I’m going to go pay before you decide dessert is a personality trait.”

Hikari didn’t even look up, just casually twirled her chopsticks like she had all the time in the world. “Too late. It already is.”

You shot her a look. “You’re actually impossible.”

“And yet,” she said, finally glancing up at you with a completely unbothered smile, “you’re still sitting here.”

“That’s not a choice. That’s survival.”

She laughed under her breath and waved you off. “Go. Before I order something dramatic.”

“You already did.”

“I can always escalate.”

You shook your head and walked to the counter.

The front of the restaurant was quieter—warmer somehow, like the noise from your table hadn’t fully reached here. The staff were moving slowly, cleaning up between orders. The woman at the register looked up with a polite, practiced smile.

You spoke in Korean, softer but clear. “Hi, can I get the bill for table—”

She glanced at the screen, then back at you.

“It has already been paid for,” she said gently.

For a second, you just stood there, trying to make that sentence fit into any version of reality that made sense.

“…That’s not possible,” you said slowly. “We literally just finished eating.”

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from just behind you.

Not loud. Not aggressive.

Just close enough that it cut cleanly through your thoughts.

You turned your head first—then fully turned.

And there he was.

The black-haired man from earlier.

But now, without the mask, without the cap, without the barrier of distance or chaos, he looked different in a way your brain didn’t appreciate.

Up close, his features were sharper—defined jaw, straight nose, lips that had a silver ring through the lower one that caught the restaurant lighting every time he moved. A small eyebrow piercing sat above one eye, subtle but impossible to ignore now that you’d seen it. His hair was dark, slightly messy, falling forward in a way that looked unintentional but somehow suited him too well.

His jacket was off, hanging loosely from one hand, revealing more of his frame and the full sleeve of tattoos running down his arm—intricate patterns layered like they meant something personal rather than decorative.

And his eyes—calmer now. Less defensive than earlier, but still alert, like he didn’t fully trust how this conversation was about to go.

He cleared his throat once, a small, controlled sound that made the space feel like it had shifted slightly toward him.

“I paid,” he said, voice steady but a little careful, like he was choosing every word. “For your table.”

You blinked once.

Then slowly turned your head toward the counter again like there was a second explanation hiding somewhere behind the register.

“…You paid…” you repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

You blinked.

Then immediately scoffed. “Why?”

His brows lifted slightly. “Because I wanted to apologise.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No. That’s not an apology. That’s you trying to outsource accountability with noodles and guilt money.”

Behind him, the blonde at the table leaned back like he was watching the best free entertainment of the night.

The black-haired man exhaled through his nose. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” you shot back. “You don’t get to call my friend a stalker, embarrass her in public, and then think you can just… pay your way out of it.”

“I didn’t say I was buying forgiveness,” he replied, sharper now.

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped. “You did it anyway.”

A beat.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You always like this? I’m starting to think you fight people for a living. You secretly in the special services or what?”

Then you stepped forward slightly, expression completely flat.

“Even worse,” you said.

He blinked.

You held his gaze dead steady.

“Law student.”

Silence.

Even the blonde stopped laughing for a second.

The black-haired man stared at you like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about the last five minutes.

“You’re a law student,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes,” you said. “So when I tell you you can’t just assume things about people and fix it with money, I’m not being difficult. I’m explaining reality to you.”

A faint exhale left him—half laugh, half disbelief.

“Oh,” he said. “That explains the attitude.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Attitude?”

“Yeah,” he said, a small smirk forming now despite himself. “The whole ‘I will cross-examine you in public over noodles’ energy.”

“I’m holding you accountable,” you corrected.

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing.”

“It feels like the same thing.”

You stepped closer. “It feels like that because you’re wrong.”

He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

“And you’re actually insufferable,” you shot back.

Behind him, the blonde leaned forward again, clearly enjoying how quickly this had escalated again.

The black-haired man didn’t look back this time. His focus stayed on you.

“You really think you can just lecture strangers like that?” he asked.

“I think I can correct disrespect when I see it,” you said immediately.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s called having standards.”

“It’s called entitlement.”

That landed sharper.

You pointed at him. “Entitlement? From you? You accused my friend of something serious, and then tried to erase it with a restaurant bill.”

“I already told you that wasn’t the point.”

“It doesn’t matter what your point was,” you snapped. “It’s still wrong.”

A pause.

He nodded slowly. “You’d be terrifying in court.”

“I know,” you said immediately.

That actually made him pause.

Then, almost like he was testing you now, he added, “You plus that ugly wig would honestly be lethal.”

Your expression went very still.

“Oh my God,” you said slowly. “First of all, those wigs are for barristers, not solicitors.”

He smirked, clearly amused that he’d touched a nerve.

You pointed at him. “Don’t get smug.”

“You were loud.”

“I was accurate.”

“You were rude.”

“I was cautious.”

“You were wrong.”

“I apologised.”

“That’s not enough.”

“What do you want then?” he asked, voice edging a little sharper again. “A formal apology? A written statement? A whole courtroom drama?”

You leaned in slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

That made him pause.

Then he let out a short laugh. “You actually would enjoy that.”

“I would enjoy you understanding consequences.”

He looked at you for a second longer, then exhaled slowly like he’d decided this conversation was never going to end peacefully.

“You’re very intense,” he said, not as an insult this time, more like an observation he couldn’t ignore.

You scoffed immediately. “And you’re very comfortable insulting strangers you don’t know.”

“I didn’t insult—”

“You did,” you cut in. “You assumed intent without knowing anything about the situation.”

His lips pressed together briefly, then he nodded once. “Yeah. I did.”

That answer threw you off for half a second.

Not the denial you expected.

But you didn’t soften.

“Right,” you said instead. “So we agree on that part.”

A pause hung between you.

Then he spoke again, slightly lighter but still careful. “I’m Jeon Jungkook.”

He said it like it mattered.

Like it was supposed to land in a certain way.

You looked at him for a second, expression unchanged.

“Okay,” you said simply.

That clearly wasn’t the reaction he expected.

His brow lifted slightly. “That’s it?”

You shrugged faintly. “Should there be more?”

“I told you my name.”

“And I didn’t ask for it,” you replied evenly.

That made something in his expression twitch—half disbelief, half amusement trying to surface.

He leaned slightly on his heel, eyes still on you. “So you’re just not going to tell me yours?”

You tilted your head. “Why would I?”

A faint smirk appeared on his face now, like he was starting to enjoy this despite himself.

“Seems fair,” he said, voice a little lighter. “But still.”

You crossed your arms. “Still what?”

“You’re just going to leave me with nothing?”

You gave him a look. “You’re a stranger I argued with for ten minutes. I think you’ll recover.”

That made him actually huff a quiet laugh.

From behind him, the blonde leaned back further in his chair, clearly entertained now.

Jungkook glanced over briefly, then back at you, the smirk still there but softer at the edges.

“You don’t usually introduce yourself?” he asked.

“Not when I’ve just been accused of being in a hostage situation at dinner, no.”

His expression flickered—like he was reminded of earlier.

“…That wasn’t what I meant,” he said.

“It’s what you said,” you replied instantly.

Another pause.

Then he exhaled slowly. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

You stepped slightly closer to the counter, grabbing your bag from where it rested. “I don’t let disrespect slide, no.”

He watched you for a second, then tilted his head slightly again.

“So what, I’m just supposed to accept being wrong and move on?”

“Yes,” you said simply.

“I apologised.”

“That was avoidance.”

He stepped slightly closer now, not aggressively, just enough that the conversation tightened again.

“You’re loud,” he said again, like he was revisiting the earlier conclusion.

“I’m clear,” you corrected immediately.

“That’s just loud with structure.”

“I’m going to ignore that sentence.”

“You can’t just ignore it.”

“I just did.”

He smiled slightly wider now. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still standing here arguing with me,” you shot back.

Then he said, quieter but amused, “So are you.”

That landed in a different way.

You stared at him for a second longer, then shifted your bag onto your shoulder.

Hikari had already gotten up behind you, hovering like she had no idea whether to be impressed or terrified.

You grabbed her wrist without looking away from him.

“Come on,” you said flatly.

“Wait—my food—” she started.

“You’ll survive.”

“I was in the middle of—”

“I don’t care.”

You finally looked away from him, just slightly, as you started walking.

No goodbye.

No closure.

Just the sound of your steps and Hikari stumbling slightly behind you.

Behind you, you could hear him still.

Not following.

Just watching.

And, just before the door, his voice cut through once more—lighter now, almost amused.

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You didn’t turn around.

“You seriously not gonna pick up?” Marco mumbles from his seat, sprawled out, feet propped on the headrest in front, one hand buried in the popcorn bowl and the other swiping through Raya with the focus of a man on a mission.

Taehyung catches a glimpse of the screen—blonde, long hair, body that could stop traffic—and Marco swipes right with that specific smile that says he likes what he sees. 

Probably already composing his opener in his head. Something stupid. Something that’ll work anyway because Marco’s got the kind of face that gets away with stupidity.

Taehyung kicks Marco’s legs off the headrest.

Hard.

“Bro—” Marco’s feet hit the floor with a thud, popcorn flying. He twists to the side, offended. “What the fuck?”

“Get your dirty-ass feet off my seats.”

“They’re not even dirty—”

“I don’t care.” Taehyung drops into the seat next to him, immediately propping his own feet up on the headrest Marco just vacated. “My house. My rules.”

Marco stares at him.

Then at Taehyung’s feet.

Then back at him.

“You just gave me shit for—”

“Yeah. And?” Taehyung doesn’t look away from the screen. “It’s my house. I do whatever I want. You don’t.”

“That’s bullshit—”

“Then leave,” he replies, sticking his tongue out. 

Marco slumps back in his seat, muttering something in Italian that’s definitely an insult. But he doesn’t move his feet back up. Just shoves more popcorn in his mouth and goes back to Raya, swiping left on someone who’s probably perfectly nice but committed the cardinal sin of having a bad first photo.

Bzzzzt-bzzzzt-bzzzzt.

Taehyung’s phone goes off again and he genuinely considers throwing it at the wall.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Marco asks, not looking up from his screen.

“Carlos has been on my ass all fucking day and I don’t even know why.”

“So pick up.”

“Did I say I want to know?” Taehyung’s jaw ticks. “I said I don’t know. I intend to keep it that way.”

“Very mature.”

“I’m in my twenties. I’m not supposed to be mature.”

“Pretty sure that’s the opposite of how that works—”

“Is this too much popcorn?”

They both turn.

Leo’s standing in the doorway, holding a bowl so full it’s practically spilling over the sides. The guy looks genuinely concerned about it, like popcorn quantity is a moral dilemma.

Taehyung looks at the bowl.

Looks at Leo.

“That’s like four bowls’ worth.”

“I know.” Leo shifts his weight. “But I didn’t know how much you guys wanted, so I just—”

“Brought enough to feed the whole squad,” Marco finishes, grinning. “Solid plan. Come here, give me that.”

Leo brightens, crossing the room and handing over the bowl. Marco immediately digs in with both hands like he hasn’t been eating popcorn for the last twenty minutes.

“There’s more in the kitchen if we run out,” Leo adds, dropping into the seat on Taehyung’s other side.

“We’re not gonna run out,” Taehyung says flatly.

“You don’t know that—”

“Leo. It’s popcorn. If we run out, we make more. It’s not a crisis.”

“But what if—”

“Jesus Christ.” Marco leans forward, looking past Taehyung at Leo. “You stress about the weirdest shit, bro. It’s popcorn. Chill.”

“I’m chill—”

“You’re the opposite of chill. You’re like, aggressively un-chill.” Marco’s already back on his phone, thumb moving in that practiced swipe-swipe-swipe rhythm. “Oh shit. Her.”

“Her who?” Leo asks.

“That model. The one from the shoot last month.” 

Marco shows them his screen—some girl with cheekbones that could cut glass and a caption in Spanish that’s probably poetic but comes across as try-hard.

“Ha! She liked me back.”

“Congrats,” Taehyung says, not looking. “You gonna message her or just stare at her profile like a fucking creep?”

“Fuck off. I’m crafting.”

“You’ve been staring at her for thirty seconds.”

“I’m using all my brainpower here, gimme a second.” 

Marco’s typing now, that little smirk on his face that means he’s saying something absolutely unhinged. 

“Okay. Sent.”

“What’d you say?”

Marco locks his phone, tossing it onto the empty seat beside him. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be fun.”

“It’s gonna be something stupid—”

“It’s gonna work—”

Bzzzzt-bzzzzt-bzzzzt.

Taehyung’s phone goes off again and this time it doesn’t stop. Just keeps buzzing, insistent and angry, and he knows—knows—that Carlos is about three seconds away from showing up at his house and breaking down the door.

“Dude.” Leo’s looking at him now, concerned. “That’s like the tenth time. Maybe you should—”

“I’m not picking up.”

“But—”

“Drop it.”

Leo shuts his mouth.

Marco doesn’t.

“What’d you do this time?” He’s already forgotten about the model, attention back on Taehyung with that knowing look. “And don’t say nothing. Carlos doesn’t call eleven times for nothing.”

“I don’t know what I did.” 

And he genuinely doesn’t. Could be anything. Could be the club thing from that night—the fifteen grand thing—or it could be some interview he forgot about or some sponsor event he blew off. Carlos keeps a mental list of Taehyung’s fuckups and pulls from it whenever he’s bored. 

“And I don’t care.”

“You’re gonna have to care eventually—”

“Why?” Taehyung shifts in his seat, finally looking at Marco. “He gets paid to deal with my shit. That’s literally his job.”

“Pretty sure his job is to manage you, not parent you—”

The phone stops buzzing.

Silence.

Taehyung exhales.

“See?” He settles back, eyes returning to the screen where someone’s getting thrown through a window. “He gave up.”

“He didn’t give up,” Marco says. “He’s regrouping.”

“You’re so dramatic—”

His phone buzzes once.

Text notification.

Taehyung ignores it.

Ten seconds later, it buzzes again.

Then again.

Then it starts ringing—that specific ringtone he assigned to Carlos after the man called him at 3 AM about a missed photo shoot. 

Loud. Aggressive. Impossible to ignore.

“Bro.” Leo’s practically cringing in his seat. “Just answer it—”

“No.”

“He’s not gonna stop—”

“I know.”

Marco’s laughing now, head tipped back against the seat. “Oh my god. You’re actually gonna let him have an aneurysm.”

“He’s fine. He’s got good health insurance.”

The ringing stops.

Starts again.

Stops.

Starts.

And then Taehyung’s phone buzzes with a text that lights up the whole screen, visible even from here.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝙿𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚛 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

Taehyung’s entire body goes rigid.

“Oh shit—” Marco’s cackling now, actually wheezing. “He’s bringing in the big guns—”

“He wouldn’t—”

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚕.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶.

Taehyung’s hand twitches.

Carlos wouldn’t.

Carlos absolutely would.

“Wooooow.” Marco’s grinning so wide it looks painful. “Leashed at last. Mama’s boy. Pussy.”

Taehyung flips him off without looking, already scoffing and about to put his phone back in his pocket.

“I’m not a—”

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒: 𝟷𝟶 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜.

He stands up. 

He swipes to answer, already walking toward the door because if he’s gonna get yelled at, he’s not doing it in front of Marco’s smug fucking face.

“What—”

“WHAT?” Carlos’s voice comes through the speaker so loud Taehyung has to hold the phone away from his ear. “WHAT? That’s what you’re starting with? WHAT?”

Taehyung reaches the hallway, door closing behind him, and yawns.

Long. Deliberate. Jaw cracking.

“Are you yawning—”

“Yeah. Long day.” Another yawn, just to make the point. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Carlos sounds like he’s about to spontaneously combust. “What’s up is that I’ve been calling you for two hours—”

“Has it been two hours? Didn’t notice.”

“—and you’ve been ignoring me—”

“Busy.”

“Busy doing what—”

“Watching a movie.”

“You’re watching a—” Carlos makes a sound that’s half laugh, half dying animal. “You’re watching a movie. While I’m having a stroke trying to manage your disaster of a—”

Taehyung leans against the wall, inspecting his nails.

This is gonna be a long one.

He can tell.

Carlos is one of those people who starts loud and just gets louder. Builds momentum like a freight train until he’s reached peak hysteria and Taehyung’s ears are bleeding.

He estimates 6 minutes at least. They’re at the beginning of the climb right now.

“—do you have any idea what I woke up to this morning? Any idea?”

“Your alarm?”

“Funny.” Carlos doesn’t sound amused. “I woke up to twenty-six messages from the PR team. Twenty-six. You know what they were about?”

Taehyung yawns again.

He genuinely can’t help it. His body’s doing that thing where it just shuts down mid-conversation, eyelids heavy, brain fog rolling in. Could fall asleep standing up right now if he let himself.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say me?”

“Correct.” Carlos’s voice sharpens. “You. Specifically, you and a very interesting set of photographs that are currently circulating on MadridGossip.”

Taehyung frowns.

Photographs?

He tries to think back—the party, but he was careful. Didn’t let anyone get photos of him leaving with Hot #848. Didn’t post anything stupid. Marco handled all the socials.

“What photographs?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Carlos sounds delighted in that specific way that means Taehyung’s about to get fucked. “Let me paint you a picture. Friday morning. Residential neighborhood. Very nice house. You, in the doorway—looking very intense—”

“I was just—”

“The photos say otherwise.” Carlos keeps going. “Your foot—quite clearly—shoved in the door. And a girl, also in very casual clothing, looking like she’s about to murder you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your house.

Friday morning.

When he showed up for the appointment and you were standing there in that sleep shirt and shorts, hair a disaster, face bare, looking at him like he was a stain on your carpet.

When he put his foot in the door because you tried to slam it on him.

Shit.

“Okay—” Taehyung starts.

“I’m not done.” Carlos cuts him off. “Do you know who that girl is?”

“Yeah—”

“Jesús’s daughter. The new head physio’s daughter. The man who literally just started with the club.”

“I know who she—”

“And now,” Carlos continues, voice climbing, “there are approximately fifteen different gossip accounts running with this story. Some think it’s a secret relationship. Some think it’s a hookup. But the majority—the one that’s trending—is that there’s trouble in the Madrid family. That the new physio’s daughter is causing problems with the players. That she’s—and I quote—‘already starting drama with Madrid’s number two.’”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens.

That’s not—

That’s not what happened.

He went there for treatment. For his back. Because Jesús offered home services and Taehyung’s schedule is fucked and it was convenient.

And yeah, maybe he pushed your buttons a little. Maybe he enjoyed making you snap. Maybe he got hard as hell and pressed up against you just to see what you’d do.

But that’s not drama.

That’s just—

That’s just him.

“It was a medical appointment,” he says flatly.

“I know it was a medical appointment.” Carlos sounds exhausted now. “But these photos don’t look like a medical appointment. They look like a fight. And now everyone’s speculating about what’s going on between you two.”

“There’s nothing going on—”

“I know that too!” Carlos’s voice spikes again. “But the narrative doesn’t care about reality. The narrative cares about what sells. And right now, what’s selling is ‘Taehyung and the physio’s daughter: trouble in paradise.’”

Taehyung lets his head fall back against the wall.

This is so fucking boring.

He didn’t even do anything. Just showed up, got his back worked on, flirted a little, and left. That’s it. That’s the whole story.

But somehow it’s become this whole thing.

“What do you want me to do about it?” he asks.

“I want you to kill the narrative.”

“How.”

“The usual way.” Carlos says it like it’s obvious. “Be seen with someone else. Publicly. Immediately. Give them a different story to chase.”

Taehyung processes this.

Blinks once.

“So you’re saying I just need to fuck around with someone.”

“I’m saying you need to be photographed with someone appropriate—”

“Yeah yeah, same thing.” 

He’s already running through his roster in his head. Hot #848—the blonde from the party—she’d probably be down. Or literally anyone else who knows how this works.

“That’s easy. I can do that in my sleep.”

He’s not really joking about that one. 

He’s pretty convinced he could. 

“This is not a joke—”

“I’m not joking.” Taehyung straightens up, suddenly more awake. “You want me seen with someone else? Done. I’ll take her somewhere real public. Wherever. Just text me the details.”

“Taehyung—”

“What? You just said kill the narrative. I’m killing the narrative.” 

He’s already thinking logistics. 

Tonight? 

Tomorrow? 

How fast does Carlos need this done? 

“I literally do this every weekend anyway. Now I just have to make sure someone’s watching. Easy.”

Carlos makes a sound like he’s being strangled.

“You’re missing the point—”

“No, you’re missing the point.” Taehyung’s patience is wearing thin now. “You want photos? I’ll give you photos. You want a new story? I’ll give you a story. But don’t act like this is some big complicated thing when we both know it’s not.”

“The point is that you need to be careful—”

“I’m always careful—”

“You had your foot in her door—”

“Because she tried to close it—”

“Why the FUCK are you harassing the physio’s daughter, Taehyung?!” 

Okay, that was definitely a yell from Carlos. 

Full volume. 

“Look—I don’t care about the context. I care about optics. And right now, the optics are that you’re causing problems with staff families. Do you understand how bad that looks? How much the club hates that?”

Taehyung’s jaw ticks.

He gets it.

He does.

The club has rules. Invisible lines. 

Don’t fuck the physio’s daughter. Don’t fuck your teammate’s sister. Don’t fuck anyone who can cause complicated political nightmares if it goes south.

He knows the rules.

They’re just fucking annoying and fucking boring.

And also—he  doesn’t really care about them.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “I’ll fix it.”

“You’ll—”

“I said I’ll fix it.” His patience officially hits zero. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever. I’ll be seen with someone else and everyone will forget about the physio’s daughter thing. Happy?”

Carlos is silent for a long moment.

Then: “Just—don’t make it worse.”

“I never make it worse—”

“You always make it worse—”

Taehyung hangs up.

Stands there for a second in the hallway, phone in hand, staring at nothing.

He feels his thoughts slow down and his eyelids get heavier and everything feels like it’s moving through honey.

He could sleep right here. Right now. Just slide down the wall and pass out on the floor.

Shakes his head instead.

Pushes off the wall and heads back into the cinema room.

Marco and Leo both look up when he walks in.

“Sooo?” Marco’s grinning. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” Taehyung drops back into his seat, immediately propping his feet up again. “Apparently someone got photos of me at her house.”

Leo blinks. “The physio’s daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Why were you at her house?”

“Medical appointment.” Taehyung reaches for the popcorn bowl, shoving a handful in his mouth. “And I kinda wanted to test the waters at her house. See what it could lead to.”

Marco’s head snaps up from his phone, grin spreading slow and knowing. “Let me guess. Led to nothing.”

“She tried to slam the door in my face.”

Marco cackles. 

“Oh my god. She literally—” He can’t finish, already wheezing. “Bro, you called dibs and she’s still not biting.”

“She’ll bite.”

“When? You’ve been at this since like, what, training started?” Marco’s scrolling through his phone now, clearly looking for the photos. “Oh shit. Found them.”

He turns his screen around.

There it is.

Taehyung in your doorway, one arm braced on the frame, foot jammed in the door. 

And you—face caught mid-scowl, hand on the door like you’re about to shove him out.

The caption reads: TROUBLE IN PARADISE? Madrid’s #2 spotted in heated confrontation with new physio’s daughter. Witnesses say the argument lasted several minutes before he was let inside. 👀🔥 #RealMadrid #Drama #MadridGossip

“Heated confrontation,” Marco reads aloud, laughing. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I wasn’t confronting her—”

“You look like you’re about to either fight her or fuck her.” Marco zooms in on the photo. “Honestly could go either way.”

Leo leans over, squinting at the screen. “Wait. Is that—is your foot in her door?”

“She tried to close it on me.”

“So you blocked it.” Leo sits back, looking genuinely impressed. “That’s kind of psycho, bro.”

“It’s not psycho, it’s—” Taehyung stops. “Whatever. Carlos wants me to kill the narrative. Wants me seen with someone else.”

“Oh, so you need someone for optics.” Marco’s already thinking, that look he gets when he’s about to make moves. “I can make some calls. What’s your type for this? Model? Influencer?”

“I don’t care.” Taehyung’s eyes are getting heavy again. “Just someone who knows how it works. Someone who won’t make it weird.”

“I know this girl, Daiane. Brazilian model, did that campaign with Versace last month. She’s hot, good with cameras, doesn’t do clingy.”

“Fine.”

“Or there’s this actress—Eliana something—she’s always at the clubs, super photogenic—”

“I said fine.” Taehyung yawns, jaw cracking. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” Marco says, still scrolling.

“Yeah, well.”

Leo’s still looking at the photo on Marco’s phone, expression thoughtful.

“You know,” he says slowly, “you could just… not do anything.”

Both Taehyung and Marco turn to stare at him.

“What?”

“I’m just saying.” Leo shrugs, uncomfortable under their attention. “Like—if you’re not actually doing anything with her, why does it matter what people think? It’ll blow over in like a week when something else happens.”

“Because the club cares,” Taehyung says flatly.

“But do they?” Leo’s warming to his argument now. “Like, you’re Kim Taehyung. You’re the best defender. They’re not gonna do shit to you over some gossip photos.”

Marco snorts. “He’s got a point.”

“He doesn’t—”

“No, he kinda does.” Marco finally looks up from his phone. “You could literally get caught doing lines off a ref’s ass and the club would find a way to spin it. Some photos of you at a girl’s house? That’s nothing.”

Taehyung stares at them both.

They’re not wrong.

The club needs him more than he needs them. His contract’s worth too much. His performance stats are too good. They’re not gonna bench him or trade him over tabloid speculation.

But still.

Carlos sounded stressed.

And when Carlos is stressed, Taehyung’s life gets annoying.

“I’m still doing it,” he says finally. “Rather just fix it now than deal with Carlos having a breakdown every fucking day for the next week. I’m already exhausted with today.”

“Fair.” Marco goes back to his phone. “Alright, I’ll text Daiane. See if she’s free this week.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Carlos wants it done fast.” Taehyung closes his eyes. “So tomorrow.”

“You’re gonna make me work miracles here—”

“That’s literally why I keep you around—”

“I thought it was my charming personality—”

“Never that—”

Leo cuts in. “What if she says no?”

“She won’t,” Marco says confidently, typing rapidly. “Girls love being seen with him. Free publicity. Plus Daiane’s smart—she knows how this works.”

Taehyung lets them talk, brain already half-gone.

He’ll show up with her. Smile for the cameras. Put his arm around whoever. Let them take their photos. 

And by Wednesday, everyone will have forgotten about you and your door and the way you looked at him like he was nothing.

Problem solved.

Easy.

Marco’s still talking. “—and if Daiane doesn’t work, there’s always this DJ I know, super cool, always at the right parties—”

Taehyung’s not listening anymore.

He’s thinking about Friday morning.

About the way you looked in that sleep shirt.

About your bare legs and messy hair and the complete lack of interest in your eyes.

About the way his dick responded when you shoved him away.

He opens his eyes.

Stares at the movie screen without seeing it.

Yeah.

Tomorrow.

He’ll fix it… tomorrow.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The Valdebebas parking lot has never felt like a stage before.

Until now.

Taehyung pulls his Porsche into his usual spot—third from the entrance, prime visibility, close enough to the building that everyone coming and going gets a good look—and kills the engine.

Daiane's already checking her reflection in the visor mirror, touching up lip gloss that doesn't need touching up. She's got that model thing down—the constant performance, the awareness of angles even when no one's watching.

Someone's always watching.

That's what she said when he picked her up this morning, laughing like it was a joke but meaning every word.

She's right, too.

There's already a cluster of staff near the entrance pretending not to stare. Two equipment managers. Someone from media relations. A grounds crew guy who's been ‘sweeping’ the same three square meters for the past forty-five seconds.

Taehyung grins.

Perfect.

"Ready?" he asks, not really asking.

Daiane caps her gloss, tosses her hair—long, blonde, catches the morning light like spun gold—and gives him a smile that's pure camera-ready warmth.

"Always."

He gets out first. Takes his time about it. Stretches slightly, rolling his shoulders, letting his training jacket shift and settle. The chain catches light. The watch catches light. Everything about him catches light because that's the point—that's always the point.

Then he rounds the car and opens her door.

Holds out his hand.

She takes it, unfolding from the passenger seat with the kind of grace that comes from years of runway training. Her heels hit the asphalt. Her dress—short, designer, definitely not training-facility-appropriate—rides up just enough to show off legs that go on for approximately seven kilometers.

They start walking.

His hand finds the small of her back. Natural. Proprietary. The kind of touch that says she's with me without him having to say a word.

The equipment managers have stopped pretending to work.

Media relations girl has her phone out—probably texting someone, probably already spreading the news.

Grounds crew guy has given up on sweeping entirely.

Good.

This is exactly what Carlos wanted. Optics. A new story. Something to replace the narrative of him and the physio's daughter having some kind of dramatic confrontation.

And if it happens to cause a scene at the training facility?

If it happens to break that unwritten rule about keeping personal shit away from professional spaces?

Well.

Nobody ever accused Kim Taehyung of following rules.

They reach the entrance and he pushes through, Daiane's heels clicking against tile now as they step into the main corridor.

It's busier inside.

Players filtering toward the locker rooms. Staff moving between offices. That constant hum of activity that means training's about to start and everyone's running slightly behind.

Heads turn.

Every head turns.

He watches it happen in real-time—the recognition, the confusion, the double-takes. Players who've known him for years stopping mid-conversation to stare at the six-foot blonde on his arm like she materialized from another dimension.

Which, in a way, she did.

Nobody brings dates to training.

It's not a written rule. There's no policy, no clause in anyone's contract. It's just... not done. Training is sacred. Professional. The one space where the circus of their public lives is supposed to stay outside.

And Taehyung just walked in with a Versace campaign model in four-inch heels.

Marco spots him first.

Of course Marco spots him first.

The guy's got radar for chaos—can sense drama from three rooms away like some kind of gossip-detecting bloodhound.

His face goes through approximately seven expressions in two seconds: surprise, confusion, recognition, disbelief, and finally settling on pure, unfiltered delight.

"Bro," Marco says, loud enough that half the corridor hears him. "Did you seriously—"

"Marco." Taehyung's grin sharpens. "This is Daiane. Daiane, Marco."

"Charmed," Daiane says, all warmth and practiced charm.

Marco's still staring at Taehyung like he can't decide if this is genius or insanity.

Both, probably.

That's usually how it goes.

"You brought her to training," Marco says, not quite a question.

"She wanted to see how it works." Taehyung shrugs, completely unbothered. "Who am I to say no?"

"You're—" Marco stops. Laughs. Shakes his head. "Okay. Alright. You're actually insane. I respect it."

"I know."

They keep walking.

More stares. More whispers. Someone—he thinks it's one of the younger midfielders—actually takes a photo before remembering he's not supposed to and shoving his phone away.

Taehyung files that away for later. Might need to have a word with the kid about discretion.

Or not.

The whole point is being seen.

The physio room's coming up on the left.

His pulse does something, tiny uptick that he attributes to the adrenaline of causing a scene.

The door's propped open.

He can see inside—the treatment tables, the equipment, Jesús organizing something in the corner with his back turned.

And you.

You're there.

Standing by the cabinet, pulling out supplies, wearing scrubs that shouldn't look as good as they do. Your hair's pulled back—that ponytail you always wear when you're working—and your face is set in that neutral expression he's starting to recognize as your default.

You haven't noticed him yet.

Or you're pretending you haven't.

Same thing, really.

He slows his pace slightly. Just enough to make sure you'll see.

Daiane's still on his arm, still radiating that model energy, still dressed like she's about to walk a runway instead of tour a football facility.

Come on.

Look up.

Look—

You look up.

Your eyes find him.

Then Daiane.

Then back to him.

And your eyebrows draw together for half a second, your mouth pressing into a line, your whole demeanor radiating such profound ‘are you serious right now’ energy that he can practically hear it.

Then you roll your eyes.

Not a subtle eye roll. Not a polite, restrained, ‘I'll-pretend-I-didn't-see-that’ eye roll.

A full eye roll, the kind that involves your entire face, your neck tilting back slightly, your lashes practically brushing your hairline before returning to their original position.

He wants it framed. He wants it tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. He wants to text Carlos ‘worth every euro’ and not explain.

It's magnificent.

It's the most beautifully disdainful thing he's ever witnessed.

Marco—who's been walking slightly behind, still grinning like he's watching his favorite show—actually laughs. Out loud. A surprised bark of amusement that echoes off the corridor walls.

"Oh my god," Marco wheezes. "Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?"

Taehyung grins.

Victory.

A reaction. An acknowledgment. Proof that he exists in your consciousness, that you can't completely ignore him no matter how hard you try.

You might not care about him.

But you definitely noticed.

He holds your gaze for exactly two seconds—long enough to make his point, not long enough to seem desperate—before looking away and continuing down the corridor.

"She hates you," Daiane observes mildly, not sounding particularly concerned about it.

"She hates everyone."

"That's a lot of hate."

"She's got the capacity."

They reach the end of the corridor. He deposits Daiane in the players' lounge—nice couches, good coffee, plenty of staff who'll keep her entertained—with instructions to wait there until training's over.

"And then?" she asks, that knowing smile playing at her lips.

"And then we'll see."

She laughs, settling onto the couch like she belongs there, and he heads toward the locker room to change.

He tugs the shirt down. Runs a hand through his hair. Catches his reflection in the locker door and the grin’s still sitting on his face like it’s been left there.

You looked. You looked and you couldn’t keep your face still and that means—somewhere under all the bored and the blinking and the ‘is there a point to this’—there’s a wire he can pull. 

He just pulled it. 

Wants to pull it again. 

“You look like you just won the fucking lottery,” Marco says from the bench. “Stop.”

“Mind your business.”

“You brought a model to training—”

“And it worked.”

“What worked—”

“Forget it.”

Marco mutters something Italian. Probably a slur. He doesn’t care.

He finishes changing, grabs his cleats, heads out to the pitch.

The morning's bright. Clear skies, perfect temperature, that specific quality of Spanish light that makes everything look sharp and vivid.

Training's already starting—players spreading out for warm-ups, coaches calling instructions, the familiar rhythm of professional football in motion.

He joins them. Falls into the routine.

He jogs out, rolls his neck, stretches through his shoulders with extra. A little loose-limbed. A little ‘look at me.’

He looks toward the bench.

You’re there.

Tablet on your lap. Ponytail. That face you wear when you’re working that’s not really a face, it’s an absence of one. Your father’s by the cones with one of the juniors, and you’re three meters away pretending the entire pitch doesn’t exist.

You haven’t looked up.

Fine. Fine. It’s early. The session just started. He’s not going to be the guy who’s ten seconds into warm-ups and already tracking some girl’s eyeline.

Drills.

Defensive shape. He’s loud in the line, calling the center-backs, bossing the kid on the left who keeps stepping wrong. Reads a simulated overlap two beats early and pops the ball out with the outside of his boot, and the noise it makes is good, that thunk that means he hit it exactly where he meant to.

He glances toward the bench.

You’re scrolling.

Okay.

Drills again. He puts a shoulder into the forward coming down his side a little harder than the drill calls for. The kid stumbles. Marco’s eyebrows go up. He plants his feet, flicks the ball back into play.

Glance.

Your thumb’s still moving on the screen.

You didn’t even feel that. The whole wing collapsed and you didn’t feel it.

He wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Lets it ride up. He knows what he looks like. He’s spent enough hours in the gym to know exactly what the cut of his stomach does in the morning light, and he knows there are at least four cameras on the sidelines that just got fed a very good frame.

Glance.

Tablet now. You switched back to the tablet.

What the fuck is on that tablet.

Whistle. They run it again. 

He intercepts a ball that wasn’t really meant for him to intercept, just to do it, and pings it back across the pitch on a diagonal that makes one of the assistants whistle. 

"Excellent ball, Tae!"

Yeah. Obviously.

Glance.

Your phone now. You went from the tablet back to the phone. So whatever’s on the phone is more compelling than the tablet which was already more compelling than him. 

He’s rated below two pieces of consumer electronics in your morning hierarchy and one of them is probably just fucking dumb Whatsapp.

His jaw moves. Once. He shakes it out.

He’s the best right-back in this league. He’s the best right-back in most leagues. He just made a play that’s going to be on someone’s highlight reel by tonight. There are children in multiple countries who own a jersey with his name on it. 

And you’re texting?

Drills again.

He slides into a tackle that doesn’t need to be a slide. Lands clean—he’s too good not to land clean—but his body went down harder than the angle required. 

Ball pops up. Marco collects. Marco gives him a what. He gives Marco nothing.

Glance.

You yawn. You yawn. Hand to your wrist, polite, contained, not even a dramatic yawn—a bored yawn, a somebody’s lecture is going long yawn—and you don’t even bother to hide it because your eyes are still on the screen and your father isn’t watching you so why would you.

He hates that.

He doesn’t know what to do with how much he hates that.

He takes his position. Spits on the grass. Tells himself focus, in the voice he uses on himself when he’s about to do something he’ll have to apologize for in the post-match.

Whistle.

The play unfolds and he’s there, he’s exactly where he needs to be, body doing the work without his brain because his brain is—somewhere else. 

Somewhere on the bench. 

Somewhere on a small screen he can’t see the contents of. 

He intercepts. Wins the ball. Drives forward. Lays it off to Marco. Gets it back. Turns. Whips a cross in that nobody’s there to meet because it’s a drill, it’s not a real play, but the cross itself is clean, the cross is the kind of ball that makes people remember why his contract is what it is.

Glance.

Coach calls a water break and he’s barely sweating but he’s irritated in a way that feels like sweat, that prickly under-skin thing. 

He grabs a bottle. Squirts half of it into his mouth and the other half down his neck. The cold is good. The cold helps.

You’re still on your phone.

You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked up. There has been an entire match’s worth of action in front of you and you have, what—sat there. Scrolled. Yawned. Adjusted your ponytail at one point, he caught that because he was looking, of course he was looking.

What is on that phone.

Who are you texting.

You don’t even like people. You probably have like four contacts. That’s the whole thing about you, the whole bit, the whole reason the eye roll meant something—you don’t engage, you don’t perform, you sit in a room and let it happen around you and judge it silently. 

So who the fuck has earned enough of your attention that you’re typing back.

By the time coach calls the end of the session, Taehyung's drenched in sweat and his muscles are screaming and he's so fucking irritated that he doesn't trust himself to speak to anyone.

Fuck this.

It doesn't matter if you're watching.

It doesn't matter if you care.

He's here to train. To be the best. To prove—to everyone—that he's exactly as good as he knows he is.

Your attention means nothing.

Your complete lack of attention means less than nothing.

"Bro." Marco falls into step beside him as they head toward the locker room. "You okay? You were like... intense out there."

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you were—"

"I said I'm fine."

Marco holds his hands up. "Alright, alright. Just asking."

They walk in silence for a few seconds.

"Daiane's still in the lounge," Marco offers. "Saw her on my way out. She looks bored as hell but she's handling it."

"Good."

More steps in silence.

Then Marco, because he can never leave anything alone: "You gonna hit that later?"

"What do you think."

"I think you look like you need to hit something." Marco's grin is pure sleaze. "Or fuck someone. Preferably someone with legs like hers."

Taehyung doesn't respond.

Just lets his body do its usual thing again—that post-exertion crash where all the adrenaline drains out at once and leaves him hollow. Heavy. Like someone's slowly filling his veins with concrete.

He needs to sit down.

Needs to sleep.

Needs to fuck.

That last one's not negotiable. His whole body's wound too tight, irritation and exhaustion and something else he's not examining tangled together in his chest. 

Sex will fix it. Sex always fixes it.

They push through the locker room doors. The space is already filling up with players—the noise of conversation, lockers slamming, someone's music playing from a speaker in the corner.

Marco drops onto the bench next to Taehyung's locker, sprawling out like his balls need the air.

"You know what you should do?"

"I'm gonna regret asking."

"Take her in here." Marco gestures expansively at the shower stalls. "Right now. Before everyone clears out."

Taehyung pauses mid-reach for his towel. Stares at Marco.

"You're joking."

"I'm not." Marco's grinning now, that specific smile that means he's about to share wisdom nobody asked for. "Bro, locker room sex? Incredible. The risk. The thrill. Someone could walk in any second. Your heart's already pounding from training—"

"You've fucked in a locker room."

"Multiple times."

"Here?"

"Here, away games, that one time in Milan—" Marco waves a hand dismissively. "Point is, it's amazing. You should try it."

Taehyung shuts his locker. Turns to look at Marco fully.

"Let me explain something to you."

"Oh god, here we go—"

"Fucking in the locker room—" 

"I said shower stalls though—"

"—means you're so fucking desperate that you can't make it somewhere private. It means you're so goddamn horny that your brain has completely stopped functioning. That you literally cannot think with your actual head because all the blood's gone somewhere else."

Marco's grin doesn't falter. "Yeah. And?"

"And—" Taehyung grabs his bag. "—I don't get like that. Ever. If I'm fucking someone, I'm doing it properly. In a bed. Or at least somewhere with a lock on the door. Not in some tiled room that smells like feet where anyone could walk in."

"You're missing out."

"I'm really not."

"The adrenaline alone—"

"I get plenty of adrenaline." Taehyung slings his bag over his shoulder. "I’m just not that fucking down bad, Christ. As if I wasn’t getting any, get real."

Marco shrugs, unbothered. "Your loss, bro. Some of my best work has happened in locker room shower stalls."

"That says more about you than you think it does."

"It says I know how to have fun."

"It says you're a degenerate."

"Your degenerate." Marco blows him a kiss. "Now go fuck your model. You look like you're about to pass out."

He's not wrong. The exhaustion is hitting harder now—that all-consuming tiredness that makes his eyelids feel like they're weighted. His body's screaming for sleep, for horizontal surfaces, for unconsciousness.

But first: Daiane.

After a quick shower, he makes his way to the players' lounge, moving on autopilot, and finds her exactly where he left her.

She's scrolling through her phone, legs crossed, looking up when she hears his footsteps. Her smile shifts into something warmer when she sees him—genuine, interested, the kind of smile that says she knows exactly where this is going and she's into it.

"Survived training?" she asks.

"Barely." 

He stops in front of her, letting his gaze drag down slow. Taking his time. She's still in that dress—too short, too tight, absolutely perfect. 

"You bored out of your mind?"

"Little bit." She stands, closing the distance between them. "The coffee here is terrible."

"I'll make it up to you."

"Will you?" Her eyebrow arches. Playful. Knowing.

God, he loves this part.

The negotiation. The dance. Two people who know exactly what they want, circling each other until someone makes the first move.

He reaches out, fingers brushing her hip, pulling her closer.

"My place has better coffee."

"Does it?"

"And a bed."

"Oh?" Her lips curve. "What would we need a bed for?"

He grins. Leans down. Lets his mouth brush her ear, voice dropping low.

"I've got a few ideas."

She shivers. Just slightly. Just enough.

Yeah.

This is what he needed.

Something simple. Something easy. A beautiful woman who wants him, who knows how this works, who'll let him lose himself in her for a few hours until his brain stops racing and his body stops being so fucking heavy.

He takes her hand. Threads his fingers through hers.

"Come on."

She follows without hesitation.

They pass through the corridor, past the training rooms, past the entrance where staff are still pretending not to watch.

Let them watch.

Let them take their photos.

Let Carlos have his new narrative.

He's got better things to focus on, like the way Daiane's hand feels in his. The way her hips move when she walks. The way her lips look—full and glossy and biteable.

They reach his car. He opens her door. Watches her slide in, legs shifting, dress riding up.

Yeah.

This is exactly what he needs.

By the time he's behind the wheel, pulling out of the lot, the exhaustion's still there—that heavy, dragging thing that never fully leaves—but it's muted now. Pushed aside by anticipation.

Daiane's hand lands on his thigh.

Squeezes.

He grins.

Better things to focus on.

The thing about being the best is that it's exhausting.

Not the actual being part. That comes naturally. Taehyung's been the best at everything he's ever touched—football, women, looking good in a suit, knowing exactly what to say to make people love him or fear him or both. 

No, the exhausting part is the maintenance. The constant awareness of his own superiority. The energy it takes to project ’I don't give a fuck’ when, in reality, every room he enters is a chess board and every person in it is a piece to be positioned.

He's good at it.

The best, actually.

But tonight, none of that matters.

Tonight, he has dinner with Hyunwoo.

The restaurant is one of those places that doesn't need a sign outside because if you don't already know where it is, you can't afford to eat there anyway. Private rooms. Michelin stars. The kind of hushed, reverent atmosphere that makes everyone speak in murmurs like they're in church. 

Taehyung doesn't hate it—the food's excellent, the wine list is impeccable, and the staff know how to be invisible when you need them to be. He's been here dozens of times with sponsors, with teammates, with women he wanted to impress.

He hates that Hyunwoo always picks it.

Every month. Same restaurant. Same private room in the back. Same pretense that they're a normal family doing a normal thing, catching up over dinner like brothers who actually talk outside of these scheduled obligations.

They don't.

They haven't in years.

Not since Taehyung stopped coming home for holidays. Not since he started screening his mother's calls. Not since he realized that no amount of trophies or headlines would ever change the way his parents looked at him.

He pushes through the restaurant's entrance, nods at the maître who recognizes him immediately, and follows the familiar path to the private room. His reflection catches in a mirror as he passes—dark suit, perfect fit, the kind of effortless elegance that takes a stupid amount of money and an even stupider amount of time to achieve.

He looks good.

He always looks good.

That's the one thing nobody can take from him.

Hyunwoo's already there, because of course he is. Hyunwoo is never late. Hyunwoo is never unprepared. Hyunwoo is never anything less than exactly what he's supposed to be at any given moment. He's sitting at the table with a woman next to him—Nerea, his fiancée. Spanish. Beautiful in that effortless Mediterranean way, dark hair and warm eyes and the kind of easy smile that makes everyone around her feel comfortable.

She fits Hyunwoo perfectly.

Two people who've never had a messy moment in their lives, sitting there looking like a spread from some lifestyle magazine. There's a phone propped against a water glass between them, and as Taehyung approaches, he catches a glimpse of the screen—a video call, tiny hands waving at the camera, a babysitter's voice cooing in the background.

Tatiana.

Their daughter.

Seven months old and already the center of Hyunwoo's universe, if the way his entire face softens when he looks at the screen is any indication.

"Taehyung-ah."

Hyunwoo stands as he enters, and the warmth in his voice is genuine. That's the worst part—it always sounds genuine. 

He pulls Taehyung into a hug, one of those brief but firm embraces that feels like it means something.

"Hyung." Taehyung returns the Korean for as long as the hug lasts—exactly 1.5 secondsa—then pulls back, switching to English. "Nerea. Good to see you."

"You too." She tilts the phone toward him, and he catches a flash of round cheeks, dark eyes, a tuft of black hair that sticks up at odd angles. "Say hi to tío Taehyung, cariño."

He doesn't know what to do with the baby.

Never has.

He waves awkwardly at the screen—a gesture that feels foreign on his body, too soft, too normal—and the baby blinks at him with an expression that looks distinctly unimpressed. 

Fair enough. He's not great with kids. Doesn't know how to be. 

The babysitter says something in rapid Spanish, Nerea responds in kind, and then the call ends and the phone disappears into her purse.

"She's getting big," Taehyung offers, because that's what people say about babies.

"She's trying to crawl," Hyunwoo says, pride leaking into his voice despite his obvious attempt to sound casual. "Scooting everywhere. Nerea's baby-proofed the entire apartment."

"The entire apartment," Nerea confirms, laughing. "Even his office. She found his architectural models last week. Nearly ate a miniature Sagrada Familia."

Taehyung takes his seat across from them, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. 

"You look tired, Taehyung," Nerea says, tilting her head. "Long week?"

He doesn't flinch at the observation.

"Season's ramping up. You know how it is."

"I don't, actually," she says, smiling. "But I'll take your word for it."

"You've been sleeping a lot," Hyunwoo says.

Taehyung's jaw tightens, just slightly. He reaches for the wine list even though he already knows what he's going to order, using the motion to avoid his brother's gaze.

"Who told you that?"

"I have sources."

"Marco needs to learn to keep his mouth shut."

"It wasn't Marco." Hyunwoo's watching him with that expression—the one that's too knowing, too seeing. "Carlos mentioned you've been clocking fourteen-hour nights. Missing morning alarms. Showing up to early training looking like you haven't slept at all, even though you've slept half the day."

There it is.

The concern.

Taehyung fucking hates the concern.

"I'm fine," he says flatly. "It's recovery. Hard training means more sleep. Basic biology, hyung."

"Fourteen hours isn't recovery. It's—"

"It's nothing." Taehyung's voice comes out harsher than he intended, and he sees Nerea shift slightly in her peripheral vision. "I know my body. I know what I need. Can we talk about something else?"

Silence settles over the table.

Hyunwoo doesn't push.

He never pushes, not directly—that's not his style. He just waits. Observes. Files things away for later, building a case like it’s one of his blueprints, collecting evidence until the structure is irrefutable.

It's infuriating.

It's also, terrifyingly, effective.

A waiter materializes to take their orders. 

Taehyung asks for whiskey instead of wine—something to take the edge off, something to make the next two hours survivable—and picks at the bread basket while Hyunwoo and Nerea discuss appetizers. They do it seamlessly, that easy back-and-forth of a couple who've been together long enough to read each other's preferences without asking.

"The firm closed the Salamanca project," Hyunwoo says, filling the silence with something safer. "That mixed-use development I mentioned last month."