Jungkook-baited, Yoongi-wrecked

The bar smelled like whiskey and bad decisions, and you were knee-deep in both. Freshly graduated, 22, and buzzing with the kind of reckless energy only a diploma and three cocktails can give, you spotted him across the room. Kim Seokjin, all sharp jawline and tailored suit, sipping something amber and expensive. He looked like he’d walked out of a K-drama, and you, in your ripped jeans and glittery crop top, were a chaotic contrast.

You slid onto the stool next to him, ignoring his raised eyebrow. “You look like you need someone to ruin your night,” you said, flashing a grin.

He didn’t smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Undeterred, you leaned closer, the alcohol making you bold. “Come on, Mr. Serious. Live a little. Bet I could make you smile.”

His lips twitched, but it was more pity than amusement. “You’re a kid.”

“Graduated kid,” you corrected, winking. “And I’m fun. You should marry me.”

He choked on his drink, amber liquid splattering his pristine tie. You laughed, delighted by the chaos you’d caused. Before he could recover, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his face tightened. A text from his father: “Settle down. I want you as my successor. Prove you’re stable.”

Jin’s eyes flicked to you, assessing. You were still giggling, oblivious. He sighed, long and suffering. “Be at City Hall. 10 AM tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Marriage. You suggested it.” His tone was clipped, like he was scheduling a dentist appointment. “Don’t be late.”

You thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

"Are you s-serious?" You gulped and asked.

"Dead Serious," he replied.

The next morning, you woke up with a hangover and a vague memory of proposing to a hot stranger. Then your phone pinged: “City Hall. Don’t test me.”

Holy shit, he was really serious.

You stumbled into City Hall in a sundress and sneakers, hair barely tamed in a messy bun. Jin stood there, all Armani and annoyance, holding a folder. “You’re late.”

“It’s 10:02,” you protested, adjusting your sunglasses to block out the world’s judgment.

He thrust the folder at you. “Prenup. Six months. No feelings. No complications. We divorce after I secure my position.”

You skimmed the document, brain foggy from last night’s cocktails. “So, I’m your trophy wife for half a year?”

“More like a prop,” he muttered, signing his name with a flourish that screamed I’m better than you.

You signed, too, because why not? You were 22, broke until you find job, and this was the most exciting thing to happen since you aced your finals. “Deal, robot husband.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Moving into Jin’s penthouse was like stepping into a sterile art gallery—white walls, sleek furniture, zero personality. It screamed I’m rich and miserable. Your duffel bag, bursting with colorful clothes and random trinkets, looked like an alien invasion next to his minimalist aesthetic. You dropped it on the floor, and the thud echoed like a declaration of war.

Jin appeared from the kitchen, holding a notepad like a professor about to lecture. “We need rules,” he said, voice clipped. He handed you a sheet of paper, his handwriting infuriatingly perfect.

You scanned it, snorting. “No entering each other’s rooms? No romantic involvement? No interfering? What is this, a prison contract?”

“It’s a boundary,” he said, crossing his arms. His suit jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, and you hated how it made your stomach flip. “This is strictly business.”

You leaned against the counter, smirking. “What if I need to borrow your fancy coffee maker? Or, like, your soul?”

His jaw ticked. “Buy your own coffee maker. And I don’t have a soul.”

“Oh, I’ll find it,” you teased, poking his chest. He swatted your hand away, but not before you noticed the warmth of his skin through his shirt. “Lighten up, robot husband.”

“Stop calling me that,” he snapped, but his ears were pink. “And don’t touch me.”

You grinned, undeterred. “Challenge accepted.”

That evening, you decided to stake your claim. You rummaged through your bag, pulled out a stack of neon sticky notes, and went to town. By the time Jin returned from a work call, his rice cooker was labeled “Emotional Support Husband,” his fridge had a note saying “Feed Me, Daddy,” and his coffee maker bore a winking smiley face with “Property of Chaos” scrawled next to it.

He stared, horrified. “What the hell is this?”

“Interior decorating,” you said, lounging on his pristine couch with a bag of chips. Crumbs fell onto the cushion, and his eye twitched. “Your place was boring.”

He tore off the rice cooker note, crumpling it. “This is a $500 rice cooker. It doesn’t need your… commentary.”

You gasped dramatically. “You spent $500 on a rice cooker? Does it sing lullabies, too?”

“It cooks perfect rice,” he said, like it was a personality trait. He ripped off the fridge note next, muttering, “Daddy? Really?”

You cackled, tossing a chip in your mouth. “You’re so easy to rile up. This is gonna be fun.”

He pointed at you, note still in hand. “No more sticky notes. No more touching my stuff. And clean up those crumbs.”

You saluted mockingly. “Aye, aye, Captain Uptight.”

He stormed off, but not before you stuck another note on his back: “Grumpy Cat.” He didn’t notice. You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a chip.

Three days into this fake marriage, and you were already testing Jin’s limits. Bored and hungry, you raided his fridge, expecting boring rich-people food—kale, probably, or some sad quinoa. Instead, you found a jar of strawberry jam, the label in French, looking like it cost more than your entire grocery budget. You unscrewed the cap, sniffed the sweet, tangy aroma, and decided it was fate.

You slathered it on a piece of toast, moaning at the first bite. It was like eating a sunset—rich, fruity, with a hint of decadence. You grabbed your phone and texted Jin, who was at some fancy meeting: “Your strawberry soul tastes divine.”

His reply came instantly: “That was $80. Imported from France. You owe me.”

You laughed, licking jam off your fingers. “Worth it,” you muttered, taking another bite. You were halfway through your second slice when you heard the front door slam. Jin stormed in, tie loosened, looking like a man on a mission.

“Did you eat my jam?” he demanded, pointing at the open jar on the counter.

You froze, mid-chew, a smear of strawberry on your lip. “Uh… maybe?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a limited-edition batch. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get?”

You swallowed, grinning. “Tastes like privilege. Want some?” You held out the toast, batting your lashes.

He glared. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic,” you shot back, hopping off the counter. You grabbed a spoon, scooped more jam, and popped it in your mouth, making exaggerated “mmm” noises. “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

His eye twitched. “Stop eating it like it’s peanut butter!”

You shrugged, licking the spoon. “Too late. It’s mine now.”

The next morning, you found your toothbrush in a crystal cup labeled “Temporary Guest” in his perfect handwriting. You snorted, grabbing a marker and scribbling “Permanent Chaos” on the cup. Then, for good measure, you stuck a sticky note on his precious jam jar: “Soulmate Spread.”

When Jin saw it, he let out a groan that echoed through the penthouse. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but you caught the faintest twitch of his lips. Progress.

Laundry day was a disaster of your own making. You’d forgotten to pick up your clothes from the cleaners, and your duffel was empty except for a single sock and a sports bra. Desperate, you tiptoed into Jin’s room—breaking Rule #1—and opened his closet. Rows of pristine shirts stared back, all crisp and smelling faintly of cedar and him. You grabbed an oversized white button-down, the fabric soft and luxurious, and slipped it on. It hung past your thighs, one shoulder slipping down, exposing your collarbone.

Back in the living room, you cranked up Dua Lipa’s “Levitating” on your phone, letting the beat take over. You swayed, hips popping, spinning in circles as the shirt flared around you. You felt free, alive, like the penthouse was your stage. The lyrics had you singing off-key, arms flailing, completely oblivious to the world.

Jin came home early, key in hand, and froze in the doorway. His eyes locked on you—hair wild, bare legs flashing, his shirt slipping further down your shoulder. The way the fabric clung to your curves, the glimpse of thigh with every twirl, sent heat coursing through him. His throat went dry, fingers tightening around the doorknob. You were a vision, chaotic and beautiful, and he hated how much he wanted to close the distance between you.

You spun again, unaware, your laughter mixing with the music. His gaze lingered on the curve of your neck, the way your hips moved, the careless joy in your abandon. His chest tightened, a mix of irritation and something dangerously close to desire. He shouldn’t be looking. He couldn’t look away.

Finally, he cleared his throat, stepping back. “Rule number one,” he called, voice rougher than intended. “Stay out of my room.”

You yelped, nearly tripping over the coffee table. “Shit, Jin! When did you get home?”

He raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Long enough to see you desecrating my shirt.”

You grinned, unrepentant, tugging the hem down. “It’s comfy. And you weren’t using it.”

“It’s Armani,” he said, like that explained everything.

“It’s mine now,” you teased, doing a mock twirl. The shirt rode up, and his eyes flicked to your legs before he forced them away.

“Take it off,” he said, then winced at how that sounded. “I mean, put it back.”

You smirked, catching the slip. “Make me.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might actually try. Instead, he turned on his heel, muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me,” and disappeared into his room. You didn’t see the way he leaned against the door, heart pounding, cursing himself for noticing you.

It was 2 a.m., and you were sprawled on the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your stomach, SpongeBob SquarePants blaring on the TV. You’d meant to watch one episode, but three hours later, you were cackling at Patrick’s dumb antics, the remote clutched like a lifeline. Exhaustion hit, and your eyes fluttered shut, popcorn spilling onto the couch as you drifted off, mouth slightly open, snoring softly.

Jin came home late from a meeting, loosening his tie as he stepped into the living room. He stopped short, eyes landing on you. You were a mess—hair splayed across the cushion, one leg dangling off the couch, a kernel of popcorn stuck to your cheek. Your shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of your stomach, and you were hugging the remote like it was a teddy bear. His lips twitched, fighting a smile. You looked ridiculous. And… adorable.

He stood there longer than he meant to, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes fluttered in sleep. Something warm stirred in him, unfamiliar and unsettling. He shook his head, muttering, “Get a grip, Seokjin,” and grabbed a blanket from the armchair.

He draped it over you, careful not to wake you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and he froze, the contact sending a jolt through him. Your skin was warm, soft, and he pulled back like he’d been burned. For a moment, he stood there, watching the cartoon light flicker across your face, your lips parted in a soft pout. He wanted to brush that popcorn off your cheek, to tuck the blanket tighter, to—

No. He stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. This was business. You were temporary. He turned off the TV, plunging the room into silence, and walked away, ignoring the ache in his chest.

When you woke up, the blanket was tucked around you, and the popcorn bowl was on the coffee table, cleaned up. You blinked, confused, then smiled. “Robot husband’s got a heart,” you murmured, clutching the blanket closer.

Jin’s warning came three days before the storm hit. “My grandmother’s visiting us,” he said, voice tight, as he paced the living room. “She’s traditional. She’ll expect us to act… married.”

You were lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine you’d “borrowed” from his coffee table. “Married? Like, holding hands and calling you ‘honey’?” you teased, smirking.

He stopped pacing, glaring. “Like sharing a room. She’ll check.”

Your smirk vanished. “Share a room? With you?” Your heart did a weird flip, half panic, half something you refused to name.

“It’s not negotiable,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Move your stuff to my room. Today.”

You groaned but saw the logic. If Grandma Kim sniffed out the fake marriage, Jin’s CEO dreams could crash and burn. “Fine,” you said, dragging your duffel bag to his room like a kid sent to timeout. His bedroom was a fortress of order—crisp white linens, a mahogany desk, not a speck of dust. Your colorful mess—neon socks, tie-dye shirts, and Mr. Fluffel, your stuffed hamster—looked like a clown explosion when you dumped it on the floor.

Jin followed, eyeing Mr. Fluffel with horror. “What is that?”

“Emotional support,” you said, hugging the hamster. “Deal with it.”

He muttered something about nightmares and started rearranging his closet to make space for your chaos. You watched, amused, as he folded your shirts/ clothes with military precision. “You’re such a neat freak,” you said, tossing a sock at him.

He caught it, glaring. “And you’re a tornado.”

You grinned, sensing an opportunity to mess with him. Grandma wasn’t here yet, but you decided to practice your “married” act—and have some fun. You sidled up to him, looping your arm through his, pressing your cheek against his bicep. “How’s my favorite husband doing?” you cooed, batting your lashes.

He froze, arm tensing under your touch. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing,” you said innocently, but you leaned closer, letting your fingers trail down his arm. “Gotta sell it, right?” You ruffled his perfect hair, giggling when he flinched like you’d electrocuted him.

“Y/N,” he said through gritted teeth, “stop.”

You didn’t. You planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint lip gloss mark. “Come on, honey, smile for your wife.”

His face was a battleground—annoyance, panic, and something hotter flickering in his eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, voice low, stepping closer. The air crackled, his cologne wrapping around you, making your head spin. “Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it.”

You smirked, heart racing. “Oh, I’m shaking.” You ruffled his hair again, dodging when he reached to grab your wrist. The tension was electric, a push-and-pull that left you both breathless.

When Grandma Kim arrived, she was a petite powerhouse—silver hair, sharp eyes, and a smile that said she missed nothing. She hugged Jin tightly, then turned to you. “Y/N, my grandson’s wife. You’re even lovelier than he said.”

You blinked—Jin had talked about you? You glanced at him, but he avoided your eyes, ears pink. “Thanks, halmeoni,” you said, amping up the charm. Before Jin could brace himself, you latched onto his arm, pressing your body against his side. “I’m so lucky to have this guy,” you said, laying it on thick, your fingers teasingly tracing his bicep.

Jin’s jaw clenched, his body rigid, but you felt his pulse quicken under your touch. “She’s… enthusiastic,” he muttered, trying to extract himself, but you held on, grinning.

“Oh, Jinnie, don’t be shy,” you said, planting another kiss on his cheek. Grandma beamed, oblivious to his suffering. You caught the way his eyes flicked to you—half exasperation, half something that made your stomach flip.

That night, sharing his room was torture. His bed was massive, but you stuck to your side, hyper-aware of his presence across the divide. He lay still, but you could hear his uneven breathing, matching your own. You turned, catching his silhouette in the dark, and whispered, “Night, husband.”

He didn’t reply, but you swore you heard a stifled groan.

For the company dinner, Jin handed you a box. Inside was an emerald green dress, silky and fitted, like it was designed to make jaws drop. “Wear this,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “It’s… appropriate.”

You tried it on, twirling in front of him in the living room. The fabric hugged your curves, dipping just low enough to tease. “How do I look?” you asked, spinning so the skirt flared.

He looked up from his phone, and his breath caught. His eyes roamed over you, lingering on the way the dress clung to your waist, the bare curve of your shoulders. For a second, he looked like a man starving. “Fine,” he said, voice rough, almost strangled. He cleared his throat, looking away. “It’s… fine.”

You caught the heat in his gaze, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out. The air felt thick, charged, like one wrong move could spark something dangerous. You stepped closer, teasing. “Just fine? I was going for breathtaking.”

He stood, towering over you, and for a moment, you thought he might close the gap. “Don’t test me,” he said, voice low, and walked away. Your heart raced, body buzzing with the tension he left behind.

The company dinner was a glittering affair—chandeliers, champagne flutes, and stuffy executives droning on about profit margins. You felt out of place in your stunning green dress, but Jin’s presence beside you grounded you. He looked unfairly good in his tailored suit, his broad shoulders filling it out in a way that made your mouth dry. You stuck close, playing the doting wife, your hand resting on his arm as Grandma watched approvingly from across the room.

The chaos started when you wandered to the dessert table, eyeing a chocolate tart that looked like heaven. A junior exec, reeking of cologne and overconfidence, sidled up. “You’re Jin’s wife, huh?” he said, leaning too close, his smirk oily. “Didn’t think he’d go for someone so… colorful.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And I didn’t think they let walking cliches into these events, but here we are.”

He laughed, undeterred, stepping closer. “Come on, sweetheart. You look like you could use some fun. Jin’s not exactly the life of the party.”

You opened your mouth to roast him, but the air shifted. Jin appeared like a storm cloud, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His grip was firm, possessive, his fingers digging slightly into your hip. “She’s my wife,” he said, voice low and sharp, each word dripping with danger. “And you’re done talking to her.”

The guy paled, stammering, “Mr. Kim, I didn’t mean—” but Jin’s glare silenced him. He scurried off, tail between his legs. You turned, expecting Jin to let go, but his arm stayed, his thumb brushing slow circles on your hip. The touch sent a shiver through you, and you looked up to find his eyes blazing—not with anger, but something hotter, more primal.

“Jealous, robot husband?” you teased, but your voice was shaky, the proximity making your head spin. His scent—cedar and something uniquely him—wrapped around you, and the crowded room felt like it had shrunk to just the two of you.

“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. His eyes flicked to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you right there, in front of everyone. “No one does.” He completed the sentence.

Your breath hitched, the air crackling with tension. Grandma’s voice broke the spell, calling Jin over, and he released you, stepping back. But the heat of his touch lingered, and you spent the rest of the night stealing glances, your heart pounding every time he met your eyes. At one point, you tripped over a chair in your distraction, nearly sending a tray of champagne flutes crashing. Jin caught your elbow, steadying you, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.

“Careful, chaos,” he murmured, and the nickname sent a thrill through you. You muttered a curse under your breath, and he chuckled, low and dangerous, making your knees weak.

Back home, you couldn’t resist. “You were totally jealous,” you said, kicking off your heels.

He loosened his tie, avoiding your gaze. “I was protecting our cover.”

“Sure,” you said, grinning. “Your cover’s super handsy.”

He shot you a look, and for a moment, you saw it again—that flicker of something dangerous, something that made your knees weak. “Go to bed, Y/N,” he said, but his voice was softer, almost strained. You went, but sleep didn’t come easy, not with the memory of his arm around you burning in your mind.

The rain came out of nowhere, a sudden downpour that caught you and Jin on your way back from a grocery run (you’d insisted on tagging along to “spice up” his boring shopping list). You were still sharing his room, thanks to Grandma Kim’s visit, and the close quarters already had your nerves frayed. By the time you reached the penthouse, you were both soaked, your clothes clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face. You shivered in the foyer, teeth chattering, water pooling at your feet.

Jin, equally drenched, looked infuriatingly good—his white shirt translucent, outlining every line of his chest, his hair falling in wet, sexy strands across his forehead. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and tossed it to you, but his fingers lingered on yours, warm and deliberate. “Dry off before you ruin my floors,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual, his eyes lingering on the way your wet shirt hugged your curves.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, still shivering. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Drowned Hamster.”

He smirked, stepping closer, and you froze as he reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. His fingers grazed your cheek, and you choked on air, the touch sending a jolt through you. “Careful,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’re looking a little… flustered.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “I-I’m fine,” you stammered, but your voice betrayed you.

His smirk widened, and he leaned in, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You sure? You’re turning pink, sweetheart.” The pet name hit like a lightning bolt, and you nearly dropped the towel, your knees wobbling. He was flirting—flirting—and it was lethal.

“Stop that,” you managed, stepping back, but your voice was weak, and he noticed.

“Stop what?” he asked, all innocence, but his eyes were dark, playful, dangerous. He took another step, closing the gap. “Am I making you nervous?” His voice dropped, husky, and he tilted his head, lips so close you could almost taste them. “Because you look like you’re about to faint.”

You choked again, clutching the towel like a lifeline. “You’re evil,” you whispered, and he laughed, low and rich, the sound vibrating through you.

“Evil’s a new one,” he said, stepping back, but not before brushing his thumb across your jaw, leaving you dizzy. “Dry off, chaos. I’m not carrying you if you pass out.”

You stumbled to his room—your shared room now—heart racing, body buzzing. You peeled off your wet clothes, shivering in the air-conditioned chill, and grabbed one of Jin’s shirts from the closet, slipping it on. It smelled like him, cedar and warmth, and it hung loose on your frame, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

Jin emerged from the bathroom, post-shower, a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his sculpted chest. You froze, mouth dry, as he caught your stare, leaning against the doorframe in a way that made his abs flex. “See something you like?” he asked, smirking, his voice dripping with smug confidence.

You squeaked, face burning, and turned away, muttering, “You wish.” His laughter followed you as you dove under the covers, pulling the blanket over your head to hide your flaming cheeks.

Another night, you were curled up on the couch in the living room, hugging your knees, tears streaming down your face after a brutal call with your family. Your parents had laid into you—about your aimless post-grad life, your impulsive choices, how you were wasting your potential. Their words cut deep, reopening old wounds about never being enough. You felt small, broken, like the reckless kid Jin first met in that bar, except now the weight of it all was crushing you.

You didn’t hear Jin come home, but you felt the couch dip as he sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. His presence was warm, steady, a quiet anchor in the storm of your thoughts. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions, just sat there, his breathing soft and even, grounding you. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was safe, like he was giving you space to exist in your pain without judgment.

You wiped your eyes, but the tears kept coming, and your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “They think I’m a failure,” you whispered, barely audible. “Like I’m just… throwing my life away. Maybe they’re right.”

Jin shifted, his hand hovering near yours on the couch, close enough to feel its warmth but not touching. “They’re not,” he said, voice low but firm, like he was stating a fact. “You’re not a failure. You’re… you.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “You’re messy, reckless, and a complete pain in my ass, but you’re not a failure. You’re applying for job profiles, figuring it out, which role suits your interest. That’s more than most people do.”

You sniffled, looking at him through blurry eyes. His face was soft, unguarded, the usual sharpness in his gaze replaced by something gentle. The cartoon light from the TV flickered across his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the sincerity in his eyes. Your chest tightened, not from pain but from the warmth of his presence, the way he saw you when you felt invisible.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice small, hugging your knees tighter. “I thought I’d have it all together by now.”

He let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, but it was kind. “No one has it together. Not at 22. Not at 32. Not ever, probably.” He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours, a silent reassurance. “You’re here, living in my penthouse, driving me insane with your sticky notes and jam theft. That’s… something.”

You choked out a laugh, wiping your eyes again. “You’re terrible at this pep talk thing.”

“I’m trying,” he said, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “You make it hard to stay cold, you know.”

Your heart did a weird flip, and you leaned into his shoulder, just a little, testing the waters. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand finally settled over yours on the couch, warm and steady, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. The touch was so small, so careful, but it felt like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge.

He stayed there, silent but close, until your tears dried and your breathing evened out. You drifted off, exhaustion winning, your head resting against his shoulder. When you woke up, you were still on the couch, a blanket tucked around you, and Jin was gone—but the warmth of his hand lingered in your memory, a quiet strength that carried you through the night.

You woke up feeling like death warmed over—head pounding, skin burning, body heavy as lead. You tried to get out of bed, but the room spun, and you collapsed back onto the pillows with a groan. Jin found you like that, tangled in sheets, muttering deliriously about “needing more jam.”

He pressed a hand to your forehead, his touch cool against your fevered skin. “You’re an idiot,” he said, but his voice was laced with worry. “You’re burning up.”

“‘M fine,” you mumbled, but your teeth chattered, betraying you.

He sighed, disappearing and returning with a tray—water, medicine, a damp cloth, and a bowl of soup. “Sit up,” he ordered, helping you prop yourself against the headboard. His hands were gentle but firm, and you hated how much you liked it.

He pressed the cloth to your forehead, the coolness a relief. “You’re a disaster,” he muttered, but his eyes were soft, scanning your face for signs of worsening. “How did you even get this sick?”

“Rain,” you croaked, remembering the downpour. “Your fault for not sharing your umbrella.”

He snorted, but his hand lingered, adjusting the cloth. “You stole my towel, not my umbrella. Drink this.” He held a glass of water to your lips, steadying it as you sipped, his fingers brushing your chin. The intimacy of it made your chest ache, even through the fever haze.

You drifted in and out, time blurring. At one point, you woke to find him sitting in a chair by your bed, reading a book, his glasses perched on his nose. The sight was unfairly endearing, and you mumbled, “You look like a hot librarian.”

He glanced up, smirking. “Fever’s making you honest, huh?”

You groaned, hiding your face in the pillow. “Shut up.”

He stayed, though, through the night. You woke once to find his hand resting near yours, his head tilted back, asleep in the chair. His breathing was soft, his face relaxed, and you felt a pang of something you couldn’t name. He stirred, sensing your gaze, and pressed the cloth to your forehead again, his touch lingering. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. You did, lulled by the warmth of his presence.

It started with a fight, the kind that had been brewing for weeks under the surface of your shared space. You’d borrowed Jin’s car without asking, desperate to run an errand, and returned it with a fresh scratch along the driver’s side door. You’d braced for his reaction, bragging about his $90,000 car, but when he stormed into the kitchen, his eyes weren’t on the car keys you’d tossed on the counter—they were on you, wide with worry.

“Y/N, what the hell happened?” he demanded, voice sharp but laced with concern. He crossed the room in three strides, hands hovering near your shoulders, scanning you like he was looking for injuries. “Are you okay? You could’ve gotten hurt.”

You blinked, thrown by his intensity. “I’m fine, Jin. It’s just a scratch on the car.”

“The car?” He frowned, like he’d forgotten it entirely. “I don’t care about the damn car. You were out there, driving in that mess of a city, and you didn’t even tell me. What if something happened to you?”

His words hit you like a punch, the worry in his voice unraveling your defenses. You stepped closer, voice rising despite yourself.

“You’re freaking out over nothing! I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I can handle myself.”

“Handle yourself?” he snapped, eyes blazing, but it wasn’t anger—it was fear, raw and unfiltered. “You’re out there being reckless, and I’m stuck here wondering if you’re okay. Do you know how that feels?”

The air crackled, charged with weeks of unspoken tension—every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every moment you’d pushed his buttons and he’d pushed back. You were nose-to-nose now, breaths heavy, the space between you electric. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them, and you saw his breath hitch, his chest rising and falling too fast. You opened your mouth to argue, but then his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you—hard, desperate, all teeth and heat.

You gasped into his mouth, caught off guard, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back, just as fierce, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips were relentless, tasting of mint and the faintest hint of whiskey from some earlier meeting, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body. Buttons popped as you tore at his shirt, and he growled, low and primal, lifting you onto the kitchen counter with ease.

He broke the kiss, lips trailing hot and open-mouthed down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice rough with need, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Don’t you dare,” you gasped, arching into his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. His shirt was half-off, exposing the taut lines of his chest, and you couldn’t look away, couldn’t think past the fire coursing through you.

He tugged your shorts down in one swift motion, tossing them aside, his hands roaming your thighs, parting them with a gentle but firm grip. His eyes locked on yours, dark and searching, as he knelt between your legs, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “You sure?” he asked, voice low, almost a growl, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a need for confirmation.

You nodded, breathless, threading your fingers through his hair. “Please, Jin.”

That was all he needed. His lips found your core, slow and deliberate at first, his tongue tracing a path that made you shudder, a soft whimper escaping your lips. He was meticulous, exploring every inch, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still as you squirmed. The heat built, unbearable, his tongue circling with a rhythm that had you gasping, your head tipping back against the cabinet. You tugged at his hair, urging him on, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending a shockwave through your body. He alternated between soft, teasing licks and deeper, more insistent pressure, drawing out every moan, every shudder, until you were trembling on the edge, your fingers tightening in his hair as you cried out, pleasure crashing over you like a wave.

He didn’t stop, not until you were boneless, panting, your body limp against the counter. He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still locked on yours, burning with a hunger that made your breath catch. He shed his pants, boxers following, and you couldn’t help but stare—his body was a work of art, all lean muscle and sharp lines, and the sight of him, hard and ready, sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice low, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you to the edge of the counter. His eyes searched yours, and you saw it—the flicker of fear, the need to know this meant something.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I’m sure. I want you.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, a low groan escaping his lips as he filled you. The stretch was intense, delicious, and you clung to him, nails digging into his back as he set a deliberate pace, each thrust deep and measured, like he was savoring every second. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you, his eyes never leaving yours. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of your breaths, your soft moans, his quiet curses, and the steady rhythm of your bodies moving together. It was tender but fierce, each thrust pushing you closer to another edge, his lips brushing your temple, your jaw, whispering your name like a prayer.

When you came again, it was overwhelming, your body trembling, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him. He followed moments later, his face buried in your neck, a shudder running through him as he groaned your name, his voice raw and vulnerable. You stayed there, tangled, catching your breath, his forehead pressed against yours, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.

“This didn’t feel fake,” you whispered, voice shaky, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

He met your eyes, and for once, there was no mask, no coldness—just raw, unguarded emotion. “It wasn’t,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and the weight of those words settled deep in your chest.

Morning light filtered through the penthouse windows, casting soft shadows across the kitchen where you and Jin had unraveled the night before. You woke in his bed, your body warm and languid from the memory of his touch, his scent lingering on the sheets. You reached out, expecting to find him beside you, but the bed was empty, the sheets cool. Your heart sank, a quiet ache blooming in your chest.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in a crisp suit, his back to you as he poured coffee into a mug. The air felt heavier, colder, and he didn’t turn when you entered, didn’t acknowledge you. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the intimacy of last night.

“Jin?” you said, voice tentative, wrapping his shirt—still stolen from his closet—around yourself like armor.

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable, eyes guarded in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. “Morning,” he said, voice flat, like he was addressing a colleague. “Coffee’s on the counter if you want it.”

Your stomach twisted, the dismissal cutting deeper than you expected. “What’s going on?” you asked, stepping closer, searching his face for a hint of the man who’d held you last night, who’d whispered your name like it was sacred. “Last night—”

“Last night was a mistake,” he interrupted, his tone sharp but not cruel, more like he was trying to convince himself. He set his mug down with a deliberate clink, still avoiding your gaze. “You’re young, Y/N. You’re still figuring out your career, your life. I shouldn’t be distracting you from that. We got carried away, but this is still… business.”

The word hit like a slap, and you froze, your breath catching. “A mistake?” you repeated, voice rising despite yourself. “You’re telling me that was just—what, a lapse in judgment? Because I’m young? Jin, I’m not a kid. I know what I want.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something—guilt, fear, longing—but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You’re 22,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I’m… I’m a decade older, tied to this company, this life. You need to focus on finding your path, not getting tangled up with me. Feelings weren’t part of the deal.”

You stared at him, hurt blooming into anger, your hands trembling at your sides. “You don’t get to decide what I need,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “Last night wasn’t a mistake for me. It was real, Jin. I felt it, and I know you did too. You can’t just hide behind ‘business’ because you’re scared of what this means.”

He finally met your eyes, and the crack in his armor was there—his clenched fists, the tightness around his mouth, the way his gaze softened with regret before hardening again. “I’m trying to protect you,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “You deserve better than being a temporary prop in my life. One and half month left, Y/N. Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

The words cut deeper than anything, a rejection wrapped in concern that made your chest ache with a mix of love and betrayal. You wanted to scream, to shake him until he admitted what you both knew—that he was running from his own feelings, not yours. But his walls were up, impenetrable, and the coldness in his voice told you he wouldn’t budge.

“Fine,” you said, voice barely steady, tears prickling but unshed. “If that’s how you feel, I’ll make it easy for you. I’m moving back to my room. No more ‘complications,’ right?”

His eyes widened, a flash of panic crossing his face, but he didn’t stop you. You turned, grabbing your duffel bag from his room, your colorful mess spilling out as you hauled it to the guest room you’d barely used. You slammed the door, the sound echoing through the penthouse, and sank onto the bed, hugging Mr. Fluffel as the tears finally came. The room felt foreign, sterile, nothing like the warmth of Jin’s bed, his presence. You’d grown used to him—his scent, his quiet breathing, his rare smiles—and now it was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.

You spent the day replaying last night, every touch, every look, trying to make sense of his retreat. His words stung—you’re young, you need to focus—like he’d reduced you to a naive kid when you’d been clear about your feelings. You weren’t just some reckless graduate; you were falling for him, and he was pushing you away because he couldn’t handle it. The “Soulmate Spread” note on the jam jar, still in the kitchen, mocked you now, and you avoided the fridge, unable to face it.

By evening, Jin hadn’t returned, and the silence was suffocating. You curled up in the guest room, the bed too big, too cold, Mr. Fluffel a poor substitute for the warmth you’d felt in Jin’s arms. Grandma’s words echoed in your mind—she’d pulled Jin aside before leaving, her voice low but clear: “You’re in love with her, even if you won’t admit it.” You’d heard it, and you’d seen the way his jaw tightened, the way he didn’t deny it. But now, with his coldness ringing in your ears, you wondered if you’d imagined the softness in him, if you’d built it up into something it wasn’t.

Sleep didn’t come easy, the guest room’s silence a stark contrast to the nights you’d spent listening to Jin’s breathing across the divide. Every creak of the penthouse made you hope it was him coming to talk, to explain, to fix this. But he didn’t, and the distance between you grew, a chasm you didn’t know how to bridge.

Five months in, and the weight of Jin’s rejection was unbearable. The push-and-pull, the fleeting moments of warmth followed by icy distance, had worn you down. You’d moved back to your own room, but it hadn’t eased the pain—every corner of the penthouse reminded you of him, of the life you’d built together, fake or not. You couldn’t live like this anymore, caught between the man who’d held you like you were his world and the one who’d dismissed you to “protect” you. Your heart was heavy, bruised from the hope you’d clung to, and you knew you had to leave—for your own sake.

You packed your bags in the quiet of the morning, each item a reminder of the chaos you’d brought into his sterile world. Your neon socks, your tie-dye shirts, Mr. Fluffel—they didn’t belong here, just like you didn’t. On impulse, you grabbed his favorite hamster mug, the one you’d teased him about on day one. “Cute like you, but now it's mine,” you’d said, and the memory stung now, a bittersweet ache. It was a petty theft, but it felt like reclaiming a piece of the joy you’d lost, a piece of him you could hold onto.

You left a note on the counter, your handwriting shaky: “Taking the hamster. Good luck, robot husband.” The words were flippant, but they hid the pain tearing you apart—the pain of loving someone who wouldn’t let himself love you back. You dragged your suitcase to the curb, waiting for a cab, tears streaming as you stared at the city skyline. This wasn’t how you’d imagined it ending. You’d thought, maybe naively, that he’d fight for you, that the man who’d kissed you in the kitchen would show up before you could leave. But the street was quiet, and the cab was coming, and your heart was breaking.

Inside, Jin woke to an eerie silence. He shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and froze when he saw the empty spot where his hamster mug always sat. His gaze landed on your note, and panic hit like a freight train. He read it once, twice, the words sinking in like a knife. “Taking the hamster.” You were gone. He checked the guest room—empty, your colorful mess vanished, leaving only the sterile order he’d once craved. The sight of the bare room, stripped of your chaos, made his chest tighten, a hollow ache spreading as he realized what he’d done.

He’d pushed you away, not because he didn’t love you, but because he did—too much. You were 22, vibrant, still carving out your place in the world, and he was terrified of holding you back, of being the anchor that kept you from your dreams. That night had been real, too real, and he’d retreated behind his walls, convincing himself it was for your sake. But now, standing in the too-quiet penthouse, he saw it clearly: he’d been a coward. He loved you, had loved you since the first sticky note, since you’d danced in his shirt, since you’d made his orderly world a beautiful mess.

He ran outside, still in pajamas, hair a mess, heart pounding. The rain had started again, a light drizzle that soaked through his thin shirt, but he didn’t care. He saw you at the curb, suitcase in hand, your back to him, and the sight of you—ready to leave him—tore something open inside him.

“Y/N!” he called, voice raw, desperate, nothing like the controlled tone he usually wielded. “Where the hell are you going?”

You turned, startled, your eyes red from crying. The sight hit him like a punch, guilt flooding him. “I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice breaking, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You pushed me away, Jin. You called it a mistake, told me to focus on my career, but I’m in love with you, and it hurts that you don’t trust me to know what I want.”

His breath caught, your words cutting deeper than anything. “I trust you,” he said, stepping closer, rain dripping down his face.

“I trust you more than anyone. I pushed you away because I’m scared—scared I’ll hold you back, that you’ll wake up one day and regret tying yourself to me when you’re still so young, still building your life.”

You shook your head, tears falling faster. “That’s not your choice to make. I want you, Jin. I want this—us. I’m not some naive kid who doesn’t know her own heart. That night meant everything to me, and you threw it away.”

He closed the distance, hands shaking as he reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “I didn’t throw it away,” he said, voice low, urgent, his forehead pressed against yours. “It was everything to me, too. I love you, Y/N. I love your chaos, your sticky notes, your damn jam heists. I was trying to protect you, but I was wrong. I need you—not for six months, not for some deal. Forever.”

The words hung between you, heavy and real, and before you could respond, he kissed you, fierce and desperate, like the world was ending. The rain soaked you both, but neither of you cared, lost in the heat of his lips, the way his hands cupped your face like you were something precious. The hamster mug sat on the curb, forgotten, a soggy symbol of the chaotic love you’d built.

You broke the kiss, breathless, tears still falling but softer now. “You mean it?” you whispered, searching his eyes.

He nodded, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face, his touch tender. “I love you, chaos. I’m done running. And you can't leave after stealing my peaceful life.”

You laughed, shaky but real, and kissed him again, the rain washing away the hurt, leaving only the warmth of his arms, the promise of something new.

A year later, your life with Jin was a whirlwind of chaos, love, and everything in between, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’d dragged him into your world of reckless abandon, forcing him to do things he’d never dreamed of—things his once-orderly self would’ve balked at.

You’d convinced him to join you in a neon-paint glow-in-the-dark 5K run, his pristine running shoes splattered with pink and green by the end, his laughter louder than your own as you both collapsed in a heap, glowing like human canvases.

Another weekend, you’d roped him into a karaoke bar, shoving a mic in his hand and cheering as he tackled an off-key rap of "Loner", his ears pink but his grin wide, the crowd roaring for more.

You’d even persuaded him to build a blanket fort in the penthouse, fairy lights twinkling as you binged SpongeBob and fed each other popcorn, his stiff dance moves softening into playful twirls when you blasted Pop songs at full volume.

Every morning, you woke tangled in each other’s arms, his warmth enveloping you, his breath soft against your neck. His once-sterile bedroom was now a riot of your colorful mess—neon socks on the floor, your tie-dye shirts next to his Armani, Mr. Fluffel perched proudly on the nightstand.

One morning, sunlight streaming through the curtains, Jin stirred beside you, his arm tightening around your waist. He propped himself on one elbow, gazing down at you, his hair adorably mussed, a sleepy smirk on his lips.

“How did I end up with you?” he teased, voice low and playful, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip.

You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in your eyes. In one swift move, you rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, your hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and heat, as you leaned down, your lips brushing his ear. “You can think of it as purely good luck, Mr. Kim,” you purred, rocking your hips teasingly against him.

He groaned, his head tipping back, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Good luck, huh?” he murmured, voice husky, his hands flexing under your grip. “You’re trouble, Mrs. Kim”

You grinned, releasing his wrists to trail your fingers down his chest, feeling his muscles tense under your touch. “You love it,” you teased, leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, your hips moving in a deliberate rhythm that had him cursing under his breath. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you spent the morning lost in each other, laughter and whispers filling the room, the world outside forgotten.

When you landed a job at a digital marketing firm—a role that felt like the first real step toward your dreams—you couldn’t contain your excitement. You waited at the penthouse, practically vibrating with energy, until Jin walked through the door, loosening his tie after a long day. The second you saw him, you launched yourself at him, a squeal of joy escaping you. “Jin!”

He caught you effortlessly, his arms strong and steady, laughing as you wrapped your legs around his torso, clinging to him like a koala. “What’s got you so hyper, chaos?” he asked, but his eyes were already sparkling, sensing your news.

“I got the job, Jin! I did it!” you said, voice bubbling with pride, your hands cupping his face as you beamed down at him.

His face lit up, a grin spreading so wide it crinkled his eyes. “You did?” he said, voice warm with admiration. He spun you around, your laughter echoing through the penthouse, before pulling you close and kissing you deeply, his lips conveying every ounce of his happiness for you. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured against your mouth, his hands tightening on your hips, and you felt your heart swell, the moment perfect and electric.

Life with Jin was never dull, especially with your knack for chaos. You’d sneak into his home office while he worked, his brow furrowed over spreadsheets, and steal kisses when he least expected it. You’d perch on his desk, ignoring his mock protests—“Y/N, I’m working”—and lean in, brushing your lips against his jaw, his cheek, his lips, until he’d pull you into his lap, surrendering with a sigh and a smile. “You’re impossible,” he’d mutter, but the way he kissed you back said he didn’t mind one bit.

Cooking, however, was a lost cause for you—you didn’t know the “C” of cooking, as Jin loved to tease. So every evening, he took over the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, looking unfairly hot as he whipped up dishes that smelled like heaven. You’d hover nearby, stealing bites of whatever he was chopping, earning playful swats with a spatula. “Out, chaos,” he’d say, but he’d always sneak you a taste, holding a spoon to your lips with a fond smile. The hamster mug, chipped but cherished, sat on the counter, filled with coffee you shared, a quiet reminder of the chaos that brought you together.

The penthouse was no longer sterile—your sticky notes still littered the fridge, now joined by new ones like “Husband of the Year” and “Feed Me, Chef.” The toothbrush cup in the bathroom read “Forever Wife” in your messy scrawl, a winking smiley face beside it. Every night, Jin pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead as he whispered, “You’re my chaos, and I love every second of it.” You’d grin, stealing one last kiss, knowing you’d turned his world upside down—and he was all in for the ride.

A/N: Thanks for diving into Jin and Y/N’s chaotic love story! Hope their messy, heartfelt journey brought you some laughs and feels.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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The Seoul summer was relentless, humidity clinging to your skin as you stood outside the government office, a marriage certificate trembling in your hands. Jeon Jungkook, your unexpected husband, stood beside you, his dark eyes flicking from the paper to your face. His jaw was tight, lips pressed thin, but his hand hovered near your waist, a silent claim.

You’d come to Seoul a year ago, chasing a freelance photography gig after a messy breakup back home. South Korea’s vibrant chaos had been a fresh start—until your work visa renewal hit a snag. A friend’s desperate pitch—“Jungkook’s solid, he’ll marry you to keep you here”—and your own reckless impulse led to this moment. You barely knew him. A few coffee shop meetups, his shy smiles, and broken English weren’t enough to prepare you for this. Marriage.

Jungkook was unfairly gorgeous—black hair falling into his eyes, a brow piercing catching the sunlight, tattoos peeking from his sleeve. “Good?” he asked, voice low, accented. His English was halting, your Korean worse—annyeonghaseyo, kamsahamnida, menu items.

“Yeah, good,” you whispered, heart pounding. You’d hesitated at the desk, pen hovering, imagining your ex’s smug face if you got deported. This was survival, not romance. Right?

Jungkook muttered—“aish”—frustration clear. He grabbed your hand, firm but gentle, pulling you toward his car. “Where?” you asked, stumbling after him.

“House,” he said, then something in Korean. You didn’t understand, but his intense gaze made your stomach flip. You nodded, choosing to trust him, asserting your own resolve to make this work.

Jungkook’s apartment was sleek—dark wood, minimalist, scented with his woody cologne. You stood in the living room, clutching your camera bag, as he handed you a bottle of soju. “Drink,” he said, clinking his bottle against yours. “Good for… nervous.”

You laughed, tension easing. “Yeah, I’m nervous.” You took a swig, the burn grounding you. Silence fell, heavy with unspoken questions. How do you live with someone you can’t fully talk to? Share a bed?

One afternoon, you tried communicating. You pointed at a kimchi jar, attempting, “Kimchi… jotayo?” (I like kimchi). Jungkook grinned, correcting gently, “Joahe.” His smile was disarming, but when you mispronounced “saranghae” (I love you) during a playful language lesson, his eyes darkened, and he stepped closer.

“Yeppeo,” he murmured—pretty—his gaze lingering on your sundress. You blushed, feeling the heat of his attention. “Thanks,” you said, then boldly touched his arm, testing the waters. His breath hitched, and he kissed you, hungry, hands sliding to your waist. You felt his arousal through his jeans, moaning softly.

He growled in Korean, hands under your dress. “Wait,” you panted, pulling back. “What did you say?”

Frustrated, he tried, “You… mine. Want to… fuck.” The bluntness burned, his accent making it filthier. You wanted him, but the language gap was maddening. “We need help,” you said, asserting control. “Someone to translate.”

Jungkook groaned, grabbing his phone.

“Namjoon,” he said. “He... help.”

Kim Namjoon arrived the next morning, all dimples and broad shoulders, a leather notebook in hand. His English was flawless, his voice deep, and when he shook your hand, his thumb lingered. “Jungkook says communication’s tough,” he said, settling on the couch. Jungkook sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, hand possessive on your knee.

“It’s everything,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “Talking, living together… intimacy.” You glanced at Jungkook, who watched you intently. “I want to understand him. Especially in bed.”

Namjoon’s eyes twinkled. “In bed too?” Jungkook muttered, grip tightening. Namjoon chuckled. “He’s frustrated because he can’t tell you how much he wants you. He’s passionate but stuck.”

“Tell him I want him too,” you said softly, leaning into Jungkook. “But I need to know what he’s feeling.”

Namjoon translated, and Jungkook smirked, whispering in your ear. Namjoon said, “He says your body will understand his, even without words.” Your thighs clenched.

That evening, Namjoon stayed for dinner, translating Jungkook’s stories about his music producer job. You shared your photography passion, showing them a photo of Seoul’s neon streets. Namjoon’s praise—“You capture the city’s pulse”—felt intimate, and Jungkook’s hand tightened on your thigh.

Later, Jungkook pulled you onto his lap, kissing your neck. Namjoon watched, his gaze heavy. “Tell me,” you gasped as Jungkook’s hands roamed.

“He loves how you taste,” Namjoon said, voice husky. “Wants to mark you as his.” Jungkook’s teeth grazed your collarbone. You moaned, noticing Namjoon’s arousal through his jeans. His desire amplified yours, and Jungkook’s smirk suggested he noticed too.

The first bedroom translation was chaotic and searing, with you taking the lead to set the pace.

You straddled Jungkook on the bed, his shirt off, muscles flexing as you kissed down his chest. His Korean murmurs drove you wild, but you needed clarity. You guided his hands to your breasts, showing him what you wanted, your confidence growing. “Namjoon,” you panted, “what’s he saying?”

Namjoon sat by the bed, gripping the armrest, hand on his thigh. “He wants to worship you,” he said, voice strained. “Says your skin’s so soft, he’s losing his mind.”

Jungkook tugged your panties down, growling. Namjoon translated, “Your pussy’s so pretty, he could stare forever.” You whimpered as Jungkook’s fingers teased your clit, slow and deliberate. Namjoon’s breathing hitched, his hand slipping inside his pants, stroking himself.

“Tell him to taste me,” you said, bold. Namjoon translated, and Jungkook’s eyes flashed, his tongue flicking your clit. You moaned, guiding his head, reveling in control. Namjoon’s voice was rough: “He wants to ruin you, feel you come on his tongue.”

You came, vision blurring, Jungkook’s fingers curling inside you. Namjoon groaned, stroking faster, his sounds mingling with yours. Jungkook kissed you, lips slick. “Mine,” he said, then in Korean. Namjoon translated, “You’re his. Only his.”

But Namjoon’s hungry and disagreed gaze lingered, hinting at more.

Weeks blurred with sex and translation. Namjoon was there nightly, his presence electric. Jungkook fucked you possessively, leaving faint marks, while Namjoon’s voice wove through, translating every filthy word. Namjoon often touched himself watching, his arousal heightening yours, and Jungkook’s harder thrusts showed he also enjoyed the dynamic.

One afternoon, alone with Namjoon practicing Korean, tension shifted. Jungkook was at the studio. “Say ‘bogoshipo’,” Namjoon said. “I miss you.”

You said it, and his eyes softened. “Good. Soon you won’t need me.” His voice was wistful.

“I’ll always need you,” you teased, but his gaze sharpened, brushing hair behind your ear. “Don’t say that,” he murmured, thumb grazing your cheek. You froze, body responding.

The door opened. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, seeing Namjoon’s hand. He snapped in Korean. Namjoon replied calmly, but Jungkook pulled you to him. “Mine,” he said, kissing you hard. Namjoon translated, “You belong to him. I need to stop touching.”

“It’s not what you think,” you said, touching Jungkook’s chest. “I want you both… but we need to talk.” Your insistence on clarity showed your growing agency.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. Namjoon’s eyes were unreadable. Jungkook spoke, and Namjoon translated, “He wants me to translate tonight. And… touch you. But he’s scared.”

You reached for Jungkook’s hand. “I’m yours. Both of yours, if you want that.”

That night redefined boundaries, a wildfire of trust and desire.

Jungkook had you on your hands and knees, his cock buried deep in your pussy, each thrust deliberate, stretching you deliciously. His hands gripped your hips, leaving faint marks. He spoke in Korean, voice raw. You sobbed, overwhelmed, sheets fisted.

“Namjoon,” you gasped, “what’s he saying?”

Namjoon knelt in front, shirt unbuttoned, stroking his thick cock. “He wants to fuck you until you’re his forever,” he said, voice hoarse. “He’s jealous of how much you need me.”

Jungkook slowed, pulling you against his chest, hands cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples. “Touch her,” he said in English, accent heavy. You nodded, desperate. Namjoon’s fingers found your clit, rubbing slow circles, the dual sensation dizzying.

Jungkook’s thrusts deepened, Namjoon’s fingers matched his rhythm. Jungkook growled, and Namjoon translated, “He wants to ruin you while I make you scream.”

You were close, trembling. Namjoon’s hand grazed your throat, thumb on your pulse. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, unprompted. “I’m falling for you.”

The confession pushed you over. You came, walls pulsing around Jungkook, screaming. Jungkook groaned, guiding you to the bed’s edge. “Take her,” he said to Namjoon, a challenge. “She’s ours.”

Namjoon hesitated, then kissed you softly, grabbing lube. Jungkook spread your thighs, still inside you. Namjoon’s fingers prepared you, sliding into your rim, stretching gently. “Relax,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

Jungkook thrust slowly, Namjoon entered your ass, the fullness intense but thrilling. They moved in tandem, Jungkook’s deep thrusts alternating with Namjoon’s careful ones. You sobbed, caught between them, every nerve alight. Namjoon’s hand returned to your clit, and Jungkook growled, “Ours.”

You came again, convulsing, their names echoing. Jungkook spilled inside you, then Namjoon, their releases hot. They held you, Jungkook’s arms tight, Namjoon’s hand in your hair.

“Saranghae,” Jungkook murmured. Namjoon translated, “We love you, in every language.”

Morning light filtered through the curtains. Jungkook kissed your forehead, Namjoon’s voice soft. “He’s sorry if he scared you,” Namjoon murmured. “But not sorry for sharing you.”

You laughed, content. “What now?”

They exchanged glances. Namjoon spoke, “We want you with us. Both of us.”

That evening, over soju and samgyeopsal, you discussed the triad. “I love you both,” you admitted, heart racing. “But I’m scared. What if I hurt one of you?”

Jungkook squeezed your hand. Namjoon translated, “He says we’ll fight, but we’ll fix it. You’re worth it.”

Namjoon added, “I was loyal to Jungkook, but I love you too. We’ll make it work.” His vulnerability—admitting his fear of overstepping—deepened your trust.

A month later, you signed a second marriage license, a private ceremony for three. Namjoon’s hand shook, but his smile was radiant. You exchanged simple bands, a silent vow.

Life with Jungkook and Namjoon was a vibrant dance of heat and tenderness, each moment weaving you closer. Your Korean had improved enough to catch Jungkook’s playful “Yeppeo” when you wore his oversized shirt, or Namjoon’s flirty “Bogoshipo” when you returned from a photography gig. The language barrier was no longer a wall but a bridge, crossed with laughter and lingering touches.

One humid evening, Seoul’s skyline glittering from a rooftop date, the air crackled with desire. Jungkook’s possessiveness flared when a stranger’s gaze lingered on you at the bar. He pulled you against the rooftop railing, his hands firm on your hips, lips grazing your ear. “Nae yeoja,” he growled—my girl—his cock hard through his jeans as he pressed into you. Namjoon stood close, his broad frame shielding you from view, his fingers brushing your arm, eyes dark with intent.

“Mine,” Jungkook said in English, then glanced at Namjoon, smirking. “Ours.” Namjoon’s lips curved, and he leaned in, whispering, “Let’s show her.”

Back at the apartment, the tension erupted in the cramped shower, steam fogging the glass walls, hot water cascading over your skin. Jungkook grabbed you up, your legs wrapping around his torso, his back pinned against the cool tiles, his inked chest glistening, droplets clinging to his tattoos. His fingers teased your folds, slow and deliberate, grazing your clit until you whimpered, nails digging into his biceps, leaving faint crescent marks. Then Namjoon stood behind, his taller frame pressed close, lips brushing your shoulder, his cock hard against your lower back.

“Fuck, Namjoon... Jungkook,” you gasped, head tipping back. Jungkook’s smirk was wicked, his fingers circling your clit. He murmured in Korean, voice low and guttural, vibrating against your throat as he kissed the sensitive skin there.

Namjoon’s hands joined Jungkook’s, one sliding to your breast, thumb flicking your nipple, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “He says you’re so wet, he can feel you dripping for both of us,” Namjoon translated, voice rough with arousal. “That he wants to take you apart.”

You moaned, hips bucking, desperate for more. “I want you both,” you panted, bold, reaching back to graze Namjoon’s cock, then forward to stroke Jungkook’s through the water’s slickness. Their groans mingled, Jungkook’s possessive, Namjoon’s hungry.

Jungkook’s eyes flashed, and he nodded at Namjoon, a silent agreement. “Tell him I want to please you both,” you said, voice steady despite the heat. Namjoon translated, and Jungkook’s gaze darkened, his fingers slowing to let Namjoon take the lead.

Namjoon turned you gently, your back now against Jungkook’s chest, his hands steady on your hips. Namjoon’s lips claimed yours, his kiss deep and slow, tongue teasing yours as he lined himself up, his cock nudging your entrance. “Breathe,” he murmured, pushing in slowly, stretching you with a delicious burn. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, Jungkook’s lips on your neck, sucking a faint mark.

“So tight,” Namjoon groaned, his thrusts careful but deep, filling you completely. Jungkook’s hands roamed, one pinching your nipple, the other sliding to your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with Namjoon’s rhythm. The dual sensation—Namjoon’s cock, Jungkook’s fingers—sent sparks through you, your moans echoing off the tiles.

“Switch,” Jungkook growled, his voice raw. Namjoon slowed, kissing you softly before pulling out, leaving you aching. Jungkook spun you to face him, lifting one of your legs to wrap around his waist, the water making your skin slick. He thrust into your pussy, hard and deep, his cock hitting that perfect spot. You cried out, nails scratching his back, Namjoon’s hands now on your ass, spreading you wider for Jungkook.

“Yeppeo,” Jungkook murmured something in korean, eyes locked on yours. Namjoon translated, his breath hot against your ear, “He says you’re so pretty, taking us like this.”

You wanted more, wanted them both. “Let me please you,” you said, bold, sinking to your knees despite the cramped space, water splashing around you. You took Jungkook’s cock in your mouth first, savoring his low groan, your tongue swirling around the tip. Namjoon’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding you gently as you switched, taking Namjoon’s thicker length, your lips stretching around him. His moan was deep, hips twitching as you sucked, Jungkook stroking himself beside you, eyes burning.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Namjoon panted, voice strained. Jungkook growled in Korean, and Namjoon translated, “He says he loves watching you take us both.” He continued. "And me too."

You alternated, pleasing them one by one, your hands stroking whoever wasn’t in your mouth, the water amplifying every sound—your moans, their groans, the wet slide of skin. Jungkook’s thighs tensed, his hand tightening in your hair as he came, his release hot on your tongue. You swallowed, then focused on Namjoon, sucking harder until he spilled, his cum mixing with the water, his fingers digging into your shoulder.

They pulled you up, laughter soft as they steadied you, the shower’s heat making you dizzy. Jungkook kissed you, tasting himself, while Namjoon’s lips found your temple, his touch gentle. “Saranghae,” Jungkook murmured, and Namjoon echoed, “We love you.”

They cleaned you up, Jungkook’s hands gentle with the soap, gliding over your skin with reverent care, his fingers tracing the marks he’d left, a soft smile breaking through his usual intensity. Namjoon’s teasing came as he rinsed your hair, his long fingers massaging your scalp, murmuring, “You’re glowing, you know,” his voice warm with affection. They took turns drying you, Jungkook wrapping you in a fluffy towel, patting your skin with deliberate tenderness, while Namjoon knelt to dry your legs, stealing playful kisses on your knees that made you giggle. Wrapped in towels, they guided you to bed, Jungkook tucking you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, Namjoon sliding in behind, his arm draping over your waist, fingers interlacing with Jungkook’s. Their warmth chased away the night’s chill, their soft whispers of “saranghae” lulling you, already dreaming of the next time.

Winter blanketed Seoul, the apartment warm with coffee and cinnamon. You woke tangled in sheets, Jungkook’s arm heavy across your waist, Namjoon’s breath on your neck. The bed was chaos—pillows scattered, a sock on the headboard—but it was home.

Jungkook stirred, nuzzling you. “Joheun achim,” he mumbled—good morning. You smiled, understanding. Namjoon chuckled, adding something that Jungkook didn't even say. “He says you’re too pretty for 7 a.m.,” he teased.

“Liar,” you laughed, swatting Namjoon. He kissed your knuckles, eyes soft. Jungkook pulled you closer, grumbling, “Nae yeoja”—my girl—then tugged Namjoon into the pile. “Uri yeoja”—our girl.

You giggled, squished between them. “Ridiculous,” you said, heart swelling. Namjoon traced your hip. “But Yours,” he said, flirty. Jungkook nipped your earlobe, possessive. “And you are Ours.”

You made pancakes, Jungkook stealing batter, Namjoon sighing while reading book. When Jungkook pouted, you fed him a piece, syrup on his lips. “Naneun neoreul saranghae” you said, the word easy now.

They echoed it, and you knew this—messy, heated, tender—was forever. A year later, you planned a trip to Jeju, a photo series capturing their love. Seoul’s streets still judged, but in your shared bed, no translation was needed.

A/n: This wild idea sparked when I stumbled upon a post and I couldn’t shake the plot from my mind. Not sure if it landed perfectly, but I had a blast writing this shit! 😈🤪

You’re kind of pissed, actually. Scratch that—you’re furious. Just when it felt like you finally had Yoongi—finally had the chance to explore whatever this was between you—this bullshit had to rear its ugly head. A photo of his kind of ex leaving his building was enough to set the internet on fire, and now it felt like the flames were creeping dangerously close to your life.

You’ve talked to him once today, and even that conversation was clipped. A text from him at 5 let you know he was about to leave HYBE and swing by his place first. “Be there by 7,” he’d said.

You stare at the pristine takeout containers, willing yourself not to spiral. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not the insecure girl who lets her emotions run wild over things she can’t control. You’ve done too much good work to let this unravel you.

“You’re fine. You’re fucking fine,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the kitchen.

Your phone vibrates on the counter. Namjoon. Always coming to your rescue at the right time.

“Hello?”

“You doin’ okay?” Namjoon asks, his voice calm but laced with concern.

“Define okay,” you quip, though your voice wavers slightly. “It’s been a lot.”

“I figured,” Namjoon says gently. “That’s why I’m calling. Just wanted to check in. Yoongi’s been swamped today, and I know how this stuff can mess with your head.”

You exhale slowly, grateful for the concern but also acutely aware of the simmering emotions just beneath the surface. “I’m trying, Joon. Really, I am. It’s just… exhausting. The waiting, the overthinking, the noise. I just want to know where I stand with him, you know?”

“He’ll tell you,” Namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “Just… don’t let the noise get to you.”

You swallow hard, his words striking a chord. “Thanks, Joon. Really.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly. “And hey, take it easy on him tonight, okay? He’s under a lot of pressure, but trust me, you’re his priority.”

“Will do, dad,” you tease, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of lightness.

“Bye.”

You set the phone down, Namjoon’s words lingering in your mind as you glance at the clock again. 

You think about Yoongi and the kind of pressure he must be feeling now. You can take care of him tonight. He deserves it.

You’re rearranging the pillows on the couch, trying not to glance at the clock again for the hundredth time. It’s not even about tidying the place anymore. It’s about occupying your hands, distracting yourself from the swirling mix of emotions in your chest.

Then, the doorbell rings.

7:01pm. 

You take a breath, smoothing your sweater. Calm. Casual. You’re fine.

You open the door.

And there he is. Yoongi stands in the dim light of the hallway, a dark jacket zipped up to his collarbone, a black mask shading his face, somehow directing the focus on the exhaustion in his eyes. But what caught your attention is his hair—slicked back with a little sprout of inky locks on top.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking bashful at the heat in your gaze.

Christ. He looks good. Criminally.

He steps in. “Hi,” he says softly, his voice carrying that calm rasp you’ve missed.

Your heart clenches. “Hi,” you reply, your tone quieter than intended. You clear your throat, stepping back to let him in. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pausing in the entryway as he glances around. 

You then notice the bouquet in his hand—gorgeous white roses and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper. 

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes flick over your face. Something in your expression must’ve softened, because he quickly averts his gaze.

“I brought these,” he says, holding them out a little awkwardly.

Your chest tightens, a strange warmth spreading through you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

When you reach out to take the bouquet, your fingers graze his, and the contact lingers for just a second too long. Impulsively, your free hand rises to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s too much for whatever the hell this is between you, but the moment feels too honest to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

Yoongi freezes under your touch, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, as if the tension in his shoulders breaks all at once, he leans into your palm, just a fraction, and the smallest, most heartbreaking smile tugs at his lips as his eyes flutter close.

“I am now.”

You head to the kitchen, busying yourself with a vase to give the flowers the best chance to survive. You do not have a green thumb, so you pray to the gods the beautiful arrangement does not wither overnight.

“Hungry?” you ask, not turning around. “I bought chicken, shrimp fried rice, and some random banchan.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Yoongi replies, his voice closer than you expect. You glance back to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You place the vase on the counter and fold your arms. “So,” you start, forcing lightness into your tone. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” he admits, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Had to dodge more cameras than usual. Sat in meetings for a couple of hours. Si-hyuk personally called Sung Kyung’s agency. They assured me that they will investigate thoroughly. I couldn’t eat. I get home and there’s still press camping out. So yeah, shit day and I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

“That’s the longest response I’ve ever gotten from you.” You tease. “You really must be stressed out.”

Yoongi chuckles and for a moment, it feels like the tension that’s been hanging over you both all day melts away. 

You go around the counter and stand facing him where he’s sitting on your bar stool. He parts his legs and you immediately take that space, crowding him a bit more by placing your hands tentatively on his shoulder.

His eyes, warm like molten chocolate, meet yours. “How about you?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “I’m fine,” you say, though the tightness in your chest betrays you. “I mean, it’s not like this is new territory for you, right?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Yoongi says quietly. “And I don’t like that you’re sort of affected by it.”

“I can handle it,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel, projecting strength since he looks a little broken right now.

Yoongi’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s not entirely convinced. 

“I kinda knew what I was getting into when I knocked in your studio yesterday,” you say softly. “And I’d do it again. For you.”

His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face at your admission before it softens into something else. Something deeper. “For me?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Yeah. For you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Then he straightens up from his slouch, taking one of your hands from his shoulder, pressing his lips softly against your pulse point.

“Dinner first,” he says. 

“Then what?” you challenge.

Yoongi just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

As you sip the last of your drink, you steel yourself to ask the question that’s been bugging you all day. “So,” you say finally, broaching the topic. “Sung Kyung.”

Yoongi pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to yours. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “What about her?”

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “Namjoon told me you’re co-parenting. But I need to hear where you two… stand?”

Yoongi exhales slowly. “Yeah, we’re co-parenting. That’s it. I don’t have any intention of getting back together with her. At all.” His voice is calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I want Haneul to know his biological mom, but she and I—we’re done. That’s been over.”

Relief washes over you, but before you can fully settle into it, you notice the shift in his expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart briefly to the table before returning to yours.

“There’s something else,” he says quietly, the words heavy with hesitation.

Fuck. You don’t like the sound of it, but you ask anyway. “What is it?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago… she kissed me.”

Your stomach twists, and the room feels suddenly colder. “What?”

“I put a stop to it immediately,” he says quickly, his tone insistent. “I told her it couldn’t happen again, that if she wanted to keep seeing Han, she had to respect that boundary. And she has. She knows where we stand.”

You don’t respond right away, staring down at your plate as you try to process his words. 

Oh my god. This is so fucked up. You knew Sung Kyung’s reappearance wasn’t as harmless as it seemed, but hearing it confirmed still stings.

“I just thought…” you start, but the words trail off.

Yoongi’s voice is soft but steady. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Do I?” You think out loud. “We’re not…” You nod slowly, pushing your chair back. “I… need a minute.”

When you get to your bathroom, you release a long steadying breath. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the counter tightly. Fuck. You’re okay. This is–

A knock sounds at the door, startling you.

Yoongi’s voice is muffled as he says your name, but it’s gentle as can be. “Can I come in?”

You glance at the lock and realize, too late, that you forgot to turn it. The door creaks open, and there he is, standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and something softer.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him and his arms immediately slide around your waist. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, and you meet his gaze through the mirror.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You lean back against him, the tension in your shoulders easing but just slightly. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“That’s fair,” he presses his lips to your temple. 

“But I need you to know–” presses another on your cheek.

“That I don’t want anyone else–” presses the last where your neck and shoulders meet. 

“Just you.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, and when your eyes meet again in the mirror, the tenderness there leaves you so breathless.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn in his arms, your hands sliding up to his face as you pull him down for a kiss. His fingers tighten on your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him.

You walk back to your bed, lips fused with his, your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. The urgency between you grows as you push him down onto the mattress, his back hitting the sheets with a quiet thud. You follow immediately, straddling him, your body molding against his as you capture his lips again. The kiss is deep, consuming, his hands gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You stay like that for a while, tongues teasing, breaths mingling, drunk in the taste of each other. Then, a sharp pull of his lower lip between your teeth has him groaning into your mouth.

You’re driven by lust, and something else. A possessive demon seems to be overriding your better judgment, thinking you’ve been timid with your feelings for long enough. No woman, not Sung Kyung, even if he is Han’s mom, can take what you and Yoongi have been building up to for so damn long.

“You’re in your head,” Yoongi says, nudging his nose against yours.

“Did she kiss you like this, huh?” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your lips return to his, sucking greedily, staking your claim.

Yoongi’s breath shudders as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, baby.” His voice is rough, lips pink and swollen.

Your fingers slide under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside before your hands explore the newly exposed skin. He’s warm, toned beneath your touch, and the way his muscles tense under your fingertips only spurs you further. You lean down, lips dragging along his jawline, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his throat. He tastes sweet, salty, and entirely intoxicating.

“Did you fuck anyone else when I left?” you mumble against his skin, your teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

His breath hitches, “No, shit. No.”

“Good boy.” You hum in satisfaction, your lips venturing lower, your tongue flicking against the hollow of his throat. He groans, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Baby, you’re making me lose my shit right now,” he grits out, his voice strained, desperate. His hands now get braver, sliding underneath your top to fondle your tits. 

Maybe you’re delirious. Maybe you’re too turned on to think straight. Or maybe—maybe this is exactly what you’ve wanted since the moment you saw him again.

Your hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of his hard length through his trousers, feeling the way he twitches under your palm. 

“You’re mine, okay?” you whisper, nipping at his bottom plush as your fingers give his dick a squeeze.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his lips curving under yours. “Yours.”

He lets you revel in your greed for a few moments, allowing you to do whatever you pleased as you lose yourself in the heat building between you.

He ruts up towards your hand, grunting slightly. Honestly, he’s so hard, it’d be a mercy to release him from the confines of his jeans. So you do, helping him unbutton, unzip, and undress, until his cock springs free and flops on his stomach.

What a pretty dick. Literally lickable—solid, girthy, veiny, a bead of white pooling at the slit. You take him in your mouth, tracing the tip with your tongue, the taste of pre-cum coating your throat. You let drool cascade down his length, slick fingers pumping his shaft while your mouth suctions his mushroom head.

His hand goes to the back of your neck, guiding you in a bit more. “Mmm… that’s it, baby.” 

Yoongi moans your name as you go faster. You feel him twitching inside your mouth. He’s so hard but you don’t want him to cum yet. You pop him off to lap at the base, before your tongue travels upward to trace the thick veins on the underside of his cock. 

Jaw slack, his eyes are dark, dark as he observes you while propped up on his elbows. “Come up,” he says when you reluctantly pull away. “Wanna eat you out.”

Your clothes are yanked off your body as you take his place on the cushions, not a single piece of fabric now separating your skin. He takes you by the hip and adjusts your position so he can get his face close to your mound. Before you can mentally prepare yourself, he shoves his hot tongue against your folds, locating your clit in 0.001 seconds and you know you’ll be careening off a cliff in no time.

“I—Yoongi, that’s… shit that’s nice.” You can’t help it. It does feel nice.

You reach for the little ponytail on his head, gripping it for dear life. He hums against your bud when you pull, the vibrations only driving you more insane.

“You taste so good baby,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I can eat you out for days, make you cum,” he vows, delirious just like you are. “Over and over… my favorite fuckin’ snack.” 

“Oh my god, Yoongi…”

He feasts, and feasts, and soon enough, you’re shuddering in ecstasy, hips bucking in the process, as he slurps all you give him. He wears your cum like a gloss as he comes up for air, a lazy but proud smile on his face.

You reach for the drawer on your nightstand and pull out a new, sealed, and unopened box of condoms shoving it on his chest. He holds it in one hand, nose scrunching as he suppresses a laugh.

“Someone prepared…”

You shrug as he plucks one and unwraps it quickly, “What?”

“Nothing. You’re too cute for me.”

“Shut uppp.”

He rolls the condom on his dick, propping one hand by the side of your face as he uses the other to rub his blunt tip against your entrance. Your pussy is drenched and he slips right in and bottoms out with a grunt against your ear. He’s thick and big against your walls.

A smack against your ass cheeks makes you clench. “Ah, shit.” And another one lands before he soothes it with a gentle massage. 

You’re going crazy but you need him deeper. Sensing your needs, Yoongi pushes the back of your knees higher and snaps his hips with more force, pounding your pussy as your bed creaks against the wall. Your lids are heavy but you keep your eyes open long enough to see how fucked out he looks, cheeks flushed pink with a coat of sheen on his forehead, teeth caging his lower lip.

“You’re so hot. I wanna ride you,” you declare, stuttering a bit from his thrusts.

“Yeah?” He pants, slows the roll of his hips, waiting for your confirmation. 

When you nod, he slips off with a wince and you feel your juices trickle down your skin. You reverse positions, mattress dipping as you shift your knees on each side of his hips. 

“Do your thing, baby,” he urges, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows bent outward in a relaxed pose.

Your smile is watery as you use his tip to prod against your clit one or twice before you sink him inside your wet heat. You moan in unison when you're fully seated, the feeling of him snug and warm and so full inside you driving you mad.

You tip your head back, palms planted against his chest as you swivel your hips in a slow dance. 

You look down on him, hair cascading over your shoulder, and you think how much you like this view. And how you won't mind this view everyday, actually. Seems the possessive streak from earlier still has not satiated. 

“Shit—you’re so hot like this.” 

You rock against him, clit stimulated deliciously as you ride his cock. He’s got a cocky little grin as you use him. You throw your ass back, and he has a front row seat and VIP access to your bouncing tits, his tongue slack on the side of his lips. He cups your tits with both hands, the wet pads of his thumbs rubbing against your nipples.

“My turn,” he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts upward so roughly your eyes roll back in pleasure.

He pistons into you, finger digging on your skin to keep you in place and a long moan rips from your throat when he jerks up particularly hard.

Your hands slip to his shoulder as your body bounces by the force of his movements, tits sliding against his chest. His thighs must be burning and when he slightly lets up, you dip your head, shamelessly to lick the side of his face, moaning his name against his ear. 

“Baby—” you beg, not really saying what you need, but he knows.

He uses a sweaty hand to guide a tit in his mouth, suckling at it with a bit of teeth. 

Not a moment later, he’s fucking you again from below, deeper, faster, and when rapidly presses into your sweet spot, you’re a goner.

“I’m close, Yoongi. So close…”

“Me too, baby,” his voice is rough as he lets go of your bruised nipple, brows furrowed in concentration like he is fully intent to give you the orgasm of your life. He pushes into your depth relentlessly, 

White hot heat is blooming inside you, and you feel his cock throb, abs tightening, before he spills his seed in the condom, groaning with his eyes shut to savor the intensity of his release. It’s the pure unadulterated pleasure painted on his face and his deep delicious moan that tips you over the edge, too, clenching against his solidness as you slip into the sinful pleasure of your orgasm.

Chest to chest, you rest your full weight against him, softening dick still nestled inside you. You press your lips against his neck, feeling the vibrations of his throaty chuckle. Then he asks, “Was it good?”

“So good.”

“Mm.” He hums, nosing the side of your face so you’d look at him. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”

“Which one?”

“That you, uh, despite everything, you’d do it again, for me.”

You start to feel a bit shy, but then you remember you’re literally naked. On top of him. And he is still inside you. The point of bashfulness is long past. It’s time for the truth. “Yeah.”

“Bold of you, no?”

“Dumb, too.”

He pushes an errant hair behind your ear, eyes still glazed from the sex, but fond. “You know I really like you, right? If it isn’t painfully obvious.”

“Me too, Yoongi. Since Stan. Maybe even earlier.”

“Will you be my girl, then?”

Yoongi watches you carefully, waiting for your response. The earnest curve of his lips, the slight scrunch of his nose, the way his fingers still rest on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away—it’s all so achingly real.

You study him for a moment, letting yourself take it in. Everything about him—his caring nature, his tenderness, his immense love for Han, his ability to drive you absolutely insane and still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The outside world is still in chaos. The scandal, the noise, the questions that neither of you have all the answers to yet. But here, in your little apartment, wrapped in the warmth of him, none of that feels as important as this.

“I will,” you finally say, voice steady.

His breath catches, just for a second. Then, his lips spread into the softest, gummiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Your lips meet for a gentle kiss that feels like a promise and the rest of the world falls away. For now, no matter what comes next, it’s the two of you—finally honest, finally sure, and finally together.

:]

A/N: YASSSS. Our babies have finally figured it out. How do you feel right now? Would love to hear your comments! 

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo

P.S. Am gunning for 1,000 followers before Yoongi’s birthday. :) I think I’ll get there with your help. Feel free to reblog the story if you like, and that can help more people find our lovely L&L couple.

Love you!~

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