explicit warnings: cursing, thigh riding, cowgirl, oral (m rec), naughty studio time(??), couch sex, rough sex, giving yoongi the business, bold as fuck reader, choking, spanking, penetrative sex, kissing deserves to be here too lol, alexa play no hands by waka flocka, deep throating, hair/head tugging, nipple play, yoongi in that gd tank, yoongi in those gd glasses, teasing, titty fucking hello!!!!, stripping while he watches…. yeah, missionary, sub!3tanyoongi?????, scratching, multiple orgasms, protected sex, emotional sex, the glasses.. stay on??, good god they’re so hot i’m blushing

—

—

It’s morning when Jimin gets a call. 

Shifting in sheets that aren’t his, he sleepily blinks once before eyeing the blue light with a squint, wondering who dares wake him up before his natural rise. What time even is it anyway? It’s gotta be an ungodly hour if his circadian rhythm is disturbed. 

Still, he grabs his cell from the nightstand, flinching at the movement behind him and inwardly slinging out curses. 

Because waking him up is one thing. 

But if anyone disturbs Taehyung he’s gonna give them hell—

Min Yoongi: Incoming Call

Shit.

Jimin yanks the covers off, rushing out of bed and snapping Tae awake anyway. For what? Don’t fucking know, but they’re ready. Wherever. Whatever. They already stayed up clutching their phones until they physically couldn’t keep their eyes open. 

Because as much as Yoongi assured him nothing would happen, Jimin still couldn’t let go of his car keys.

Answering slow, he feels his chest winding and winding, eyes locked with Taehyung while they both wait on edge, “…Yoongi?”

“Yeah.”

Thank the fucking stars. 

Yoongi’s okay. He’s on the line. He made it to morning or whatever fucking time it is, and he’s doing exactly what he said he would.

And it’s enough, enough, enough.

Burns zing up the corners of Jimin’s eyes, and he swipes hard as Taehyung moves, likely to hear what’s happening and even more likely to just be by his side. 

Jimin is grateful for either one. But he tries to keep composure as he croaks, “You better have woken me up for a reason.”

The slight hum on the line induces a wobbly smile. “You slept?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin shakily laughs, wiping liquid relief from an eye before Taehyung’s thumb brushes tenderly over the other. His gaze is thankful while continuing, “We did but not much.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sniffling, Jimin walks to Tae’s door, letting him into the hallway first and finally drinking in the sight of his ass in those sweats. Because he can finally function like a normal, smitten loser again. “We’ll come over so we can—”

“No need.”

“What?” Nope. Back to panic mode. And judging from his boyfriend’s posture, Taehyung has backpedaled into that, too. “What do you mean no need?”

There’s a slight pause on the line, and small noises make their way through the speaker. It sounds like bedsheets, but it also sounds like… 

“She’s still sleeping.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

A tidal wave of relief crashes into Jimin’s ducts as he hangs his head, palming his face caught in a heavy tide of emotion. When he turns, Taehyung fairs no better, his eyes red and fingers wiping at a perfect, perfect cheek. One of them sniffles, but Jimin can’t tell if it’s him or not, because his vision is blurry and his heart is beating, beating, beating again. 

Whether you know it or not, whatever you did last night may have just changed Yoongi’s entire life.

Because Jimin knows this man through and through. Years of picking up his habits and tells didn’t amount to nothing. It’s how he was able to sense exactly when to intervene, and how he knew exactly what that hauntingly hollow tone in Yoongi’s voice meant when he busted in that day. 

The tone he hears now? The man that just spoke on the line? 

That is a Min Yoongi so in love he can’t even hide it over the phone. 

Fuck. 

Gathering himself, Jimin squeaks out, “I… I’m glad you…” What the fuck does he say? Every thought jams in his throat so hard he has to hand the phone off.

Thankfully, Taehyung perfectly continues his thoughts, voice scratching rocks under a waking river, “We’re glad you’re both safe.”

“Mm.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

Jimin huffs through a fresh batch of tears, clearing his face before grinning at Tae very seriously awaiting an answer. Honestly, at this point? It’s not far-fetched. Jimin’s seeing your future clearer than his present, and maybe he will be a fun uncle sooner than he thinks.

If only Yoongi would just get the fucking talk with your brother over with. 

But Jimin understands the hesitation. If he were in that same position, there’s no telling when he would be courageous enough to stand up to the guy. There’s a reason he’s quick to command a room, and his lifelong mission to protect his younger sister made him grow up a lot faster than everyone else. 

Still… Yoongi just deserves to be happy. And you’re the very obvious answer to helping with that. 

As much as he may have wanted some chances of his own, Jimin is grateful you found your way into his best friend’s heart. Not just anyone is invited inside, and even less people can truly be allowed to stay. 

And you’re probably the only one that has permanent residence. 

“You guys should get some sleep.”

Taehyung pouts right on cue, and Jimin can’t fight those sleepy, droopy eyes. “You didn’t answer me.”

Cute as fuck! He must be stopped. Taking the phone, Jimin speaks into the line fully recovered, shooting his cheeky partner a teasing glare, “We will if you get some, too.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Got some things to do at the studio—”

“No!” They reject together, both equally as appalled because what the fuck kinda answer is that? 

“After what happened last night? Are you crazy?”

“What happened to spending time with her? Men!” 

“He’s going on a business trip, I can’t lose to him.”

“So what?” Tae asks before they both share an even further confused look. Yoongi may be a lovesick fool but that doesn’t give him an excuse to be a dumbass! “You’re just gonna leave her alone?”

There’s a sigh on the line before Jimin plants a hand on his hip. “Not just that. You gotta rest, too, bro. If she doesn’t tell you to take it easy or at least get checked—which she will—we’re going over there to annoy you.” 

“You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.” Jimin cocks his head and leans closer to the phone. “At least rest easy for the next couple days. Especially if you have all this time to see each other.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your brother is leaving for his trip and Yoongi caught some unfortunate hits to his ribs. The dude basically has a free pass to spend the whole week with you, and he’s not even taking full advantage of it? Oh, the things Jimin has to say about the thin line of work ethic and relationship effort. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it for a long time,” Taehyung cuts in before Jimin can pop off, walking away into the living room. 

It’s fine. Let him figure out that you aren’t a woman he can just leave. Frankly? That would tickle Jimin to no end to see Yoongi folding his plans so fast just to be with you. 

But he spares him the tirade only because you’re fast asleep right next to him. “Thank you for calling, man.”

“Said I would.”

“I know.” 

Because above all else, Jimin is happy to hear that voice. Even if it’s obvious he’s a little banged up from last night, it’s still Yoongi. In one piece. That’s all Jimin wanted, and he can’t thank you enough,

“Don’t overwork yourself, and stay with her as long as you can.”

There’s a small laugh on the other end. “I plan on it, Chim.”

And Jimin catches on to why. “I’m holding you to that then.” 

—

—

Dawn breaks through open blinds, stretching its orange tint across a clean, spotless table. 

You don’t know what got you up so early. But when you peer into the kitchen, you tell yourself you woke up right on time. 

Because seeing Yoongi when you’re wide awake is better than any dream you’ll ever have.

Not because of his appearance, even though the sight of him sends a pang through your chest. No. It’s the way he’s quietly prepping a morning meal, using the arm on his better side that’s not sporting a nasty hit to the ribs, without you even asking. 

Bits of sunlight dance right out of your eyes.

The effort. The consideration. This man shouldn’t be lifting a finger, yet here he is cooking before you even left his bed. Isn’t this the same man that got caught up in a fight hours ago? Isn’t this the same man you almost walked out on with a frozen heart? 

Yes. But he’s also the same man that loves you. And you still can’t grasp that concept in any of the fingers playing with his tee you borrowed.

“Hi,” you whisper, telling him a thousand things. 

To which he regards before smiling soft, voice travelling over linoleum and circling around your heart, “Morning, doll.”

Damn. You hear it. Yoongi’s sore as hell. 

But instead of getting into that right away, you silently take residence by his side. Because this moment feels too delicate, and you admire his willingness to take care of you unprompted. You didn’t even know you’d eat before going back home. 

With a hand warming his back, you wait until Yoongi’s done tossing food on the stove to peck his morning-chilled cheek. “Thank you for cooking,” you murmur, admiring those beautiful brown eyes. “Sleep okay?”

“Cus of you,” your lover softly responds, eyeing your lips before gliding back up to your gaze. “You?”

Ugh. He’s gotta know those glasses are so unfair. They’ve gotten you repeatedly before, and they’re certainly getting you now. 

But you can’t help but deflate at the cuts behind those rims, while knowing there are even more bruises hiding underneath his oversized tee. How is Yoongi cooking right now? How is he even awake? “Same.” 

“Good.” 

These instant, deep shivers at his deeper morning voice will never, ever go away. But anything you wanna do about them isn’t important right now. Right now, you need to make sure Yoongi is either okay, or finds a way to get better. 

Sliding your hands down the slopes of his chest, you delicately rest one on his ribs. “Does it still hurt?” 

Yikes. That wince is enough. But Yoongi doesn’t shy away from your touch, and you appreciate the way he stays honest. “It’s sore. But I should be good.”

“You gonna get it checked?”

There’s a slight upward tilt of his lips. “Not right now.” At least the honesty persists, as much as you don’t want him following the typical manly response to hospital visits. “But I will if you want me to.”

“Please go,” you gently urge, lest you disturb the soft morning dew before it melts with the sunrise. “For me?”

Only sizzles from the stove fill the space until Yoongi nods, and his voice is just as low and tender, “I’ll go after work.”

Oh. “You’re working today?”

Just like breakfast, you didn’t expect this, either. Frankly, you figured neither of you were gonna even think about work, much less go. Sure, he’s due a hospital visit and you owe some friends immediate explanations for your absence. But other than that, shouldn’t Yoongi be resting? 

Does his craft truly mean that much? 

Well, shit. You gotta respect his work ethic, that’s for damn sure. Because you would sequester yourself to your bedroom and have endless dates with your television if you were sporting a good jab or two. This music thing must mean more to Yoongi than you previously thought. And who are you to step on that dream? 

Suddenly, all thoughts and concerns flee from the kiss on your cheek. 

“I’ll stay if you stay,” he says, turning to move the pan and scrunching his face with a grunt. Fuck. 

“I…” Shit, you were gonna go back to the house anyway. And from Yoongi’s smartass smirk, you can tell he already knew that. “Just need to check on him, too. And he doesn’t have a car right now, so. I should at least give him a ride.” 

“Figured.” In a move so domestic your head spins, Yoongi turns your body and gently pats your butt. “Now go sit. Let’s eat and figure this out.” 

—

—

As you devour a flawless meal and clean your dishes, you plan out the day. You’ll head home and check on your brother while Yoongi heads to the studio, and then you’ll rendezvous with your friends to hang out until he’s done with work. They’re already lighting up your phone like no one’s business—especially Yuri. 

Yoongi flicks the sink off before you both head to his bedroom, and you melt at the way he slowly wraps his arms around your front halfway there, all four of your legs slowing to close the rest of the distance. 

What’s he doing? This is joyfully new, but you have a pretty tight deadline. Warming his forearm and your own cheeks, you chuckle out, “We have to hustle, old man.” 

“You hustle me all the time,” he accuses into your shoulder blade, kissing its ridge and making you reconsider walking out the door entirely. “Lemme have this.” 

Your second laugh is more subdued, and you’re right between his bed and desk when you lift both hands to hold him close. “You have everything I got,” you wisp into his skin, planting your lips once, twice before you feel his arms press further in. “So this is nothing.” 

Seconds and silence slide by, the delicate veil of early morning still hovering around the room. When Yoongi doesn’t say anything, you make to turn and face him. 

But you’re stopped before your heart skips. 

“I could stay like this all day,” he admits, voice so low it rumbles through your bones. “And it’d be perfect.” 

“What, you don’t wanna see my face?” You joke with a giggle. “Rude, but that’s fine.” 

Yoongi only buries his nose further, his glasses sliding against your skin peeking from his shirt. “I’m much braver right here, doll.” 

Oh. 

The leap your heart does is more of a dive, plummeting into the seafoam swirling around your feet. All the words you want to respond with jump off right after, leaving you with nothing but the clouds in your eyes. 

You don’t quite know what he means by that. But it feels like those six words hold the weight of a thousand, so you simply let another kiss on his smooth forearm linger. “Do you want me to go with you?” 

A puff of laughter warms you right through and, despite his earlier admission, Yoongi does slowly spin you around. 

And when you follow, you realize you’re much braver when you aren’t facing him, too. 

“It’s not that, babe,” he says through a dashing curve. “But the offer was cute.” 

“I take it back then.” 

“Damn!” 

Both of your laughs whoosh out and collide, sweeping as Yoongi pinches your side and you flinch towards the bed. “You fucker—!”

Before you know it, your back hits a comforter before a weight presses your stomach, emotions clashing as you’re elated and shy and immediately concerned for your boyfriend’s side. “Baby, be careful—”

Lips capture yours, sucking up your warning before a hand slides under your head. Sighing, you arch into his chest, feeling the weight of his chains slip across your breasts. 

Euphoria isn’t an adequate enough word to describe how you feel. Where there used to be flutters in your ribcage now reside strong, powerful wing beats, gusts of want and desire lifting you off the ground and launching you into clear skies. Starlight of every color exists within each kiss you share, and your fingers feebly grab his tee to keep you from falling back down to earth. 

“If we don’t go now,” Yoongi rasps before sliding his mouth against yours, “We’re never going anywhere again.” 

“I know,” you whisper, willingly letting him kiss you once more, “Is that a promise?” 

“Fuck, I wish.” 

You do, too. But you know you’re running out of time for what you need to do. And weren’t you just saying you had to respect his aspirations? Shit, you really do need to snap out of it. “Come on,” you order with a pat to his chest. “We have all week to do this. We got time.” 

Turns out, you’re still amongst the heavens. The way Yoongi’s looking at you? This is the closest you’ll ever get to being held by an angel. 

Did he get more handsome overnight? Or is it the light in his eyes sustained since his confession in the kitchen? You don’t quite know, and you may never pinpoint why, but the tug he has on your heart spans space and time. 

And you’ll run through both forever to keep meeting him again and again. 

Burns prick your eyes, but he mercifully stands before he can catch any evidence of your yearning. 

Just like that, the two of you bounce back to getting ready, with him sliding notebooks and headphones in a backpack while you change into your own clothes. As you sling your bag over a shoulder, he reaches for the closest hoodie, and you wordlessly make your way to the front door. 

You really do hope he gets looked at today. But just like the calm after a storm, you want to encourage him gently rather than shove him out. At least he seems receptive to your gentle suggestions.

But after you ask one more time and he simply nods, you lower your eyes to his kicks. “Sorry if I’m nagging. I’d just worry less if you went right away, that’s all.”

“You aren’t nagging, babe.” Your freshly bloomed lover reaches out to hold your wrist, smoothing a rough thumb over your skin. Fucking hell, you can’t help but frown at the gashes and cuts marring his knuckles. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”

Not just his hands, but his face. His ribs. And maybe other places you haven’t even seen yet. 

You don’t wanna leave his side. 

But you have to head out before your brother leaves. Things need to get patched up before he flies out into more stress, and you owe him an apology for walking out when he was still aching. Based on Yoongi’s physical state? Your brother could be hiding some big wounds and you didn’t even wanna talk to him. 

However. Was last night necessary? Absolutely. You cannot entertain the possible outcomes had you not tried hard enough to get through Yoongi’s door. His eyes were so dulled, his hands felt so cold. What would have happened if you didn’t force yourself inside? 

Why was that guitar smashed to pieces? 

This is also why you refuse to leave. So many questions, so many things you still don’t know. Like what all happened when you were separated? And how in the hell is this man in love with you?

“I don’t wanna go,” you confess, instantly encased in his arms and warmth. “I’d much rather keep kissing you.” 

“True,” he says with a resigned huff, shifting his glasses with an adorable nose scrunch. If only he didn’t have so many little red lines of conflict on his face. “But we both have stuff to take care of, so let’s get all that done first.”

“Ugh, fine.” Your groan is more teasing than serious, and Yoongi’s laugh is nothing but understanding. 

Damn. You still feel it. You really don’t wanna go. Be it the rawness of last night still on your skin, or the confessions still on your tongues, you just wanna stay by his side. “Sorry,” you breathe out, lacing your fingers to pepper love along his strong, reddened ridges. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna leave you right now.”

Walking out of Yoongi’s door just doesn’t feel right. Even if he’s right there and will be following you out. Is this feeling normal? Are you supposed to feel this tightly woven to someone? Because the stitching between your hearts has only gotten stronger in the tempest of last night, as if you bonded together just to hold on for dear life. 

Maybe that’s exactly what happened. And it’s exactly why you can barely take one step out of his place. 

“Then don’t.”

Not one second passes before your chin is held, and lips slide so tenderly across yours that they may as well melt into your touch. Your reaction is quickly swooped into his mouth, and everything falls away as you let him seize your every thought. Lightning from last night zips out of your limbs, your toes, your fingers clasping his loose tee. 

You might just cry where you stand.

How have his kisses gotten even better? How have you never felt this way even though you’ve done this far more times than you were ever supposed to? It should be impossible, and yet, this man finds even more ways to astound you. 

Yoongi slips a hand over your cheek, giving one more beautiful push of his lips as he confesses, “I don’t wanna leave you, either.” 

And your breath stutters onto his features. “You, too?”

Slow, he kisses your cheek, the clear rim of his specs skimming your nose. When he draws back, you look right into his eyes, wondering why he’s watching your mouth instead. 

“Me, too.” Yoongi kisses your other side with a quiet peck. “Fuck, me, too.” 

You fucking hate what you have to do, but you don’t have a choice. 

With one last lingering kiss, you both gather enough courage to set out and do what you must. 

—

—

Your house is already a flurry of activity as you enter to see your brother in the kitchen, packing his leather duffle that’s a constant companion on his trips. 

Of course. The memory of him purchasing the lavish accessory pops into your head every time you watch him scurry around, dimples ever present on his proud cheeks. It’s almost enough to make you smile yet again. 

But you can’t when the same face is currently scratched to hell. Just like Yoongi’s, if not worse. 

Fuck, is he really gonna travel looking like that? 

“Hey,” he rasps out, still fighting off slumber. “You’re back earlier than I thought.” 

“Wanted to check on you before we left.” Fuck, your voice sounds like it’s being forced through a clogged pipe. Loosen the hell up! “And dude. Put some bandaids on, yeah?” 

“Yeah, just give me a sec. Making sure I have everything before my ride gets here.” 

“Huh?” He got a ride? You’re here now so you can take him to the airport. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you?” 

“Yeah, it’s all good. I didn’t know you were coming back.” 

Shit. His body seems just as angular as it did last night. Which, quite frankly, could still be from what went down in the lot. 

Because even though you see both men banged up, you suddenly realize you don’t actually know what all transpired. 

After all, there wasn’t much talk of it after you walked into the tempest of Yoongi’s living room.

Of course, you aren’t gonna bring it up just this second. There are other things to ask about and make sure of first. “Wallet? Phone? Passport?” 

“Yup, yup, uhh.. Yup.” 

Zippers sling in the quiet morning air as you continue, “And you’re coming back on Friday, right?”

“Oh.. Nah.” When you start crossing the kitchen, your brother hauls his leather bag over his better shoulder. Honestly, no one would be able to tell the other one’s bruised with his suit on. That thing damn well covers everything except the cuts on his face and hands. “Saturday.” 

You pause in your journey to the medicine cabinet. “Wait.. Saturday? The release party’s on Friday.”

“Yeah.. I know.”

What the fuck? That’s bullshit they’re keeping him longer than they have to. Struggling to understand how corporate can keep your brother on a leash and get away with it, you urge, “Tell them to at least let you go home a day early. Don’t you wanna support your friends?”

“You mean Yoongi?”

A zing of terror zips through your eyes, freezing every vein in an instant. 

The fuck was that question? Never mind. Stay calm stay calm stay fucking calm. “Uhh, yeah, he’s one of them? But the other guys, too, right? I know you care about them and this is huge.”

Mercifully, your sibling just shakes his head and waves you off. “Don’t you think I already tried? I don’t wanna miss it but I don’t have a choice. Conference schedule is pretty tight and I’m heading the panel on Friday.”

“Is it in the morning? You can fly out after—”

“Why are you fighting so hard?”

“Why aren’t you fighting harder!”

Okay, what in the hell is happening right now? Screw optics and how this must look for you, your brother needs to be there. Him and Yoongi are the tightest of friends, the most ride or die duo you’ve ever seen. You can’t picture a timeline where he misses this monumental moment, and it’s starting to really upset you that he’s barely trying. 

“You think I’m not fighting for it?”

“I certainly don’t think you’re trying enough—”

“Alright, you know what?” Hard steps surge forward as you stand rigid, a duffle hastily dumped onto tile. “You don’t know what I’ve tried. You don’t even know if I even told him yet.”

Fucking shit. You hold his stare before turning away, tossing out the idea of bandages entirely and searing footsteps into the hallway—

“Or do you.”

Before icing over with the unforgiving frost of zero gravity space. 

Slow, you turn, not quite facing him but not backing down, either. “…Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You talkin’? What else has he been doing to you?”

Oh. Fuck that. 

Doing to you? 

Fuck all of this. This is too much to handle right now and you know you’re gonna snap if he keeps pushing because you are not having this conversation right before he leaves. You’ve already thought about this before, right? You cannot fuck with his head right before business trips because he needs to be on and locked in. 

But now he’s fucking with your temper and those are some choice fucking words pulled out of his ass. 

You don’t think you’ve ever legitimately threatened this man to his face and meant it before, and it tears a sharp corner of your heart, “You better be very careful. With whatever you wanna say next.”

The air proves too thick to slice. While your body stands aflame, your brother is iced over, brimming with an energy that damn near takes physical form. “All I’m saying is? I find out some fucking bullshit is going on—”

No no no, not now.

Reacting fast is your only instinct, brain haywire and fizzling fizzling boiling. Harsh, you spin on your heel and shout the first thing you can think of, “Oh, come on—”

“You better hope to god you’re ready for what’s coming—”

“Stop!” Fuck fuck fuck, this is so frustrating because your head is exploding and your body is screaming to just tell him already. Fuck the consequences at this point this is ludicrous. 

Doing to you? Yoongi? How dare he speak about his best friend like that how dare he accuse him without outright saying the words all you have to do is tell your brother how wrong he’s got it. 

But you can’t be the one. Yoongi said he would, and he probably took months to get to that point of strength—and healing, from what you can tell. 

This is between them. Them. You have to honor that, as much as you wanna just confess everything now and deal with it yourself. 

But goddamn your brother is pulsing with anger and it’s leaking into your own charged air. 

What does he think is happening? Does he think Yoongi’s just, what, playing you? He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. Yoongi’s been nothing but the best thing that’s ever happened to you and shit your heart hurts because…

Your brother is valid in thinking that. 

How foolish. Didn’t you guard your heart from Yoongi for the longest? Didn’t everything start because you figured you knew who he was because of his reputation? You got him all wrong, too. So how can you be mad at your brother for doing the same? 

Fuck, think. Just think before someone gets hurt. 

Because if you aren’t careful, someone—or multiple someones—will get hurt in seconds. You have to bear the pain alone right now. To protect them both, you have to keep your trembling mouth shut. 

And? You have to admit that something isn’t fair here. Not to you, not to Yoongi, but to him. Last night was rough as fuck but, while you both got to have raw, beautiful closure, the one standing in front of you had to go to sleep in an empty house. 

So chill the fuck out. 

Breathing to cool down, you tense and loosen, tense and loosen. “I get it. You’re angry, and you have a lot going on. But,” you bite down on your lip to keep going. “We’re talking about something else. We’re talking about you, and I’m still pissed you even let those guys goad you into a fight. What are we, twelve?”

Seething, your sibling takes the switch of pace. But it is not what you want to hear. “Are you seri—? What the hell was I supposed to do? That son of a bitch grabbed you—”

“I know,” you recoil. “Don’t tell me like you were there, because you weren’t.”

Finally—finally—those angry lines in his face vanish. 

But they make way for something much worse than anger. Because your older brother, someone that’s been there for you your whole life.. 

Looks absolutely stricken over the one time he wasn’t. 

Damn it. 

Regretful, you drop your shoulders in exhaustion and quiet compromise. When you continue, your voice is much softer, “But I told you: they were. Your friends, they were there because they knew you wanted that. Jimin got me away, Yoongi took me home and stayed.” 

You really have got to stop saying his name like you love him. It could start becoming too obvious. 

Shuddering, you shift your weight, folding your arms and shrinking into yourself. 

That night, despite Yoongi’s best and most gentle efforts, still clings to where that loser touched you at Dalo. You hate that you haven’t gotten over it, and you loathe the way you still rub over the same spot. Over, and over. “What did you want him to do? Leave me here?”

“No.” 

“Exactly. And he didn’t.” You adjust your stance again, making an impromptu gamble as you decide to let some truth leak out. Because your brother is owed at least this much. “And fine, you wanna know something? We do talk more because of it.”

Your brother’s head snaps up, and you brace. Because if you show any shred of weakness or hesitation, he’ll see right through your weak attempt to hide most of the truth, 

“But don’t ever accuse him of doing anything to me. That was fucked up to say and you know it.”

“Fuck.” In agreement, he rubs his hair back. “It was. I’m sorry.” 

“Trust me,” you swallow, hating that this is how things have to be for now. “You have nothing to worry about. He’s never.. Never done anything to me, anyway.” 

It’s not a lie. Everything he’s done has been with you. For you. Because of you. 

But your heart’s in anguish as it sinks. Because that expression on your older sibling’s face can only be one thing.  

Pure. Utter. Relief.

Fire singes your eyes before you can quell the flame. It’s the hardest technical truth to swallow. 

Sure, he doesn’t have anything to worry about as far as you being safe. And on top of that, he doesn’t have to worry about any fake shit because Yoongi confessed to you last night.

But as far as his best friend sleeping with and now dating his sister behind his back? That is still very much sitting right in the center of the table. 

And now you’re starting to see just how fucked all three of you are as soon as you sit down to eat the truth. 

But Yoongi said he’d be the one to tell, so he will. 

This feeling is so fucking miserable, though. 

In the end, your brother is effectively convinced, raking a hand across his head and sighing. “Jimin told me what all went down at Dalo, I just… Last night was… Fucked up.” 

“Well, yeah.”

“No. See, this is just like what you said to me. You can’t say it like you were there.”

It’s your stomach’s turn to twist. “So? You were scratched and bruised to hell, and Y…” Shut up, shut up. You’re not supposed to know about the state of anyone else. “And you were… quieter.”

“Because of what happened, dude.”

You blink. “What… What happened?”

Your brother looks at you—really looks at you. 

And suddenly, your gut flares in terror, storming in an instant across your abdomen. 

“That bitch pulled something on us.”

Your heart. 

It’s in freefall.

“Wait… What?” You can’t even form more than one syllable at a time, your legs turning gelatinous and knees starting to give out. “No… What are you…?”

What the fuck did he just say? That bitch pulled a what? 

Your sibling slowly walks toward you once again, watching like he’s just waiting for you to say anything. Do anything. 

But you’re a complete statue because all you can think about is the horror of something happening and the relief that nothing happened all at once. 

Was Yoongi too scared to mention that part? Is this why he was holding back and shaking every time he reached out to touch you? Even this morning, he was so… 

You’ve never seen him like that. Is this why? 

Your mind is swirling and crashing, overlapping each passing thought and scream running through your head. “I’m so sorry,” you hitch out, “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t wanna scare you,” he sighs out. Putting both hands on his hips, your brother stops feet away, visibly still shook as he pierces wooden planks with his stare. “But he pulled it right before Yoongi… and if it weren’t…Fuck.” 

Burns flare and slice through your eyes when he has to pause. What is he trying to say? Pulled what? 

Before Yoongi what? 

Your brother continues, and your throat tightens. “If it weren’t for some random ass sirens, I… Things could’ve been so different.” 

What the fuck is happening. What the hell are you hearing? 

“It was probably dumb as fuck. But I was so fucking angry,” he grits out, watery eyes crushed looking your way. “So fucking mad at how he was talking about you, I.. Walked right up to him and told him to fuck off.”

You can’t even breathe. 

“I still feel it,” he quietly adds, fingers pressed against his side. “Right here.” 

“Fuck,” you finally choke out, eyes on fucking fire. 

“But all I knew was to keep you all safe,” he says, with hardened resolve and a wobbly chin. “And that’s exactly what I did. I did that shit, even if that meant—” 

Tears fling out of your eyes, flowing hot down your cheeks because you wouldn’t want any of them to go out that way. Nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened and yet your body is acting as if something did and it hurts. 

Your brother is there as soon as you crumple forward, letting you bury your head in his chest and sob your heart out. For him, for his friends, and for all the time you had with the man you love so, so dearly. 

If anything happened to your brother before you came clean… If anything happened before you and Yoongi could even… 

Suddenly, you feel equal weights of guilt. For running out on your brother. And for almost walking out on Yoongi. 

You decide an apology is in order for both of them, and all the understanding in the world for Yoongi’s frosted demeanor as soon as you get him alone again.

And you are one hundred percent going to tell your brother everything once he’s back. 

The tears cannot stop, and you’re sure you are crying unimpeded in a pressed and primmed suit. “I’m so sorry,” you keep repenting like a prayer. “This is all my fault.”

“No—”

“You almost—”

“Hey, stop.” He yanks you back, both of your faces soaked with saltwater. “What did I say before? I threw the first swing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But it led to all this, I just.. I just feel so fucking stupid.”

“Don’t. Hey, look at me.” Firm but gentle, he holds you at arm’s length, forcing you to face him. “Maybe we’re both stupid, but you weren’t the idiot. I was.” 

You feel so many conflicting things in your soul. 

What would you have done if Yoongi was in critical condition? What would you have done differently if your brother was instead? Are they the same? Are the two situations really so different anymore? 

No they aren’t they aren’t they aren’t. 

“Please don’t do that again,” you shake out. “Even if it was for me, if I ever lost you, I...” 

“You know I can’t promise anything.” He furrows his brows when you eye him with anger and sadness. “But nothing like that is happening again. Especially with the same dudes.” 

“Okay.” 

A vicious tornado of emotions sends your whole body into agonizing pain. This isn’t what you expected at all, and it’s causing your limbs to lock at the bends. Too many scenarios are jangling about yet you can’t ask for specifics because that will just make it even more real. 

A nightmare is somehow better once you know it ends with you waking up. “I’m… gonna need some time to process everything.”

“I know. And I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but… You deserve to know the things I get into.” 

Ah. 

The irony is not lost on you. 

“At least, if they involve you. We learned our lesson. You were right to tell us off.”

God. You feel numb. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, suddenly immensely tired. “I think I need more sleep.”

A blaring honk sounds outside the house, and you both flinch at the noise. 

And your throat burns at the way your brother instinctively swept you behind his back. 

When you realize what it is, you know what has to come next. 

And he’s the first to react as he turns to face you again, “Alright. I’m heading out, just remember to go get my baby when she’s fixed, yeah?”

“Do you have to go?”

Wait.

The question seems to startle him as much as it does you. 

How did you blurt it right out before even registering the words? Why does your heart clench at the sight of those eyes looking so pained? 

Why does everything feel so shaky within these walls that were always your home?

“I do,” he says, voice tight. “I’m sorry.” 

And why the fuck do you feel sad he’s leaving?

“No, no, it’s.. Of course you have to.” You can’t help the lump in your throat from bobbing, the regret in your limbs as they barely move at your side. “I dunno why I asked, I guess I just..” 

There’s no response to your sniffle. 

“Sorry for yelling,” you squeak out. “I just feel really queasy.”

For a lot more reasons than one.

“We all made it out,” your brother whispers. “That’s what matters.”

“Will you… Will you at least try to be back for the party?”

The man swallows with his brows knit tight, then attempts to crack the tiniest smile. “You know I will. That’s my guy.” 

“Okay.” You nod, sniffling again. After what he just told you? You know he’ll do anything for the ones he loves. “See you there.”

Your brother rubs a comforting palm over your head before turning, heading for the door and grabbing his leather duffle. 

When he stops to glance at you one more time, you give a little wave of your hand before watching the door click shut. 

Chest caving as you collapse to the ground in tears. 

—

—

The need to call Yoongi burns so harshly your fingers damn near set your top aflame.

But he’s at work, and you can’t fuck things up right when you’re approaching the finish line. You almost did with your brother, and that gave you twelve heart attacks in the span of minutes. 

Still. Your chest aches so much that a thirteenth could very well be approaching. You don’t even realize you’re bracing the hallway wall for support until you try to stand, back sore and aching from bending so far for so long. 

What did your brother mean to say about Yoongi? What did that coward pull on them? Do you even want to know what happened? 

Fighting back tears, you reach down for your phone, shakily typing out a message only to erase it. Then again. And again. 

And again. 

Giving up, you forcefully swallow all your worries, cringing at the bitterness of the unknown and the burnt molasses of hidden truths. 

It’s going to be okay. No matter what you think or imagine in your head, they made it out, they made it out, they are all alive. 

That’s the only reason you can move forward, each step getting you from your room. To your bathroom. 

And back again. 

—

—

After showering, you feel lighter and refreshed, though the soreness between your legs has yet to leave. 

But you wouldn’t want it any other way, as it’s another reminder of Yoongi’s apparent brush with survival. His broken living room spurned the creation of your bond, your devotion to him as he confessed before you gave him your utmost trust in his sheets. 

The end is so close. As soon as this week is over, you’ll rip the last bit of peel from your pair of tangerines, baring all truths to your brother and facing the consequences. 

Finally ready, you head to your car, opening your text threads with a plan: start slow. 

Start with something that can be interpreted neutrally if anyone saw it on his phone screen, especially if your headstrong ex is in the room. 

You [12:31pm]: how are you feeling?

Yoongi [12:34pm]: 1 Attachment 

You close your door with brows furrowed. 

Yoongi’s at the hospital? 

That’s not what you expected at all. 

Your chest swells with relief knowing he’s there, but you also wanna make sure he’s feeling okay. Especially his mental state after whatever the fuck your brother just dropped on you before leaving. 

Goddamn, that’s going to gnaw at your brain until you find the right time and right amount of courage to ask about it. Because it’s very possible Yoongi won’t tell you. 

Because it’s probably something he knows you won’t like. 

Fuck. 

You [12:34pm]: Loved an Attachment

You [12:34pm]: thank you for listening🤍 still sore?

Yoongi [12:35pm]: Yeah, but not bad. Just there.

Wait. He’s not at the studio. That means you can—

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you slowly say as you pull out into the street. “I’m driving now so this is easier.”

“Course. You going to Tae’s?”

“Maybe. I’m going to Yuri’s first.” You swallow, realizing that you didn’t tell him about what you let slip before driving over. “I.. Told her. About you.”

There’s a little bit of silence on the line, just some adjustments and muffled speaker sounds. “Sorry, just writing this down. What’s wrong with that?”

You huff through your nose. Gotta be those patient forms that always take forever to fill out. “Oh. Just more and more people knowing, is all.” 

“Everyone’s gonna know eventually.” 

You hold back a small smile. Because he’s right. “Yeah. I’m just tired of this feeling.”

“Like you’re hiding something.”

It’s your turn for silence. He doesn’t know how accurately that was played out today. The only answer you can provide is a curt, “Exactly.”

“Same.”

Wings beat around your heart again. 

He wants this. Yoongi really, really wants this. And years ago, that outcome wouldn’t have even crossed your mind as an option. 

“Thank you for going, baby.”

“The guys made me.”

You hum. “Which ones.”

After a pause, you hear a puff of amusement. “All of them at some point today, actually.” 

All of them? Does that include your brother? Did they talk about the trip already?

Your laugh is bittersweet. “Well. Glad to know you can be forced by everyone else except me.”

“Hey, I was already gonna go because of you!” Yoongi quietly retorts, and you giggle at the pout in his words. “Just wanted to get a headstart on work first.”

You were right. He really does wanna go all out for his musical endeavors. 

It’s extremely admirable, and wildly attractive, but it does come to a point. “As much as I love your passion, old man, I wanna keep you upright.”

He laughs soft into the line, and you think you can listen to that specific sound on an infinite loop. “That’s fair.” 

“How long is it gonna take, you think?”

“Dunno. But I’ll keep myself busy until I’m out.”

Of course he will. You don’t doubt he won’t waste any time. Didn’t he bring journals in his backpack? You wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote ten thousand songs before being called in. “Just call me if you need anything, please?”

“Of course, babe.”

“Thank you,” you say with utmost sincerity. “If only my brother would be less stubborn and get checked, too.”

“He’ll probably do it once he gets there.”

“Did you convince him?”

“Nah. But once he knows I did, he’ll do it.”

“Figures.” You scoff. “Okay, I’m almost there. Let me know how it goes.”

“K. Bye, doll.”

You didn’t ask him what went down. But it’s not the time nor place, and you have plenty of chances this week to figure out when that would be—if at all. 

“Talk soon.” 

—

—

For a normally bustling household, Yuri’s house is quiet. 

So it’s not shocking when you walk into the kitchen and see all your friends glance your way, slowly vacating their chairs with eyes never leaving your face. Even Reia is on high alert. 

Did Yuri tell her? Did Yuri tell anyone else? 

No. She’s a talker and loves spilling, but she promised. And when she promises something, you know you can trust her to keep it. 

It’s what pours emotion in your voice as you meekly greet, “Hey, guys—”

A crushing hug closes your throat. Yuri’s the one that gets to you first, with Reia and Dominique waiting their turns to offer you healing, relieved embraces. 

“What happened?” 

“Scared us half to death.”

Dom puts you at arm’s length to give a once over, noting your face rubbed raw and eyes still a little bloodshot. Thankfully, her pupils hold more concern than disappointment. “You good?”

Your eyes wobble alongside your smile, and you think it’s enough proof. “More than that,” you still decide to whisper, and your heart beats again at her reaction. 

“Thank god. I was ready to kick your ass if you weren’t.”

Heading up to Yuri’s room, you all wait until the door is swung back before mounting her canopy bed, sitting in a tight circle as you divulge everything. 

Well. Almost everything. 

You tell them that Yoongi is the one you’ve been seeing, how you went to check on him last night in a panic, and the terrifying reason why. When you mention the fight after the basketball game, all three of your friends erupt in questions, and you have to assure them everything turned out okay. Honestly, you also do this to assure yourself, too. 

“So… Your brother’s just fine with all of this?” Reia asks, not noticing the tick of Dom’s jaw. 

“Well,” you start with a higher pitch, earning a pair of groans. “He doesn’t exactly know yet—”

“Yup. He’s gonna murder him.”

“Yeah, should we say our condolences now or..”

“How long has this been going on?” Reia fires off another question that digs into your chest. “Was he the one you were seeing the whole time?”

“Yes,” you admit with a sigh. “I should’ve told you guys from the beginning, but. The whole thing just felt so delicate. But! We just started making things official recently, so..” 

Dom turns your way. “Official how?”

Well. Here goes everything. 

With a shaky breath, and lingering feelings from the time it happened, you reveal with watery eyes, “Yoongi… Told me he loves me.”

Both Yuri and Reia react in yelps, Dom’s gaze lowering as the girls reach to grab your hands. 

Wait. What’s going on with her? She’s the one that knows the most, she’s the one that covered for you all those months ago. She has to be the one that is the least surprised at all this. 

Blinking, you note to confront her about it later. Right now, you’re too focused on trying not to cry as your friends tumble out questions and support, 

“He said it? Did you say it first or did he?” 

“How did it happen! Oh, I’m so happy for you, babe—” 

“Thank—thank you, Yuri,” you squeeze out as she hugs you close. “I couldn’t believe it, but he just.. Said it. We weren’t even doing anything, I was just.. Looking up what injuries he could have..” 

And he confessed in the most Yoongi fashion he could have. 

Looking back, it shouldn’t shock you at all. He’s always found ways to sweep you off your proverbial feet, so why would a confession plucked from the heavens be any different? 

She lets you go before wiping her eyes, Reia and even Dom now sporting watery pupils, too. 

“As much as I’m upset at you for not telling us, I’ve never been so happy for you.” When Yuri’s features crease in another sob, you sniffle along with the rest. “It’s been so long since you… And you really.. Fuck.” 

You know what she’s trying to say, and the realization has your throat constricting so tight. 

It’s been forever since you’ve had something like this, someone like this. When you and Jungkook were together, you told him that you loved him before he broke it off. 

Sure, you bought the rings together, but he never uttered those words until years after when it didn’t even matter. And all your relationships after his were complete and utter bullshit, so you don’t think you ever even heard those three words and knew them to be true. 

Yoongi was the first to ever say them so sincerely. 

And that fact makes your ducts burn and burn. 

And when Yuri finally speaks, it breaks the dam holding your real deluge back, 

“I can’t think of anyone else that deserves to be loved more than you.” 

All at once, everything streams out as you hunch forward. The pain of everything you’ve endured, the hopelessness of knowing you’d most likely end up alone, the excruciating prospect of a future that you never deemed bright, or peaceful, or comforting. 

And to think that even this man could’ve been snatched away from you in a snap? Even more tears overlap with the ones you’re shedding, and you can’t even reach out to hug all three beautiful, angelic souls surrounding you with tight arms and sobs because your limbs lock at all bends. 

It’s the exact release you need. All your friends supporting you, all the pent up anxiety of last night and today, the truth setting itself free in some capacity—all in the comfort of a plushie-laden bed you only doubted yourself in last time. 

Everything’s gonna be alright. It has to be. You’re gonna fight for the ones you love, even if a war between them is inevitable. 

It takes a few minutes of heavy silence for you all to separate, swiping and rubbing tears while letting out happy sniffles. 

When you thank them for being understanding, they assure you it’s okay. And when you say you’re going to tell your brother soon, a force from the doorway has all of you leaping from lilac sheets, 

“Tell him what?” 

Jia stands firm with a laundry basket at her hip, and Yuri scoffs at her older sister for barging in. “A knock would’ve been nice!” 

Fuck! 

You can’t tell Jia of all people. If you spill anything about Yoongi, she’s one hundred percent going to tell your brother. They’re the same age, and run in pretty tight circles, so of course you are not going to risk it. 

But you can tell her something else you’re going to tell your older sibling, so you fire out a half-truth, 

“Tell him not to pick any other fights that could get him killed.” 

Jia’s eyes zoom to your wrecked face, and she drops the laundry with haste before asking, “What happened? When? Tell me now.” 

Huh. Maybe your brother has a type, if he’s still into Jia like he said before. 

You feel a little spark in your chest as you let her know they all got in a scuffle after the basketball game, and another pang as she immediately abandons the room and clothes with a fierce declaration, 

“I’m gonna kill them myself!” 

“Don’t worry, I already hounded my brother!” You call out after her, sighing as Yuri shakes her head with a smile. “She gets like that when she’s really worried, huh.” 

“Yeah..” Your friend leans to look around you, noticing the basket left alone on the ground. “And if she’s super fired up, she drops everything and doesn’t stop until it’s handled. Clearly.” 

Maybe both older siblings really are similar. 

The firestorm of an interruption seemed to break the tension in the room, with all of you finally relaxing and catching up. When they ask you questions, you answer what you can. 

And when you divulge information that has your ears burning, their squeals and yells give you whole new reasons to live. 

—

—

After a very comforting lunch Yuri’s mom cooked, you head to the bathroom when your phone suddenly vibrates through your palm.

Huh? That’s weird. You expect the name on your screen to be Taehyung, not Yoongi. 

Not that it’s a bad thing. You’ve been waiting to hear from him, so this is a pleasant surprise. 

Closing the door to the guest bathroom, you gaze at the calming sage decor with a smile. “Hi, how did it—”

“You’re coming over later, right?”

Oh, shit. Is he okay?

“Yes, baby,” you respond with a soothing lilt, ears perked and body on high alert. 

Does he think you aren’t anymore? You both decided on the plans earlier. Surely he knows you’d never just flake on him. “I’m coming back once you’re done with work, remember?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause on the line, which makes your boyfriend’s next question jab you so far in the lungs you can’t breathe,

“…Can it be now?”

Shit. 

Just like Jia earlier, you drop every plan you have to the wayside. You’re sure that Taehyung will understand, and you already got through the biggest conversation you needed to with your friends. 

“Of course,” you whoosh out. “Lemme just say bye and I’ll go.” 

“Take your time.” A small shuffling interrupts. “It’ll take me a bit to get back.” 

“Okay. See you there.” 

The strained urgency in his voice makes your hair stand on end, so you vacate the bathroom to inform the girls that you gotta go—but not without a quick head tilt towards Dom, who follows you outside and into the afternoon sun.  

—

—

You wait until you’re next to your car on the street, turning with a concerned expression and jittery nerves, “What’s up with you? Did I do something wrong?”

Turns out, you read Dominique correctly. Her jaw locks before loosening, and it reminds you of the time she confronted you about Yoongi before. God, how much has changed since then. That feels like ages and ages ago. 

“It’s not about you,” your best friend clears the air and the tightness in your shoulders. “I’m just.. Glad he came around.”

“Yoongi?” When Dom nods, you blink. “Wait, what?”

“At your house that night.. After he left your room, we had—I dunno, a heart-to-heart.” She sighs, flicking braids over her shoulder. You note to compliment the beads she chose this time, because they remind you of summer and simpler times. “I might’ve pressured him a bit, and.. I think he wanted to tell me that he loved you. All the way back then.” 

Something in your heart stutters, and you can only repeat your last question, “What?”

“Yeah. Something about needing to do something first,” she continues, holding your gaze with perfect brows furrowed in sunlight. “But I could tell he was damn serious about whatever it was. And if he was willing to do it for you? I let it go.” 

Your mind whirls. 

Yoongi was already in love with you back then? Is that why he needed to let you go? To deal with whatever he had to do? 

One side of you breaks thinking he had to go through all that alone; the other side is screaming at his past self for not even giving you a choice. What did he go through? What did he have to do?

Now you really have to see him. Immediately. 

“Thank you, Dom,” you rush out while opening your door. “I’m just happy it’s over.”

“The hell it’s not.” Shooting you a glare that heats the oncoming breeze, she reminds, “It’s not over until your brother knows. And based on everything that’s happened? That conversation is not gonna go over well.” 

A dark, simmering boil starts in your stomach, and you’re already feeling queasy again. Tightening your door handle, you gulp hard. “I know.” 

“Trust me, I’m happy for you both. I am.” Both hands find her hips as she levels a gaze that you really, really don’t enjoy. “But I’m gonna be honest, I think this is gonna ruin their friendship for good.” 

Both of your lungs clamp shut. 

“Please don’t say that,” you beg, “I’m gonna fight for all of us. I will.” 

“I don’t doubt that, babe. Hey, uh uh, come here.” Reaching out, she gives you a tight hug just when you feel fragile again. 

“Listen to me. I don’t doubt that,” she says into your shoulder. “I’m just here to be realistic. Just don’t be shocked if that’s how it goes. We’ll be here for you no matter what, too.” 

“Okay,” you say with a scrunched face into her scent. God, she always smells so good, and it’s almost enough to calm you down. Almost almost almost. “Thank you. But I’m not giving up.” 

“That’s my girl.” She squeezes you one more time. “I love you.” 

With eyes searing over, you choke and grip her tighter. “I love you, too.” 

—

—

Yoongi’s door warms your back as you wait for him to show. 

But there’s a good chance it can just be your volcanic anxiety. 

Ever since your arrival, you’ve paced, you’ve gnawed on your lips, you’ve had to shake the nerves out of your hands. 

And over and over, you’ve strained your neck to look for your favorite cat, because you could sincerely use even a glimpse of her right now. 

While she doesn’t end up showing, Yoongi rounds the nearest corner minutes after your last desperate scan. 

Fuck, he’s so handsome. 

Even now, as he simply walks toward you with a backpack slung over his shoulder, you watch with undying yearning to feel those flowing bangs over his forehead. You’d even settle for a single touch of his cheeks, one of them currently sporting a thin bandage.

But the closer Yoongi gets, the quicker your admiration morphs into concern. There’s a deep bend in his brows that you can’t decipher, and his fist is balled pretty tight. 

Seriously, what happened? He looks so troubled that you slowly push off the doorway to ask, 

“Baby, what’s—”

A bag hits the ground before you’re swooped into a kiss so electric your lips spark. 

Him. Him, him, and more him. For the love of everything you don’t understand what’s happening but you kiss Yoongi back with everything you have, arms slinging around his strong shoulders and tugging him closer because he clearly needed this. 

And fuck if you didn’t need it just as much. Screw it if anyone sees you. This is all you want and you’ll stay right here until he pulls away. 

When he finally does, both of you swallow to catch your breaths, and your soul glimmers when his forehead meets yours. 

“Hi, baby,” you whisper to his exhales. “Missed you, too.”

Silent, your lover kisses your forehead before hugging you close, and you’re more sure of your prediction than ever. Something is bothering him. 

He doesn’t look worse, at least. But there’s clearly something off and he’s not hiding it. His lack of words is loud enough. 

“Let’s go inside,” you quietly suggest. “I would’ve gone in already but I don’t have a key.”

He nods, fishing out his keyring to let you both inside. 

When you set your bags down and slip off your shoes, it’s only seconds before you’re softly pulled into a hug again, surprising yet so, so welcoming. 

Even only after a few hours, you’ve missed the fuck out of him. Which makes all of this an outright dream. 

“Sorry,” Yoongi finally murmurs against your shoulder. “I just…”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You stroke a hand along his hair, massaging his scalp and loving how soft it feels. The windswept strands fall back into place as you keep running your fingers through. “Did you at least get your appointment?”

“Yeah, I did.” He buries his face further. “Nothing bad. Just can’t lift anything heavy for a couple days.”

“Good. That’s easy to manage,” you whisper back into his tee, feeling the chill of lingering air conditioning and body warmth all at once. “Is something else bothering you?”

“Not exactly.” Whatever that means. “I’ll tell you about it later. Just wanted this, and you.”

Oh. That’s… 

“I’m here now, love,” you assure with a melting heart, wondering what happened to cause this behavior. 

Is it because of last night? Or something that happened today? You’re anxious all over again, but from the way Yoongi’s acting, your worries are second to his. “Have you eaten yet?”

He shakes his head, only pulling you closer with not a word from his lips. 

And from this point on, you make a silent vow to yourself. Whatever Yoongi needs, you’re going to take care of him. 

No matter what, these next few days are all about him—a minuscule sacrifice in comparison to everything he’s done for you, whether you knew about it or not.

“I’ll make you something then. Come on.” 

When you walk, you slip your hand down his arm to hold his hand, and your lead into his kitchen is short. 

“Any requests?” You cheerfully ask as you spare a smile over your shoulder. “We can do… Something light…”

Only to see him staring back with nothing but a lingering sense of longing.

Okay. 

You need to get to the bottom of this now. 

Stopping right over linoleum, you leave no room for arguments, “Yoongi. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He blinks before his gaze meets the floor. So you’re confused when he simply, quietly.. 

Laughs? 

“It’s not that something’s wrong,” he slowly starts, a shy smile carving his features. “For the first time in my life, nothing’s wrong.” 

Your heart beats extra loud. 

“But it’s too much to explain right now.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Just know that I’m so in love with you.” 

Oh.

“And I want you to know that every day I live.”

Fuck.

Your body responds before you can say anything, lips connecting to remove any need for speech. The knowledge of them all staring death in the face last night makes this confession sear your insides, and you can’t help but kiss him like you’ll never get to again. 

Yanking him back, you spin on your heel until he flings into the kitchen, clutching your wrists before gripping your jaw with both hands. 

His mouth heats on yours, his glasses the only barrier between your skin. Everything sizzles from your head to your toes, and you both bang into a countertop before—

“Fuck, ouch.”

“Shit, you okay?”

Yoongi rubs his side with one eye pinched shut, a corner of his teeth present. “Yeah. Worth it, though.”

“Be serious,” you reprimand. Looks like he’s gonna have to take it easy, which means no going at it like animals until he’s on the mend. “No more until you feel better, yeah?”

“Says who?”

“Babe.”

His deadly pout almost breaks your resolve. “Fine.” 

But you can wait. You’re sure it won’t take long, and for this man? You’ll wait however long you need to. 

Besides, there’s plenty of things you can do in the meantime that don’t require running into hard objects. 

“Good. Now let’s…” You turn away to get started before you’re held, and pulled back into yet another embrace. 

What the hell is happening today? Your lungs and your melting pile of a brain can only take so much. It’s beautifully overwhelming how Yoongi can’t seem to let you go, because you’re the one that always loses control. 

This whole time, it’s been you that can’t hold yourself back. 

So now? Being on the other side? You don’t think you ever want him to restrain himself again. 

This time, he moves slow. Sensuously slow, and it would occur to you that he’s finding a very cheeky loophole to your plan if you weren’t so hazy-eyed. 

Whatever Yoongi’s doing, you won’t stop him. 

Your back touches a counter before Yoongi cages you in, and your lips mold together as perfectly as his body does with yours. Your unhurried strokes match his, and your minds communicate without a single word. 

There’s yearning still ever present. But there’s comfort in abundance, and a whole new level of need. 

After he pulls away, you can visibly see him drink you in from head to toe. 

“You know.. I’m good holding off on all the other shit.” Pulling you in, his lips curve as he confidently declares, “But I’m never gonna stop kissing you.” 

His hands, his lips, his words. They all have healing powers, you’re so sure of it. If Yoongi hasn’t yet realized his unending pain has blossomed into a safe haven, you need to let him know no matter what, 

“Good.”

There’s still a pining in his eyes, but he lets you free, hand skirting your hip before he walks to his room. “Gonna change then I’ll help.” 

“You don’t have to, baby,” you say as you struggle to catch your breath. “I got it.” 

Three minutes later, he’s chopping an onion anyway. 

But you’re loving how serene everything feels with the two of you prepping and dicing, thumps of knives on wood intertwining in sound before you laugh at his crying over the pesky vegetable. Maybe if he wore contacts instead of specs, he’d be better off. 

Not that his choice of eyewear is what you’re complaining about. But those glasses paired with the cream tees he’s been wearing? There will be hell to pay as soon as you get a chance at revenge. 

Your pot is set to boil for a bit, so you finally rest against the counter and start a timer on his microwave. “Go ahead,” you gesture to your very handsome cooking partner. “You can sit now.”

“Huh? We’re not done yet.”

“Oh.” Blinking, you tilt your head in confusion because you could’ve sworn you heard him yawn a couple times. “You aren’t tired?”

“I am,” he says before squeezing his eyes, rapid blinks to follow. “But I’m fine here.”

You toss and turn the food around, sprinkling a little more seasoning and hearing the bubbles and fizzes. When you stir a little more, a sudden thought occurs, halting your movements and spinning you around, 

“Are you staying there to watch my ass.”

Yoongi’s slow smile gives everything away, but he also makes up for the blatant staring. 

“Can’t deny that’s one of the things.” Pushing off the sink, he stands right next to you, slotting a hand behind your neck and angling you for a kiss. “But I meant it earlier. I just…”

You’re completely silent as you watch him slide his eyes from your face to the sizzling food. Whatever he’s thinking about, you’re gonna give him all the room to talk. 

“Just like being where you are.” 

How you went from almost running out of his door to here, you aren’t quite sure. But you’re grateful for that split second of him deciding to fight for the two of you instead of against, because you really were going to leave. 

And you may have taken much, much longer to even try going back. 

Your voice is barely heard over the aromatic smell and fizzle, “Good thing I like having you around.” When he smiles again, you let out a breath of a giggle, going back to shuffling the pan around and tilting your head to the fridge. “I put some fruit in there if you wanna eat that, too.”

“I’m down.”

“K.”

Your food is ready soon enough, and the two of you eat while talking about easy topics. Like work and your workplace dynamics, what Yoongi’s team has been working on at the studio. 

At one point, your curiosity about the album release party grows from something he says. “Speaking of. The party’s on Friday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I thought so,” you deflate, setting your bowl down on the table. “Sorry he can’t go.”

“Huh?”

Your body stills. “Wait. Did he not say anything? About his trip being extended?”

So much for nothing in his life being wrong. From the lost look on his face, you may have given him another reason to fold back in on himself. “No.. No, he didn’t.”

Both of you sit in silence. 

This could be nothing. Right? That means your brother is confident he can make it so there’s no point in telling Yoongi he’s gonna miss it. Or maybe he’s not trying hard enough and then not being able to say it to his face? 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I thought he told you.”

“It’s okay.” Clearly it’s not. “Not much to do about it now.”

“Yoongi… What if he knows?” At your own question, you stiffen, curling into a proverbial ball. Fear and the sick backfire of fibbing has your mouth going drier than desert air. “What if he actually knows?”

Setting down his chopsticks, Yoongi looks your way, eyes unreadable behind his specs. “If he did, do you think he’d leave us alone?”

He’s got a point. “Guess not.” 

“Mm.” Flicking his eyes to the window, he adjusts uncomfortably in his chair. “And I dunno if I mentioned this, but.. He thinks I got back with my ex.”

“Fuck, really?” 

“That’s the real reason why he hasn’t been talking to me. Maybe he thinks she’s gonna be there on Friday.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders sag, and sag. Not owning up to your relationship is one thing; Yoongi having to dwell in his previous relationship is another. “Is that… worse?”

“Kinda.” Yoongi’s eyes fall. “Much worse.”

“Shit.” Reaching across wood, you close your hand around his fingers for support. It’s the only thing you can think to do. At least, it’s what you would want if you were in his shoes. “I think you should tell him she won’t be.”

A million seconds later, Yoongi thankfully agrees. “Yeah, I will.”

You feel better. Somewhat. At least a little less nauseous about the possibility of your brother knowing. 

But it still sucks knowing that he’s actively avoiding Yoongi because of an ex he used to have. 

How bad was it back then if this is the case? What exactly happened? Is this why Yoongi went radio silent on you for weeks?

It seems like he doesn’t even wanna talk about her. So you won’t pry just yet, as much as you wanna know every single thing she’s done wrong so you can hound her through every timeline in existence. 

Instead, you talk about a much better subject, 

“We should feed my cat now.”

And you quickly laugh at the saucy glint in Yoongi’s eyes. 

—

—

Everything is set where it needs to be. Sugar’s food and water fill their respective bowls, your shoulder leans into Yoongi’s good side, and his arm rests around your back as he’s propped up by his banged up doorway. 

You remember the first time you saw him lean against the wood like this. Only that time, you were a shell of a girl, waiting with shaky breaths and shaken confidence to hear his response to your inappropriate request. 

Who would’ve thought that you’d be on the same side as him all these months later? In his arms, resting a head on his warm chest? 

When you let out a short chuckle, Yoongi turns to your smile. “Hmm?” 

“Nothing,” you wisp out. “Just thinking about us.” 

His fingers press into your side a fraction more, and you can feel him lift his head again. “Me, too.” 

Umm. 

You can say things like that. He isn’t allowed! 

You’re about to set some one-sided rules before your gift pops out of the bushes a few feet away. 

“My baby!” you quietly call, leaving Yoongi’s side to crouch down. “Come here, love. You hungry?”

She cautiously makes her way over, sniffing your hand when you leave it outstretched. After careful consideration, the little one nudges your palm, letting you glide fingers down her back as she approaches her bowls. 

“You’re so tiny,” you observe with slight pity. “We’ll get you well fed in no time—”

“Hey, Sugar! Oh, is this her? She’s gorgeous, no wonder!”

Huh? Sugar? 

Who else knows the cat’s name already?

Your neck almost strains when you look up to see who’s talking. When you notice an older lady donning a really comfy, fluffy robe, you feel like it looks super familiar before you stand. 

“Hi,” you greet before introducing yourself, extending your hand and shaking the woman’s soft, delicate fingers. “Sorry if we were too loud.”

“Call me Miss Dion. And you weren’t too loud this time, sweetie,” she says with a wink, glancing down at the kitty eating what you laid out. “Was just comin’ out to water my plants so it’s good to see you’re here, too. Looks like he finally got some sense back in that head of his.”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know!”

Back? How long has she known about you? Do her and Yoongi actually converse regularly? Their banter is… Really adorable. 

It’s making you fall even more in love with the man biting his cheek in amusement. 

Wait. 

Is Yoongi Sugar? 

That is so fucking cute you could cry. 

“I’m back to take care of this guy,” you explain with a head tilt. “And the little one, of course.” 

It’s when you say this that Miss Dion notices the bandages on Yoongi’s face, concern pushing down her brows. “What happened to you, young man?”

“Nothing to worry about.” 

“You sure? I got some ointment in my kitchen somewhere—”

“It’s all good—”

“We’ll take it,” you cut him off, not looking but feeling his stare on your face. “How much do we owe you?” 

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” With a snuff at Yoongi and a smile your way, Miss Dion heads inside to fetch a bottle.

In the meantime, you give your lover a quiet stare before bending down to run your hands over soft fur. 

“Papa Sugar is gonna need that so he can’t argue,” you coo to your cat, cheekily ignoring Yoongi’s sputtering puff of air above your head.

“Papa Sugar? Really?”

You glance up to his smile with a mischievous one of your own. “What, you wanna be Sugar Daddy instead?”

The swirl in your belly is instant. Because Yoongi can only look out into the distance, biting his lip and failing to hide his grin.

Sigh. If only he didn’t have those injuries across his face. You’d push him back into the door and slam it shut if it was any other day. 

Patience, patience, patience. 

Those hits aren’t gonna heal with just one round of gauze. 

When you have to replace the cotton patches, at least you’ll have something to help. 

—

—

It’s not until you’re about to tuck in for the night that Yoongi approaches your side of the bed. Judging by the headphones slung around his neck, he’s about to work, so you assume he’s just coming to give you a kiss goodnight. 

But after he does exactly that, he asks you a question that warms your chest, 

“Where’s your keys.” 

“In there,” you motion to the nearest wall, bag propped right under his windowsill. “Inside pocket, I think.” 

Yoongi bends with a prolonged grunt, slowly rummaging until he finds your jangling keyring with its charms. When he grabs it, he silently sits on the edge up against your stomach, body heat permeating your tee while he fiddles with the clasps. 

God, you’re so in trouble. You know exactly what he’s doing. 

Unlike the last time he offered you complete access to his place, this time he didn’t even hesitate. And the way he secures a key amongst the loop, it’s his silent way of cementing permanence. 

That’s not another key for you to borrow.

Because that key is yours.

—

—

continued in angel, pt. 2

pitstop inbox before pt2!! | join the server!

a/n: holy crap we're doing it we are actually back in the main storyline?! how do we feel right now because i am over the damn moon diving into this story again. here's a slight pitstop before you make your way over to part two (THE CONTINUATION IS IN A REBLOG!) so take a breather before heading into the resttttttt ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it yet, so we'll keep it goin!

The airport bar hummed like a hive on overdrive—laughter too loud, glasses clinking, the static of commentary spilling from every screen. Formula One highlights looped on repeat, the roar of engines bleeding into the chatter of strangers. You sat in the middle of it all with a sweating glass in hand, mango and passionfruit sugar coating your tongue, but nothing could cut through the knots in your stomach.

This wasn’t just another flight. This was the beginning of a career—and a collision course.

And then you hear it.

“Breaking: Jungkook Jeon signed with Red Bull Racing for the 2025 season.”

The anchor’s voice cuts through the chatter, commanding attention. Every head in the bar swivels toward the TV. Some gasp audibly, others laugh in disbelief. Phones come out, fingers flying, a wave of shocked murmurs rolling through the room like a sudden storm.

“Well folks, the speculation is over—Jungkook Jeon, a NASCAR champion from South Korea, is the new second driver for Red Bull Racing.”

The screen cuts to footage: Jungkook stepping out of a glossy black car, cameras flashing, his smile too effortless, too photogenic for someone stepping into the most cutthroat paddock in the world.

You grip your glass tighter, nausea climbing your throat.

This was supposed to be your moment. The opportunity of a lifetime. You’d worked endless nights, solved equations until your hands cramped, fought tooth and nail to make it here. Top of your class, fast-tracked through the junior programs, one of the few women to ever be trusted in this role. And now, finally—an official race engineer at a top Formula One team.

Your dream job.

You should be ecstatic.

But then the anchor twists the knife.

“And if that weren’t controversial enough, sources confirm that Red Bull has assigned him a female race engineer—an unusual move in such a male-dominated sport. It’ll be interesting to see if she can handle the pressure of managing the most scrutinized rookie of the decade.”

Half a prayer leaves your lips, half a curse. The reporter doesn’t even bother to say your name.

Your entire career is reduced to a novelty. A woman.

The crowd at the bar erupts again. A man in a Ferrari cap whistles low. Someone mutters, “This whole season’s going to be a circus.” Laughter follows.

You drain the rest of your cocktail in one long swallow, letting the rum’s burn cut through the sweetness.

Dream job. Worst possible start.

You toss some cash on the counter and grab your bag, weaving toward your gate. The announcement still rings in your ears—Jungkook Jeon, Red Bull Racing, season 2025.

But you already knew.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Red Bull HQ, Last Week.

The air in the conference room had been thick with disbelief. The new Team Principal, Daniel Fischer—slick, smooth-talking—stood at the front with that practiced corporate smile.

“HYBE Motors will be our official engine partner moving forward. With their technology, we have a real chance of returning to the glory days of Red Bull dominance. Alongside Max Verstappen, we’ll be welcoming a second driver for 2025: Jungkook Jeon.”

The silence was suffocating. Max leaned back in his chair, jaw set, saying nothing, but his glare at the table said plenty.

Murmurs spread like wildfire.

“Fischer’s lost it,” one of the veteran engineers muttered, shaking his head. “Good luck with the rookie.”

“Second seat curse all over again,” another mechanic sighed. “Checo never deserved to go out like that.”

Fischer had pulled you aside afterward, his tone softening just slightly.

“You’ve got a lot to prove. But if anyone can, it’s you. Driver and race engineer is the most important relationship in the team. Jungkook trusts you, he succeeds. If he doesn’t—well, you know how this goes.”

You’d nodded, the weight heavy on your shoulders.

“Trust yourself. You’ve built a reputation as a prodigy. Live up to it.”

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

“Now boarding group three,” the gate agent called, and you flashed your first-class ticket. A small luxury you weren’t used to—your first real taste of what came with being on the biggest stage in motorsport.

Settling into the wide leather seat, you opened your phone. The headline blared across every outlet.

“From NASCAR to F1: Jungkook Jeon Brings His Playboy Lifestyle to the Paddock.” “Step-Brother of Billionaire Kim Seokjin, HYBE Engines, and Privilege: The Red Bull Gamble.” “Jungkook Jeon—Prodigy or PR Stunt?”

You scrolled further, a video clipping auto-playing. Jungkook, all sharp jawline and confident smirk, sitting at a press table.

“It won’t be that difficult,” he said casually. “I’ve always adapted quickly. Becoming F1 World Champion is just the next step.”

You paused the clip, shaking your head. That kind of cocky confidence would rub plenty of people the wrong way—starting with the man who already hated this decision: Max Verstappen driver number 1 in Red Bull and three time world champion.

You locked your phone before the spiral began again and leaned back, staring out at the tarmac.

Once, your dream had been to drive. To be the one behind the wheel, helmet strapped tight, engine roaring beneath you. But you’d been awful—no reaction time, no natural rhythm. Your father had nearly cried with relief when you gave up. So you’d pivoted to the next best thing: building the machines, calling the shots, being the mind that made the cars fly.

Now here you were. A rookie, about to work with another rookie. Both of you stepping into a world that didn’t want you there.

Both of you with everything to prove.

And tomorrow, whether you liked it or not, your fates would be tied together.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Preseason, Red Bull HQ Garage

The garage was alive in that particular way only the start of a new season could be. Half-organized chaos: mechanics wheeling tires across the floor, engineers shouting over each other about calibration numbers, the faint screech of a drill in the background. Someone had taped a schedule to the wall, already covered in frantic notes and smudged fingerprints.

The air smelled like oil, rubber, and possibility.

You paused at the edge of it all, your badge swinging against your chest, the lanyard suddenly feeling heavier than it should. This wasn’t your first garage. You’d cut your teeth in Formula 2, survived endless late nights in junior categories, even sat in on strategy calls for smaller teams—but this… this was Red Bull.

This was the pinnacle.

And this year, your fate was sealed to the rookie no one wanted.

You slipped into the corner of the engineers’ space—the small area you’d share with your driver, full of screens, data sheets, telemetry graphs waiting to light up with his laps. You ran your fingers across the keyboard, forcing yourself into the ritual of setting things up: aligning notebooks, plugging in your headset, checking your comms.

The more control you had over your space, the less it felt like you were walking into an ambush.

Around you, the whispers had already started. F1 teams loved to pretend they were polished and professional, but the truth? They thrived on gossip just as much as the fans outside.

“Another second seat curse. You’d think they’d learn after Gasly. After Albon. After Checo. After Yuki.” “HYBE buys the engines, suddenly their boy’s behind the wheel. Nepotism at its finest.” “Did anyone even see him drive? I heard the tryout was locked down tighter than Fort Knox.” “Yeah, only Daniel, Max, Mr. Kim, and a couple of the senior engineers. Not even the rest of us.”

Your jaw clenched.

They weren’t wrong. Jungkook’s test had been completely private, no leaks, no scraps of footage. For all anyone knew, he could’ve spun into the gravel three times and they’d still have signed him. Today would be the first time you—and everyone else—actually saw him in the car.

You exhaled sharply, catching sight of another headache: the Drive to Survive crew already lurking near the pit wall, cameras perched on shoulders, boom mics dangling overhead. Beside them, a small pack of sports journalists hunched over laptops, ready to pounce.

Fucking Great.

You’d have to corral your driver before Netflix or the press swallowed him whole. Another line item in your unofficial job description: race engineer, strategist, data analyst… and babysitter.

“Ready to meet your rookie?” a mechanic teased as he passed, lugging a box of tools. You forced a thin smile. “As ready as anyone can be.”

Your stomach twisted, a cocktail of nerves and exasperation. This was supposed to be about the car, about the racing. Instead, it was drama before the season had even begun.

The noise outside the garage swelled—engine revs echoing through the paddock, voices rising in a chorus of anticipation. And then, like someone had flipped a switch, a ripple of chatter swept the space. Heads turned toward the entrance.

He’d arrived.

A black sports car glided to a stop, cameras immediately swarming. The door opened, and out stepped Jungkook Jeon.

Sunglasses, black bomber jacket, hair falling effortlessly into place. He moved like he was born for the spotlight, shoulders loose, smile tugging at his mouth like he’d already won something. He slung his bag over his shoulder, unfazed by the cameras, soaking in the attention like it was oxygen.

The murmurs sharpened. “Looks like a K-drama star, not a driver.” “Bet Netflix is eating this up.” “He’s a pretty face, but can he handle 300 kph?”

You folded your arms, biting down your first instinct to roll your eyes.

Perfect. A playboy nepobaby just dropped in my lap.

He spotted you almost instantly, his smirk sharpening. He strolled over, sunglasses still on, head tilted in that infuriatingly casual way. “You must be my engineer,” he said, voice low, smooth. “Didn’t think they’d actually give me someone my age.”

Your eyebrows shot up “Don’t flatter yourself. I was assigned, not given.”

He chuckled under his breath, finally tugging the glasses off to reveal dark, sharp eyes. “So we’re starting strong. Good. I like that.”

The tension sparked, quick and electric. He leaned in just slightly, enough to unsettle without touching. “Hope you’re as good as they say, Y/N. Otherwise, this is going to be fun for both of us.”

You opened your mouth, already loading your retort, when voices carried from the other side of the garage. Two engineers, not bothering to lower their tone.

“You know he’s Mr. Kim’s step-brother, right? HYBE’s golden boy. Nepotism stamped across his forehead.” “Yeah. He’s just another Stroll—daddy buying him a seat. His own engineer called him a spoiled nepo baby." the other laughed "I mean, I do feel bad for her. Nobody in the paddock wanted to babysit the rookie.”

Your stomach plummeted. That wasn’t what you meant—you’d said it once in passing, in frustration, but not like this, not for the world to hear.

Jungkook’s smile was gone. His jaw tightened, posture stiff, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He’d heard every word.

“I didn’t—” you tried, guilt flooding your voice.

“Don’t.” His reply was curt, clipped, his eyes fixed anywhere but you. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked straight past, straight into the glare of the cameras.

The air between you went cold.

A beat later, his manager Park Jimin appeared—bright-eyed, tailored suit, charming, exactly the kind of man you suspected had to exist if Jungkook was going to survive this circus. He shot you a cheeky grin, clapping your arm. "Oh! don’t worry. He’s not always like this. He’s just jetlagged. And dramatic.”

You exhaled, watching Jungkook disappear toward the simulator room, the Netflix crew hot on his heels. Jetlagged or not, dramatic or not—one thing was clear: this partnership was going to test you in every possible way.

The garage smelled of rubber and hot machinery, the sharp tang of fuel clinging to the air. Monitors lined the engineers’ wall, already glowing with streams of data. Crew members buzzed between toolboxes and stacks of tires, the whole place vibrating with a nervous kind of anticipation. The first laps of the season were always like this.

Equal parts excitement and dread.

You slid your headset into place, steadying your breath. Your job was simple, on paper: guide your driver, read the data, keep him alive. But nothing about this morning felt simple. Too many eyes were on you, waiting for the rookie to fail—and, by extension, for you to fail too.

The car rolled out of the garage, Jungkook’s helmet glinting under the fluorescent lights a gold number 7 on the right side, you noticed that it was on the same position of his tattoo. Right behind his ear.

Not that you were staring, you just noticed things.

Definitely not staring at your driver.

He didn’t so much as glance your way as he settled into position, visor snapping shut. The RB21 growled to life, and the ground under your boots hummed as he took off down the pit lane.

“All right,” you said into the mic, keeping your tone professional. “Out lap. Feel the grip levels, don’t push it yet.”

His voice crackled back, smooth and smug even through the static. “Copy. Don’t worry. I don’t need you telling me how to drive.”

You squeezed the mic tighter. “It’s literally my job.”

A few mechanics chuckled under their breath, pretending to cough when you shot them a glare.

The monitors lit up as Jungkook rounded his first flying lap. And to your surprise—no, to your horror—his pace was good. Really good. Sectors lighting up purple, numbers climbing, the garage slowly falling into silence as everyone’s eyes widened at the screen.

Beside you, Verstappen’s engineer leaned forward, muttering under his breath. His face tightened as the lap time closed in on Max’s benchmark from earlier in the morning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

You tracked the telemetry, heart rate spiking. He was pushing too hard into the corners, the rear dancing dangerously. You pressed your comms button.

“Turn nine coming up—slow down, Jungkook, you’ll lose grip again if you take it like last lap.”

“Relax,” he shot back. “I’ve got it.”

The words barely left his mouth before the car snapped. A sickening screech, tires smoking, and then the monitor feed went red. The RB21 spun off the track and slammed into the barrier with a crunch that echoed through the garage.

The room froze.

A collective inhale.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own pulse pounding in your ears.

“He’s okay,” came the marshal’s voice over the shared channel, and the pit wall exhaled in unison. Still, your stomach dropped.

Behind you, two engineers exchanged a crumpled bill with a muttered, “Told you he wouldn’t make ten laps.”

It wasn’t just him they were betting against. You felt it in your gut—they were betting against you.

A hand landed on your shoulder. Max’s engineer. “Happens to the best of them,” he said, almost kindly.

“Not to your driver,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ruined car.

He gave a half-smile. “Not everyone gets to work with a legend. Hamilton, The McLarens—hell, even Russel and Sainz—are going to eat your boy alive first race.”

The radio crackled again. “I’m fine,” Jungkook’s voice rang, too casual. “Car’s not, but I am.”

Minutes later, he appeared at the garage entry, helmet in hand, suit scuffed with dust. The cameras swarmed him instantly. And then, in front of the entire crew, he jabbed a finger in your direction.

“Next time, don’t give me bad calls. That crash is on you.”

The humiliation hit hot and sharp. You clenched your jaw, blinking fast to hold back tears, but when your eyes flicked up you caught Daniel Fischer, arms crossed, expression stone cold. Disappointment written clear as day.

“Go to your waiting room,” you said evenly, voice steady only by sheer force of will.

The door slammed shut behind you, cutting out the garage noise. Jungkook stood by the couch, helmet tossed aside, chest still heaving from the adrenaline. Jimin lingered near the door, looking between you like he was about to step into a minefield.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you snapped, ripping your headset off.

“What? Crash? Newsflash, it happens.”

“No,” you shot back. “Blame me in front of everyone.”

His smirk returned, sharper now. “Maybe don’t give me advice I don’t need.”

“Advice you don’t need?” you nearly laughed, bitter. “That advice keeps you alive, Jeon. Today you got lucky. But your recklessness just cost the team a few million dollars. And if you try that in the season, it’ll cost you a hell of a lot more.”

You didn’t stop.

“You think this is about proving you’re fearless? Out there, there will be nineteen other cars flying past at 300 kilometers an hour. One wrong move, and you won’t walk away. You need to earn their respect, Jungkook. You’re driving next to legends. That’s not a punishment—it’s a privilege. If you want to squash the rumors that you’re just a pretty boy cashing in on family connections, then step up. Put your mind in the game. Or leave before you get someone killed.”

A pause. His eyes flicked up, unreadable—then he leaned back against the couch with a crooked grin.

“So you think I’m pretty?”

It was sharp, laced with sarcasm, but there was something else under it—something teasing, almost flirtatious.

“That’s it, isn’t it? The spoiled rookie who needs babysitting.”

Your stomach twisted. Heat flushed up your neck, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the driver’s room, anger buzzing through your veins like static.

The garage was quieter now, the wrecked car already being hauled back by recovery trucks. Still, every glance you caught from the staff was a reminder of what had just happened—his blame, your humiliation, Fischer’s disapproval pressing heavy in your chest.

You told yourself you just needed air, distance. A walk down the quiet service corridor was supposed to help.

It didn’t.

Not when you heard voices echoing from the next room. The door was slightly ajar, light spilling into the hall. You paused without meaning to, your body betraying you, ears straining toward the sound.

Jimin’s voice, low and calm “Jungkookie, you can’t keep snapping at her like that. She’s just trying to help you.”

Then Jungkook, sharp at first “She doesn’t trust me. None of them do.”

A pause, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter, stripped of bravado.

“You think I don’t hear it? Every whisper in the garage, every headline? That I don’t know what they’re saying? That I’m only here because of Jin-hyung? Because HYBE bought me a seat?”

The words hit you harder than you expected.

He had heard it.

All of it.

“I worked my ass off to get here,” Jungkook continued, frustration bleeding into the tremor of his voice. “I didn’t want to inherit some company. I didn’t want to be another spoiled heir. I wanted this. I chose this. And now everyone’s just waiting for me to screw up. Betting on it. And she…” he exhaled shakily, “she looks at me like she’s already decided I don’t belong either.”

Jimin murmured something you couldn’t catch, probably his usual soothing words, the ones that made him everyone’s favorite buffer.

You stepped back before you could hear more, guilt knotting your stomach. You’d told yourself he was just arrogant. Entitled. A playboy with too much money and too little discipline. But what you’d just heard was something else.

Fear.

A boy who’d grown up in someone else’s shadow and was now being forced to prove he could stand on his own.

You retreated down the hall, heart pounding, forcing your expression back into neutrality before anyone saw you.

By the time Jungkook reappeared, the cocky mask was firmly back in place—hair damp from a shower, fresh team kit, smirk loaded and ready for the Netflix cameras still hanging around. To anyone else, he looked unbothered. Untouchable.

But you’d heard what was underneath.

And whether you wanted to or not, part of you couldn’t un-hear it.

For the first time since you’d met him, the cocky mask had cracked.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The simulator lab hummed with quiet electricity, the sterile blue glow of monitors casting long shadows across the room. Most of the staff had already gone home hours ago, the garage empty save for a few night-shift mechanics tinkering in the distance. But the low growl of the computer echoed steadily, and of course, Jungkook was still there.

Helmet off, a black team hoodie, damp hair clinging to his forehead—he looked more like he’d been in a fight than sitting in front of screens for hours. His eyes were sharp, locked on the track layout in front of him, jaw tight in focus.

You leaned against the console, arms crossed. “Normal people would’ve gone to bed by now, you know.”

He didn’t glance up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “And miss the chance to prove I’m not a waste of your time? No thanks.”

You bit back a retort. The data on your monitor spoke for itself—his lap times were cleaner, his braking sharper, his lines tighter. He wasn’t just improving; he was adapting, fast.

“Not bad,” you admitted, typing in a quick adjustment. “Almost like you’re starting to understand how these cars work.”

“Almost?” He finally looked up, smirk tugging at his lips. “Brutal, engineer. You don’t hand out compliments easily, huh?”

“Not when you’re doing the bare minimum,” you shot back, but there was less bite in your tone than usual.

For a few laps, the only sounds were the simulated engine and your voice feeding him corrections. When he finished a clean run and the data streamed across your screen, you moved closer, pointing at the graph. Your shoulder brushed his as you leaned in, heat sparking at the contact.

“See this section?” you said, tracing the line with your finger. “You’re pushing too hard out of sector two. Smooth it out, and you’ll be more stable into the chicane.”

He leaned in too, deliberately close. His voice dropped low enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You always smell like that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Like what?”

“Sweet,” he said simply, almost teasing. “Distracting.”

Your brows shot up, immediately defensive. “Is it too much? I won’t wear it again if—”

“Don’t.” He cut you off quickly, eyes locking with yours. “It suits you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His gaze held yours, and you were suddenly very aware of how little space existed between you, of the warmth radiating off him, of the faint tremor in your own breath.

You stepped back, breaking the spell. “It’s late. We have training early tomorrow. Wrap it up.”

But the moment lingered, unspoken.

He logged one final lap, the smoothest yet, and when he climbed out of the simulator his grin was wide, genuine.

“That felt good.”

Before you could think twice, you clapped him on the shoulder, the adrenaline infectious. And somehow, in the small charged silence that followed, that became a hug.

His arms wrapped around you easily, steady, warm. Yours lingered against his back for just a second too long. When you pulled away, the silence was thick, heavy, full of things neither of you dared say.

“Good work,” you murmured, forcing your tone back into neutral.

“Thanks,” he said softly, still smiling. But his eyes lingered on yours, and you had the sudden, dangerous thought that maybe he was seeing more than he should.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, needing the distance. “Don’t push it, Jeon. Big day tomorrow.”

He only smirked, but didn’t press, letting you leave first.

The next days blurred into a rhythm: simulator runs turning cleaner, track sessions sharper, nights swallowed by telemetry and quiet banter. He still teased you, still smirked too much—but he listened.

And against your better judgment, you found yourself listening back.

When the garage screens lit up with split times, whispers began to spread beyond your walls.

“Jeon Jungkook showing surprising consistency in sector two—still rough around the edges, but maybe more than just another formula one short-lived dream.”

The noise seeped in whether you wanted it to or not. Every headline, every post dissecting his form, felt like it ricocheted off your own skin. Because you weren’t just his engineer anymore—you were becoming part of his story.

And if he failed, if he crashed and burned, people would say you’d let him.

Still, there were flashes that made it worth it. A flawless lap. A save on the curbs that drew reluctant applause from the mechanics. Nights where he traded his arrogance for raw, hungry questions about cornering and tire temps. Nights where you saw the boy under the mask—the one who desperately wanted to belong.

But trust was still fragile.

He caught you second-guessing his numbers more than once. You caught him bristling at your corrections, holding his tongue only because Jimin’s warning echoed louder than his temper.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t safe.

And yet, in the quiet moments, when he met your gaze after a clean run and his smirk softened into something real, you felt the terrifying pull of momentum.

Because in racing, momentum was everything.

It could sling you forward into glory.

Or carry you, helpless, straight into the wall.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Melbourne Grand Prix Weekend

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to the first race weekend of the 2025 Formula One season. We’re live from Albert Park in Melbourne, where excitement is through the roof—new cars, new drivers, and a rookie debut that has the entire paddock buzzing. Jungkook Jeon, the former NASCAR champion, makes his first official outing for Red Bull Racing.”

The commentators’ voices rattled through the monitors, filling the garage with energy. Mechanics shouted over one another, tires rolled across the floor, and the hiss of air guns punctuated the noise. It was chaos, but the kind you’d craved your whole career.

Across the way, Jungkook adjusted his gloves, helmet tucked under his arm. His smile widened when Fernando Alonso passed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Big step up, eh? Welcome to the madhouse.”

Jungkook nearly tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ve… I’ve been watching you since I was a kid.”

Alonso chuckled and walked on, leaving Jungkook frozen for half a beat, grinning like a fan before he remembered the cameras. When his gaze flicked toward you, he straightened instantly, as if caught.

You pretended not to notice.

Friday practice was smooth—shockingly so. He listened, executed your calls, even kept the car out of trouble. Each lap time dropped lower, his rhythm sharpening. For the first time, your chest loosened. Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be a disaster. Jimin slid up beside you on the pit wall, sipping a cold drink.

“Not bad, huh? Sponsorships are pouring in. They can’t get enough of him. And honestly…” he lowered his voice, grinning, “…it doesn’t hurt that he looks like a model. Fans are eating him alive.”

You rolled your eyes, but his wink made you laugh despite yourself.

By Saturday, the track shimmered under a clear sky, but the atmosphere shifted. Jungkook wasn’t the easy, eager driver from the day before. He moved through the garage with his jaw locked, shoulders tense. It didn’t take long to figure out why—the whispers spread fast.

“Mr. Kim is here. Walked in with Fischer.” “Of course. Big brother keeping his golden pet project safe.”

You glanced across the paddock and caught sight of Kim Seokjin, flawless in a tailored suit, cameras trailing his every step. Jungkook’s smile was gone, his focus razor sharp, but you could feel him withdrawing, brick by brick, until he barely met your eyes.

When qualifying began, the tension carried straight into the car. “Brake earlier into turn nine,” you instructed. “You’ll lose the rear if—”

“I’ve got it,” he cut in, clipped.

He didn’t.

The car twitched, sparks flying as he fought it back under control. He recovered, but the lap put him twelfth on the grid. P12. Max, meanwhile, flew across the line with a blistering time that put him on pole.

The garage roared for Max. And Jungkook? Silence.

When he returned, reporters swarmed instantly, cameras flashing. One shoved a mic forward.

“Jungkook, twelfth place on your debut—hardly what Red Bull fans expect. Do you think this proves you’re just here because of your brother’s sponsorship?”

Your blood boiled, but before you could step in, Jimin did. Smooth as ever, he slid between Jungkook and the mic.

“Reporters asking the same recycled questions? That’s disappointing. Come back when you’ve got something original,” he said brightly, steering Jungkook toward the garage.

You followed, catching the sharp line of Jungkook’s jaw. As he pulled off his helmet, sweat-dark hair clinging to his skin.

The relief of qualifying being over didn’t last. In the waiting room, the fight began before the door even shut.

“What was that out there?” you demanded. “You ignored every call!”

He ripped off his gloves, throwing them onto the table. “I’m not kid, Y/N. I don’t need someone babysitting me.” “You nearly wrecked the car again! You think this is just about you?” Your voice cracked. “Every mistake costs the team millions. Costs me credibility. If you won’t listen, then what am I even doing here?”

The door opened and Seokjin walked in, immaculate, dismissive. His eyes barely flicked to you before landing on Jungkook. “I think that is a wonderful thought, I should talk to Fischer about getting you a different engineer. One who can handle you.”

The humiliation burned hot in your chest, but before you could speak, Jungkook did.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “She’s fine. More than fine. She’s the only one who actually cares if I make it through this alive. Don’t talk about replacing her.”

The silence that followed was razor sharp. Jin smirked faintly, said nothing, and left. But you stood frozen, whiplash cutting you in two. One moment he tore you down, the next he defended you against the man who owned half the garage.

You had no idea what to do with him.

Sunday arrived in a storm of noise and color. Melbourne pulsed with energy, fans waving banners, the sun scorching down. The air buzzed with heat and excitement. For a moment, you almost let yourself enjoy it.

But the unease was back, crawling along your skin.

The perfect sky dimmed as the grid formed. Clouds rolled in, gray and heavy, swallowing the sun. Forecast updates flashed across your feed: rain expected around lap twenty.

Your stomach twisted.

Rain in a simulator was one thing.

Rain in real life at 300 kilometers per hour was another.

The lights above the grid blinked.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Lights out and away we go!”

The roar of engines shook the air, the ground vibrating under your boots. Jungkook’s start was clean, but you could hear the tension in every clipped reply over the radio. He pushed hard, lines aggressive, each lap a battle.

Then the rain came. First a drizzle, then sheets of water smearing the track into silver. Cars peeled into the pits for wets, chaos erupting over comms.

“Box now,” you ordered. “Conditions are changing—” “I can stay out,” Jungkook cut in. His voice sharp, desperate. “This is my chance.” “Don’t you dare. The track is slick, you’ll—” “Trust me.”

The monitors blurred with static and spray. His car, number seven, snapped sideways, sliding helplessly across the drenched track. The sickening crunch of impact reverberated through the garage as he slammed into the barrier.

And then—silence.

The pit wall froze.

Engineers stared, motionless. Even the commentary cut off, as if the entire world had been muted.

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest heaved, but the air wouldn’t come. Your fingers dug into the desk hard enough to hurt.

Move.

Get out.

Please get out.

But the cockpit stayed shut. No movement. No signal.

Your headset slipped down, useless against the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. The spray on the monitors blurred everything, rain streaking across the cameras. For a moment you thought the water on your face was the same, until you blinked and realized—no. You were crying. Hot, helpless tears spilling as your pulse screamed.

You told yourself it was professional. Any engineer would be scared for their driver. It didn’t mean anything else. It didn’t.

But the hollow ache in your chest, the way your entire body begged for him to move, to live, told another story.

The marshals’ voice finally crackled through comms. “Red flag. Car seven in the barrier. No movement yet.”

The world narrowed. The track, the crowd, even the rain itself faded. It was only you and the hope he was alive.

Then—blessedly—the cockpit hatch moved. Jungkook climbed out slowly, rain plastering his suit, raising one arm to signal he was okay. The crowd erupted in relief.

Your knees nearly buckled, the tears burning hotter.

He was alive.

But as the relief crashed over you, so did the fury. He hadn’t listened. He’d risked everything. He’d scared you half to death.

And the only clear thought in your head, sharp and breathless, was:

I’m going to kill him myself.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The medical center was quiet except for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the muted drip of rain off the awnings outside. You stood just beyond the curtain where the doctors finished with him, arms crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

Then Jungkook stepped out. Suit damp, hair sticking to his forehead, knuckles scraped raw. He looked pale but stubborn, the same cocky mask tugging at his mouth like nothing had happened.

“Cleared,” he muttered. “No fractures. Just bruises.”

You moved toward him before you could stop yourself, voice sharp, finger pressing into his chest. “You could have died out there.”

“But I didn't. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Your voice cracked, too loud in the sterile room. “You scared the entire garage half to death. You scared me. And for what? For ignoring me again?”

His eyes narrowed, shoulders taut like wire. “Don’t make this about you.”

The laugh that left your throat was bitter, shaking. “It is about me, Jungkook. I’m your engineer. Keeping you alive is my job. But you’re so desperate to look fearless you don’t even realize you’re bluffing.”

His jaw twitched. For a second, he looked like he might fight back, but his hands betrayed him—shaking as he flexed them against his thighs. You caught it instantly, and the flash of truth in his eyes nearly undid you.

“You’re terrified,” you said quietly. “You’re just pretending you’re not.”

For a heartbeat, his mask cracked. Raw panic, so quick you might have imagined it. Then, like a curtain falling, the smirk was back. “I’m just trying to prove I can belong here. That I’m not just… Someone's little brother.”

Your chest squeezed, fury igniting through the ache. “Prove it by finishing a race. Not by almost getting yourself killed. You keep saying you want to move away from the pretty boy persona—but all you do is mess it up and for what? Both of our careers depend on us trusting eachother.”

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable, lips twitching as he tilted his head. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

The words landed like a slap.

It wasn’t witty. It wasn’t harmless. Not now. Not when fear still clung to your skin like smoke. Heat stung behind your eyes, spilling fast and hot before you could stop it.

“You think this is a joke? You think I’m just overreacting because I’m a woman, don’t you? You’re not taking me seriously at all.”

“No—” The bravado shattered, his voice faltering. Guilt washed over his face like a tide, panic flickering as he saw your tears. “No, that’s not—Y/N, I didn’t mean—”

But you were already shaking your head, the betrayal cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. “Forget it.”

You shoved the door open, footsteps echoing down the hall, each one fueled by humiliation and rage.

Inside, silence hung heavy. Jimin stepped into the room, his sigh heavier still as he looked at Jungkook.

“Jungkookie…” His voice was low, edged with disappointment. “You need to do better. You scared her, you scared everyone, and then you made it worse. If you want her on your side—you owe her a real apology. A sincere one.”

Jungkook’s throat worked, but no sound came. For the first time since joining the team, he had nothing to say—only the sting of knowing Jimin was right.

Outside cool night air slapped against your face as you stumbled out of the medical building. You wiped at your cheeks with trembling hands, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Y/N.”

The voice made you flinch. It was one of Red Bull’s senior engineers—older, sharp-eyed, respected by everyone. He caught you before you could duck away. His gaze flicked down, reading your tear-streaked face in silence that felt heavier than any lecture.

“You can’t be seen like this,” he said evenly. “Not here. Not now.”

You tried to answer, but nothing came.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong for feeling it,” he added more gently. “But you know as well as I do—the entire paddock is watching. Today wasn’t just about Jungkook’s recklessness. Your reaction matters too. People will remember it. All eyes are on you. Remember that.”

You nodded stiffly, throat too tight to speak.

When he walked away, you pressed your back against the wall, sliding down until you sat on the damp concrete. The rain had eased into a drizzle, but you still felt wet, inside and out.

You told yourself the tears were about professionalism, about credibility, about the risk to your career if your driver refused to listen. That was all. That had to be all.

But the hollow ache in your chest told another truth. The thought of losing him—the thought of watching number 7 stay down, never climbing out of that cockpit—had broken something in you.

And you didn’t know how to face it.

The night after the crash was long, sleepless. You stayed in the garage until the mechanics packed up, pretending to check data that blurred before your tired eyes. Everyone had already gone—except him.

You heard his voice behind you, softer than usual.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I couldn’t. Not after yesterday.” His footsteps drew closer until he stood right beside you, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, hair still damp from the shower. He looked younger like this—unguarded, stripped of his arrogance.

“Look…” He hesitated, jaw tight. “I know I scared you. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass. But I don’t want you to think I don’t take you seriously. You’re the only one I trust in that car.”

That made you glance at him. The words came out too fast, too raw. He reached across the table, resting his hand over yours. Warm, calloused, steady despite everything.

For a second, the world stilled. The telemetry screens hummed, the rain tapped against the windows, and all you felt was the weight of his hand and the pull in his eyes.

Then reality snapped back. You yanked your hand away like it burned, chest heaving. His face flickered—something wounded flashing before he smoothed it over.

“Fine,” you said, too sharp. “Then prove it. Promise me you’ll do better.”

“I promise.”

His voice was low but firm. “Not just to you. To the team. To myself. I’ll earn it.”

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The media fallout was brutal.

Headlines questioned if he was reckless, if HYBE Motors had bought him the seat, if Red Bull’s prodigy engineer had been thrown to the wolves. Cameras stalked the paddock, waiting for a crack.

At the emergency team meeting, the Team Principal’s glare could have cut steel. “You don’t get to gamble with our reputation, Jungkook. Not again. Tell them.”

Jungkook stood in front of the engineers, mechanics, strategists—every pair of eyes heavy on him.

“I screwed up,” he admitted, shoulders squared. “If I want to belong here, I need your trust. I’ll earn it. I’ll fight for it. And I’ll listen.”

The room was quiet, then slowly heads nodded. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was a start.

And slowly, it began to show.

Shanghai: P10. Suzuka: P7. Bahrain: P5. Jeddah: P5 again.

The rookie was climbing, steady and relentless. Every debrief was smoother, every radio call sharper. Even the McLaren boys, darlings of the season, started throwing side-eyes at his lap times.

By the time Miami came, the entire paddock buzzed with his name.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Miami was not just a race.

It was a spectacle.

The grandstands shimmered with sequins and neon, fans waving flags like they were at a music festival instead of a circuit. Yachts floated on the fake marina like props from a billionaire’s daydream, champagne flutes glinting under the sun. Celebrities clogged the paddock, designer sunglasses and glossy smiles, each one trailed by cameras desperate to catch their soundbite before the engines roared to life.

The air smelled of sunscreen, salt, and too much money.

Pop songs thumped through the loudspeakers, colliding with the high-pitched whine of pit guns, the crackle of radios, the steady beat of anticipation that thrummed beneath it all.

“This is the sexiest race on the calendar,” one commentator laughed into the mic, voice carrying across the track. “And all eyes are on Red Bull’s rookie Jungkook Jeon. He’s been climbing steadily, showing flashes of brilliance. Could Miami be the weekend he takes it all?”

Inside the garage, the atmosphere was electric.

Mechanics moved with laser focus, every socket wrench and wheel gun perfectly choreographed. The glossy RB21 shimmered under the Florida sun, already dressed in tire blankets like a fighter in silk robes waiting for his entrance. You kept your headset steady, notes crisp, but your pulse betrayed you—beating in time with the crowd’s fever, with the promise of what was about to unfold.

“Jungkook Jeon!” The familiar voice of Jackson Wang carried over the paddock noise, ESPN’s camera crew trailing behind him as he jogged up. The reporter grinned wide, energy infectious. “Everyone’s talking about you, man. You’ve been shaking up the grid—how are you feeling heading into Miami?”

Jungkook, still in his race suit, tugged his fireproofs higher on his neck. For once, there was no smirk, just the calm weight of someone holding all his adrenaline in check. Cameras zoomed close, the roar of fans nearly drowning out his reply.

“I feel ready,” he said simply, voice low but certain.

Then his gaze flicked toward you—just a second, just enough for the world to notice. “I’ve got the best team behind me. My engineer knows what she’s doing. I trust her completely.”

Jackson raised his brows, smiling at the directness. “That’s big words from a rookie.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook answered, still looking at you. “Guess I’m not much of a rookie anymore.”

The crowd cheered at that, feeding off the bravado, but you knew the truth—knew how hard he’d fought to mean it. And beneath the sun, the cameras, the glittering chaos of Miami, something in your chest shifted.

He trusted you.

And then it happened.

Pole position. P1.

When Jungkook pulled into the pit lane, climbing out of the car to the roar of Miami’s crowd, you didn’t have time to think. He strode straight toward you, adrenaline in every step, and before you could react, his arms wrapped around you.

The garage erupted in cheers. You froze for a heartbeat, body stiff, then forced yourself to relax—brushing it off as celebration, nothing more.

But when he pulled back, his eyes lingered on yours.

Too close.

Too intense.

Later, you were alone in the quiet corner of the garage, the tension still simmered. “You believed in me,” he murmured, gaze never wavering.

“That’s my job,” you shot back, though your voice was softer than intended.

His smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a slow curl that was half-mockery, half-something else. He leaned just a fraction closer, the smell of sweat, rubber, and champagne clinging to his skin. “Funny,” he said, voice dropping, “you make it sound like I’m the only one you’d go this hard for.”

Your breath caught, words evaporating on your tongue. His face was inches from yours, his hand brushing the workbench near your hip. The garage around you seemed to fade, replaced by the thrum of your heartbeat.

You should have pulled away. You didn’t.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

“Yah, Jungkook!” Jimin’s voice cut through like a slap, stumbling into the garage. “Netflix wants you. Retake of the interview.”

Both of you jerked back. Too fast, too guilty. Jimin’s brows furrowed as he looked between you, his manager’s smile failing to cover the worry in his eyes.

When Jungkook walked off, muttering something under his breath, Jimin lingered behind, watching you as if he’d just seen something dangerous spark between fire and gasoline.

Race day in Miami felt different.

The air itself seemed to hum—thick with heat, thick with expectation.

The sun blazed off Biscayne Bay, turning the fake marina into a mirror of glittering blue, yachts bobbing in the pool's water. The crowd’s roar was already building, a steady pulse you could feel beneath your feet.

The garage buzzed, a hive on the edge of frenzy. Engineers called out numbers, mechanics checked tire blankets, cameras swooped in like vultures. And through it all, you and Jungkook had settled into something almost dangerous—a rhythm that went beyond headset chatter and lap times.

He listened now.

He trusted you, sometimes even joked with you, and it made your chest tighten in ways you refused to name.

You reminded yourself it was simple. He was beautiful. Anyone would notice. That didn’t mean you did.

But then, before the race, he lingered too close.

Helmet tucked under one arm, sweat glinting on the edge of his jaw, eyes fixed only on you.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For sticking with me. For… believing.”

The words hit harder than they should. And when his hand brushed yours—openly, deliberately, in a garage full of cameras and sponsors—you went still. His grip was warm, steady, grounding in the chaos.

And then—

“Jungkook!”

The voice sliced through the noise like sugar poured over glass. You turned, and your stomach hollowed.

Kim Sooyeon.

Her beauty was unreal up close—skin like porcelain, smile rehearsed for stadiums. She moved like she owned the air itself, sliding her arms around his neck before you could even step back. The scent of gardenias and silk clung to her.

You knew that face.

Everyone did.

She was on your niece’s wall in glittering posters, her songs blaring from every mall. Korea’s princess.

“Baby, I made it,” she purred in Korean, sweet enough to rot teeth. “Did you miss me?”

Your chest locked. Baby?

She flicked a dismissive glance your way, her smile sharp as a blade. “And you are?”

Your voice came before you could stop it. “I’m his engineer.”

Her answering laugh was soft, cruel. “Cute. I’m his girlfriend.”

It landed like a fist to the gut. Something inside you buckled, ugly and breathless.

“Ex,” Jungkook cut in sharply, peeling her wrists from his neck. His tone was cold, edged with warning.

She only pouted, lips glossy, eyes glittering. “Don’t be like that.”

You barely heard him. Blood roared in your ears, your throat tight as the walls of the garage seemed to tilt.

Before you knew it, you were turning away—straight into a stack of tires.

They wobbled dangerously, mechanics rushing in to catch them, half-stifled laughter breaking out.

And then the flash of cameras—dozens of them, catching your stumble, catching the heat rising in your face. Your humiliation sealed in high definition, broadcast before the lights had even gone out.

The race began under blistering sun.

You barely breathed as you watched his car, #7, gliding through the corners. The commentators were hyped, the crowd on their feet. But your chest was tight, your headset slick with sweat.

Over the radio, his voice cut through.

“Y/N… please don’t give up on me today.”

Your throat constricted. He sounded calm, but you heard the edge beneath.

And then it happened.

You miscalculated the pit call.

A hesitation, just seconds—but in Formula 1, seconds were everything. Norris dove in at the perfect time, McLaren nailing their strategy. Jungkook came out behind, momentum lost. By the last lap, the commentators were merciless.

“And that’s it—Lando Norris takes the Miami GP! Red Bull’s rookie Jeon Jungkook drops to P7 after a strategic blunder on the pit wall.”

Your stomach sank.

The checkered flag waved, the crowd erupted, and yet the garage was dead silent. Every set of eyes was on you, the weight of your mistake pressing harder than the heat of the Florida sun.

He stormed back in, helmet ripped off so violently the strap snapped against his chin. Sweat slicked his hair, fury written in every line of his face.

“You cost me the win.”

The words tore through you. You swallowed, spine stiffening even as your throat burned. “I know. It was my mistake. I’ll own it.”

But instead of cooling him, your admission seemed to fuel him. His jaw clenched, chest heaving. The anger in his eyes was blinding, and something inside you cracked.

Your voice came out sharper than you meant, bitter and trembling. “But do me one favor—get your little girlfriend out of my fucking garage.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

He froze. His expression hardened into something cold, venomous. “Excuse me?”

You didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. “You heard me.”

His lips curled into something between a sneer and a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only pain, laced with rage. “You didn’t just cost me my first win because you were jealous.”

The word landed like a blade, twisting deep. Jealous.

You blinked hard, your nails digging crescents into your palms. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jeon.”

He took a step closer, close enough that you felt the heat radiating off him, close enough that his fury was a living thing between you. “Maybe I should really consider Jin’s offer.”

The world tilted. Your breath hitched. That—cut deeper than anything he’d ever said. Because beneath the rage was something worse. The threat of betrayal. The reminder that he could walk away, that he didn’t need you.

Your chest locked, your throat too tight to speak. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would be fury or heartbreak that spilled out.

So you turned. Walked past him, past the cameras catching every second, past the mechanics pretending not to watch, past Jimin’s worried eyes.

You didn’t look back. And you didn’t speak to Jungkook the entire week before Imola.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Imola.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of wet grass and rain-soaked tarmac. Clouds pressed low over the Emilia Romagna hills, and the circuit seemed to breathe with the weight of its own history. A track known for heartbreak. For endings that came too soon.

And Jungkook’s race was no exception. A technical issue forced him into early retirement. His car wheeled back into the garage before lap twenty, smoke curling from its rear like a taunt. He ripped off his gloves, helmet crashing onto the counter with a bang that made the mechanics flinch.

The silence between you was poisonous.

The cameras caught it, too—your stiff back, his glare that could split steel. And the press latched on immediately.

“Jeon Jungkook visibly furious after yet another setback.” “Red Bull rookie and his engineer caught in tense silence after retirement.” “Has the Miami fallout carried over to Europe?”

Other drivers chimed in, not helping.

Max, his teammate, muttered to a journalist that Jungkook “wasn’t focused enough, too distracted by drama in his own garage.” Then Hamilton shrugged and said, “Talent isn’t enough here. You need discipline.”

By the time the sun began to dip behind the gray clouds, Jimin had had enough. He shoved both of you into a cramped meeting room, the door slamming so hard the walls rattled.

“You’re not coming out until you fix this,” he barked, jaw tight. “I don’t care if it takes all night.”

The lock clicked. Silence fell.

You stood with your arms crossed, pressed against one wall, glaring daggers. Jungkook was on the other side, pacing, chest rising and falling too fast.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet, raw and unsteady. “You think I don’t regret what I said?”

Your laugh was harsh, bitter. “You said it. You meant it.”

“I didn’t—” He cut himself off, dragging both hands through his hair until it stuck up in frustrated tufts. His hands trembled. Again. That tell he couldn’t hide, no matter how much he smirked on camera.

“You’re bluffing,” you said coldly. The words sliced through the air.

His jaw flexed, his eyes darkening. “And you’re crying because you think I don’t take you seriously. Because you’re a woman.”

The fury in your chest ignited, hot and fast.

The palm of your hand cracked across his cheek before you could stop yourself. The sound echoed in the tiny room, louder than the rain outside.

His head jerked to the side, a red mark already blooming on his skin. Slowly, he looked back at you. But there was no anger in his eyes now. Just something bare, unguarded, almost broken.

The tension stretched, unbearable. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, see his chest heaving, his lips parting as though he was about to say something he couldn’t take back.

Then he moved.

In two strides, he was in front of you, and before you could speak, his mouth crashed against yours.

It was not soft. It was messy, furious, desperate.

His hands framed your face like he needed to anchor himself, fingers trembling against your skin. Your fists balled into his fireproof undershirt, pulling him closer, too close, until you couldn’t tell if the wetness on your face were your tears or his sweat.

Every ounce of anger, grief, and betrayal poured into the kiss. It burned. It consumed. It left you breathless.

A noise outside—a mechanic’s voice, footsteps—made you jolt apart, gasping for air, lips swollen, eyes wide.

You wiped your face roughly, forcing your voice steady. “That never happened.”

And before he could stop you, you yanked open the door and left.

He stayed behind, chest still heaving, one hand pressed to his stinging cheek, the other covering his lips like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Monaco.

The city had always felt like a dream. The pale pastel buildings climbing the cliffs, the Mediterranean sea glittering like scattered diamonds, yachts bobbing in the marina, streets that seemed too narrow for cars yet somehow hosted the most dangerous race in the world.

But for you and Jungkook, Monaco felt like a pressure cooker.

Since Imola, the silence wasn’t sharp anymore—it was suffocating. Not fighting, not ignoring. Just… avoiding. Stealing glances that lingered a beat too long. Brushing past each other in the garage with a jolt, like magnets turned the wrong way. Both pretending the kiss had never happened, both failing miserably.

In the garage, even the smallest moments felt loaded. Passing him a water bottle meant your fingers brushed his. Leaning over his telemetry meant your hair skimmed his shoulder. His laugh—rare, low, rough—was enough to make you forget what you were meant to be analyzing.

Practice went well. Qualy, too. Jungkook thrived on tight circuits, threading the car through Monaco’s walls like it was stitched into his veins.

The commentators were already buzzing.

“Jeon’s confidence here is impressive. Like he was born on these streets.” “Red Bull’s rookie could be a real podium threat.”

When he secured P4 on Saturday, the garage erupted, but his eyes found only yours. That infuriating, disarming grin tugged at his lips as he shrugged, like he hadn’t just pulled off something spectacular.

“Street races,” he said. “My thing.”

“Oh yeah?” you shot back, rolling your eyes, but your voice was softer than you intended. “Let’s just hope you don’t make them your funeral.”

He smirked, leaning a fraction closer, his helmet still tucked under his arm. “Careful, engineer. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you worry about me.”

You scoffed, turning back to your laptop too fast. “They literally pay me to worry about you.”

But the air thickened anyway, humming with everything you weren’t saying.

For a second, neither of you moved. The noise of the garage faded—mechanics chattering, tools clanging, engines firing—until it was just the two of you and the ghost of that night in Imola, still clinging like a bruise.

His voice dropped, low enough that only you could hear. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Your breath caught. You knew what he meant. And from the way his jaw clenched, like he regretted saying it the second it left his mouth, so did he.

You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen. “It was a mistake. Heat of the moment. That’s all.”

His silence stretched, heavy. When you finally looked up, his eyes were on you—dark, steady, searching like he wanted to call you a liar but couldn’t quite get the words out.

At last, he forced the grin back onto his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. Just a mistake.”

And that was worse than any fight.

Because both of you knew it wasn’t.

The sponsors’ dinner before the race was hosted in a palace-like hotel overlooking the sea. Your suite had high ceilings, white marble floors, and a balcony with a view so stunning it almost hurt. For the first time in months, you weren’t in fireproofs or baggy sweats.

You slipped into deep blue silk, the fabric cool and liquid against your skin. It caught the light with every movement, whispering of elegance but carrying an edge—a slit climbing your leg, a neckline daring enough to make you stand taller. The heels felt foreign under your feet, the earrings brushing your neck even stranger.

But as you caught your reflection, you didn’t see an engineer with grease under her nails. You saw someone who belonged in this glittering, impossible room.

And that recognition was both terrifying and exhilarating.

When you entered the ballroom, heads turned. Laughter dipped, conversations faltered. Jimin spotted you first, jaw dropping before he broke into a grin. But then Jungkook turned—and the world tilted.

His eyes widened, spark catching like ignition. He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe, like the entire room had dissolved into silence. His gaze didn’t waver, reverent in a way that sent heat flooding your chest. It wasn’t lust. It was awe.

You forced yourself forward, greeting engineers, sponsors, even rival drivers, laughing too brightly at their jokes. But Jungkook’s stare never left you, and every brush of his eyes against your skin felt like fire.

You were only steps from him when a hand caught yours.

Mr. Kim SeokJin.

“Dance with me,” he said smoothly, his smile easy, commanding. And you couldn’t refuse your boss.

On the dance floor, his hand pressed steady at your back, guiding you with the ease of someone born to command attention. His voice was low, threaded with amusement.

“You outshone half the room just by walking in,” he said. “And I’ve always had a good eye for valuable things.”

Your breath caught at the unexpected compliment, but then his gaze flicked toward Jungkook, who stood rigid at the edge of the floor, watching like the music itself had turned hostile. His jaw was tight, his fist clenched at his side.

Jin chuckled softly. “My little brother’s never been good at sharing.” Then his smile dimmed, his words turning razor-sharp. “Listen to me, Y/N. He has an empire to fall back on. You don’t. One mistake, and it’s not just your career—it’s your entire life. I won’t let anyone ruin him. Not even you.”

The words weren’t cruel, not really.

They were a warning, laced with a strange kind of protection. He wasn’t mocking you. He was reminding you of the stakes.

When the song ended, you slipped away, lungs aching for air. The terrace was quiet, sea air thick with salt and the shimmer of the bay stretching endlessly below.

And then—he was there.

“Did he say something to you?” Jungkook’s voice was tight, protective, his eyes searching your face as though Jin might’ve left a scar.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “He just… talked.”

But Jungkook didn’t look convinced. His brows furrowed, lips pressed in a hard line. Then softer, almost reverent:

“You look… breathtaking tonight.”

You almost laughed, breathless, because that was the exact word you’d thought for him a hundred times. “Thanks,” you managed, your heart hammering.

For a moment, you just stood there together, the party a faint hum behind you, the city glowing in blues and golds below. His gaze held yours, so unguarded it nearly undid you.

“Soyeon…” His jaw flexed. “She’s a childhood friend. We dated once, but—she shows up when she needs press. That’s all.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” you said quickly.

“I want to,” he insisted. His voice was rough, almost breaking. “Because I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I can still feel you.”

The world swayed. Your breath caught.

He stepped closer, the air electric, charged. His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching, as if the smallest spark would ignite something dangerous. “And your perfume…” His voice dropped, reverent. “It’s everywhere. It’s you.”

Your noses brushed, breaths mingling, his lips hovering a whisper from yours—

And then: fireworks. Exploding over the bay, dazzling red and gold across the night sky. The crowd inside rushed to the terrace, cheering, the moment shattering like glass.

You stumbled back, pulse erratic. “I should—go.”

His eyes lingered, raw and desperate, as if he wanted to stop you. But he didn’t.

And as you slipped back inside, one thought burned through your chest:

This was a more dangerous game than tomorrow’s race.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The streets of Monaco gleamed under the late afternoon sun.

Crowds filled every balcony, every yacht, every rooftop overlooking the circuit. The sound of engines had shaken the city all day, but now it was over.

The checkered flag had waved.

Jungkook won.

The rookie, the one everyone doubted, had tamed the impossible streets of Monaco.

The radio exploded with cheers—engineers shouting, mechanics crying, Jimin’s voice cracking with laughter. You felt your throat tighten, your chest swell so tight you thought it might burst.

“P1, Jungkook! You’ve just won Monaco!”

You didn’t even realize you were screaming into the comms until your voice cracked, raw with disbelief and joy.

When the car rolled into parc fermé, pandemonium erupted. Celebrities, journalists, fans—everyone pressed forward. The noise was deafening. Jungkook pulled off his helmet, sweat dripping down his temples, hair sticking wild, eyes ablaze with adrenaline. But he didn’t look at the cameras, or the sponsors, or even at Jin, who stood stone-faced in the corner.

He looked only at you.

And then he was moving—shoving past microphones and outstretched hands—straight toward you once again.

He grabbed you by the waist, lifted you off your feet, spinning you in the air like you weighed nothing. You gasped, breathless laughter spilling out, his grin brighter than any firework exploding over the Mediterranean.

For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Red Bulls’s victory.

It was yours.

Yours and his.

Later, when the podium glittered under the Riviera sun, you stood just behind the barriers, trying to steady your breathing.

His name rang through the streets, through the yachts, through the walls of pastel buildings. When the Korean flag rose for the first time in Formula 1 history, when the anthem swelled and echoed across Monte Carlo’s cliffs—you couldn’t hold it back. Pride burned in your chest, hot and unstoppable, and tears blurred your vision.

And there he was.

Standing taller than ever, champagne still dripping from his suit, cheeks wet with his own tears. Not the fierce firebrand who fought every corner, not the boy who lashed out in anger, but Jungkook—your driver.

Your impossible, history-making driver.

And even then, even with the world watching, his eyes found yours in the crowd.

The whole team piled onto him after, champagne exploding, everyone euphoric. But the high shattered when you were summoned.

“Team principal’s office. Now.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Jimin’s voice cut through the chaos of celebration. He didn’t smile. His usual spark was gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy sadness. That single look cracked your joy in half, leaving you hollow.

Inside, the air was suffocating. Red Bull’s principal sat at the head of the table, Jin beside him—perfectly composed, unreadable. And across from them: Ferrari’s principal, sharp suit, sharper smile.

He didn’t waste time. “Lewis wants you on his team.”

For a second, you thought you’d misheard. Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. The legend of the sport.

Wanting you.

But no one laughed. No one corrected him.

“We’ve been watching you closely,” Ferrari’s principal continued smoothly. “Your instincts under pressure, the way you command your driver… it’s rare. We’re prepared to buy out your Red Bull contract. These opportunities don’t come twice.”

The words landed heavy, twisting inside you. Yesterday’s warning from Jin replayed in your mind like a curse: One mistake, and it will end both your careers. He has an empire to fall back on. You don’t.

Now it all clicked. Jin hadn’t been protecting Jungkook—he’d been paving the way to remove you. This wasn’t just an offer. It was exile, dressed up in prestige and red paint.

The Red Bull boss leaned forward, fingers steepled. “It’s entirely your decision. No pressure.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. Ferrari. The Scuderia. Legacy, power, immortality in red. Lewis Hamilton himself asking for you. Any rational person would leap at it.

But then—Jungkook’s face flashed in your mind. His trembling hands after crashes. The fire in his eyes when he pushed past his own limits. The fragile, raw trust he’d given you, piece by piece. You thought of Monaco—the way his tears had fallen with the anthem, and how he’d only looked at you.

Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you said carefully, voice steady despite the storm inside. “But I won’t leave my driver mid-season. It wouldn’t be fair. We’ve come too far together.”

The Ferrari principal’s smile faltered, then softened into something like reluctant respect. He nodded once, curt. “Understood. But you know where to find us.”

Silence stretched. The Red Bull principal scribbled something in his notes. Jin, however, didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on you, sharp and unblinking, as if he were dissecting every corner of your resolve.

For the first time, you realized this wasn’t a game to him.

It was war.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

When you finally escaped the suffocating office, your pulse still thundering, you found him where you knew he’d be: the simulator room.

The monitors glowed in the dark, replaying the same crash over and over, his car smashing into the barriers in a blur of violence. He tore the headset off, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, chest heaving. His fists trembled around the wheel, and for a terrifying second you thought he’d hurl the helmet against the wall.

Until he saw you.

He froze.

His jaw clenched, eyes wild, raw and hollow at once. “You came to say goodbye?”

Your chest caved in. The way he said it—betrayal cut into every syllable. “I’m not leaving the team.” You stepped closer, voice cracking. “I’m not leaving you.”

For a heartbeat, silence. His throat worked, like he was swallowing glass.

Then—something inside him broke.

He closed the distance in a heartbeat, slamming his palms against the wall on either side of you. His face was inches from yours, breath ragged, eyes dark and blazing. And then he kissed you—hard, relentless, like every ounce of anger and pride and fear had been funneled into that single act. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, claiming, the kind of kiss that stole thought and left only instinct.

Your hands fisted in his undershirt, dragging him closer, feeling the solid heat of his body and the frantic rhythm of his heart beating in time with yours.

“God, Y/N,” he groaned against your lips, breaking just long enough to breathe. “They wanted you. Ferrari wanted you. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea—how proud—” His voice cracked, fury and awe tangled together. “But all I could think was—you’d leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered fiercely. “Not now. Not ever.”

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you back into him, the kiss deepening until it set your veins on fire. You tugged at his collar, shoving the heavy fabric off his shoulders until his undershirt clung damp against his skin. And then—your breath caught.

Ink.

Dark, twisting tattoos scrawled across his chest and arms, lines and shapes you’d only ever glimpsed in photos or under fireproof sleeves. Seeing them up close was something else entirely. Raw. Intimate. Like you were being allowed into a part of him no one else saw.

Your palm pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the black swirls of ink. “You’re…” The word stuck in your throat. “God, Jungkook.”

His lips curved into a broken smile before finding yours again, desperate, needy. Somewhere in the chaos your own uniform had been tugged open, buttons slipping loose, his hands skimming heat along your sides until your bra strap slid against his fingers.

Your mind spun.

This was reckless, dangerous, forbidden. Yet the way he kissed you—like you were oxygen, like you were the only thing keeping him alive—you couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen. His breath shuddered as he took you in, your messy hair, your flushed chest, your half-open uniform. His hands shook as he traced the faint red marks he’d left blooming across your skin, tattoos of his own making.

For a long moment, no words passed.

You didn’t need them.

The truth was etched in every glance, every trembling touch: you were his, and he was yours, even if neither of you dared to say it.

Then reality crept back. The walls, the fluorescent hum, the reminder of where you were—Red Bull headquarters, not a hotel room, not your world. You both stilled, breathing hard, as if waking from a fever dream.

And that’s when you heard it.

Click.

Quiet.

Mechanical.

Cold.

Your stomach dropped. Both of you turned, hearts still racing—not from the kiss this time.

A camera.

Hidden in the shadows.

Watching.

Recording.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The season rolled forward in a blur of screeching tires, flashing cameras, and deafening cheers.

Spain. Jungkook stood on the podium, champagne bottle in hand, his grin boyish and disbelieving as commentators shouted over the roar of the crowd:

“The second-seat curse is over! Red Bull’s rookie is proving himself to be the driver of the season!”

Race after race, he climbed higher. Consistent. Focused. Ruthless. P4 in Austria. P3 in Silverstone. P2 in Hungary.

The world was watching now—not just the rookie who had almost thrown it all away in Melbourne, but a rising star. Every commentator, every journalist, every fan screamed the same words:

Rookie of the Season.

And through it all, you and Jungkook had learned to move in a delicate rhythm—professional on the surface, something else simmering underneath.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Summer break came like a sigh of relief.

Your London flat felt almost foreign after months on the road—quiet, still, walls that didn’t vibrate with engines or team radios. You fell back into a routine like muscle memory: kettle boiling in the morning, laundry humming in the corner, tapping out notes from race weekends while rain streaked the windows. For a while, it was easy to pretend the last months hadn’t happened, that the whirlwind of Monaco and Red Bull and Jungkook had been some fever dream.

If it weren’t for your phone.

Buzzing. Constantly. Messages from colleagues, endless media recaps, gossip headlines pinging your feed, and—always—him.

Jungkook.

Little updates.

Photos.

The occasional voice note that made your chest ache in ways you tried to ignore.

One evening, you escaped it all. A local pub, low lights, sticky tables, laughter filling the air. You nursed a pint with a couple of your friends, letting yourself sink into the normalcy of banter, silly arguments over football, someone’s half-baked plan to start a podcast.

For a few hours, it felt like you again.

Until your phone lit up.

“Come to Italy.”

You stared at the message, Jungkook’s name bold on your screen. Before you could process, his call came through—voice low, insistent, like he was right there at your table.

“Come with me to Portofino. I’ve got a boat. Jimin’s here, some friends too. Just… come.”

You pulled the phone from your ear, pulse unsteady.

Your best friend leaned over, reading the name flashing across the screen. She whistled low. “That’s the Jungkook, isn’t it? The one who made you go all ghost-mode?”

You shot her a look, cheeks heating, but she only smirked and took a sip of her drink.

“You’d be a complete idiot not to go,” she said simply.

The next morning came like a blur.

Shoving clothes into a weekender, grabbing sunscreen and sunglasses, double-checking your passport. Jungkook had sent a car, sleek and black, waiting at the curb like something out of a movie. From there—Heathrow.

A private plane.

The whole thing felt absurd, surreal, like you were stepping into someone else’s life.

On the runway, before takeoff, you sent a quick text to your best friend:

You were right. Going. Italy. Don’t wait up.

Her reply came seconds later:

Good girl 😏. Also… I slipped a surprise in your bag. You’ll thank me later. Trust.

You groaned, but couldn’t help laughing. God only knew what she’d tucked inside.

Portofino greeted you with golden cliffs and pastel houses spilling toward the harbor.

And then, the yacht.

It gleamed white under the sun, massive but graceful, all smooth decks and glass railings, like a floating palace.

On board, you found them—Jungkook’s circle, the ones he trusted enough to let close.

Yoongi was sprawled in the shade, sunglasses on, scrolling his phone, the faintest smirk betraying he was only half-listening to everyone else. Namjoon lounged with a paperback in hand, occasionally pushing his glasses up his nose before chiming in with some sharp, clever comment. Taehyung had a vintage camera slung around his neck, his girlfriend curled beside him as he snapped photos of everything—the sea, the sky, the way sunlight glanced off Jungkook’s profile.

Jimin, of course, was holding court. Shirt open, drink in hand, teasing everyone shamelessly.

“Look at them,” he said, nodding toward the couples. “Domestic, boring. That’s why I keep my options open. Why settle when I can sample?” Yoongi snorted without looking up. “More like your options keep you open.”

The deck erupted in laughter.

Jimin only grinned wider, unbothered.

You’d expected awkwardness, but instead there was… peace.

The yacht drifted over water so clear you could see the seabed. The air was heavy with salt and citrus, a warm breeze brushing your skin. For once, there were no cameras, no paddock, no obligations. Just freedom—sun and sea and the quiet hum of possibility.

Jungkook found you by the railing, where you’d been staring out at the endless blue. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the wood beside you, his arm brushing yours. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, alive, like the air before a storm.

Then—without warning—he shoved you.

You shrieked, splashing into the sea with a curse, icy water shocking your skin. “YAH!” you sputtered, hair plastered to your face. He was doubled over laughing on deck, nearly falling to his knees.

You swam back toward him, splashing furiously. “You’re dead.” “Am I?” His grin softened as you reached him, eyes glinting. And in that still moment, salt water clinging to your lips, the whole world narrowed.

He kissed you.

Quick.

Sweet.

Stolen.

And suddenly, this wasn’t a yacht anymore. It was your own tiny paradise—untethered, infinite, just the two of you floating in a sea too vast to care.

At sunset, everyone drifted back to their cabins to prepare for dinner. The air still smelled of salt and sunscreen, the sea rocking the boat in a gentle lull. You stayed on deck, wrapped in a towel, watching the sky bruise into shades of rose and gold.

Jungkook padded up beside you, barefoot, hair still damp and curling from the water. He carried two glasses of sparkling water, handing one to you without a word before dropping into the chair beside yours. For a long while, you just sat together, letting the hush of waves fill the silence.

“You know,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady, “I’ve never been this scared in my life.”

You glanced at him, startled. “Scared?”

He nodded, eyes on the horizon like he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you. “Of hurting you. Of messing this up. I can crash a car at three hundred kilometers an hour, and it doesn’t scare me half as much as this does.”

Your heart twisted, something fragile and fierce all at once blooming in your chest. “Kook…”

He shifted then, turning toward you, and the mask he usually wore—the cocky grin, the fire—was gone. What was left was raw and boyish, his vulnerability shining through in a way that almost broke you.

When he leaned closer, it wasn’t reckless, wasn’t hunger or fire like Monaco. It was slow, hesitant, trembling with honesty. His lips brushed yours like a question. You answered without words, tilting into him, letting your hand find his damp hair, your towel slipping just a little as his fingers grazed your arm.

For once, it wasn’t about tension, or anger, or secrecy. It was just him. Just you. Two idiots falling without a parachute, and neither of you wanting to stop.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You both jolted apart like teenagers caught sneaking out. Taehyung stood in the doorway, hand clamped over his mouth in exaggerated shock. Then his smile cracked into a grin. “I knew it. I’ve been rooting for you guys from the start.”

Your face burned as Jungkook dropped his head into his hands with a groan, muttering curses under his breath.

But the teasing didn’t matter.

Something shifted after that—something soft and unspoken. The rest of the weekend, it was as if the veil had been lifted. You laughed louder, ate slower, let your fingers brush across his more freely. He lingered near you, his touches casual but constant—hand at your back, his knee bumping yours under the table, a smile saved just for you.

The others didn’t comment again. They just folded you into their world with an easy, knowing acceptance, like they’d been waiting for this to happen all along.

For two days, you lived in a secret kind of paradise.

Free.

Unburdened.

Seen.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The last day, Jungkook disappeared for a while. You assumed he was training, or maybe napping below deck, until he appeared suddenly with that mischievous glint in his eye.

“Come with me.”

You frowned. “Where?”

He only grinned wider, tugging you by the wrist toward the dinghy tethered to the side of the yacht.

Minutes later, the two of you were skimming over the waves, wind tugging at your hair, the coastline shrinking into a smear of color behind you. The dinghy slowed, bobbing as he steered toward a tiny island—just a sliver of sand and palms in the middle of endless blue.

“Private,” he said proudly as you stepped onto the warm sand. “No press. No one but us.”

The air was heavy with salt and heat, cicadas buzzing faintly from the brush. You laughed, half disbelieving, as he spread a blanket across the sand and pulled a cooler from the boat. Champagne, fruit, little bites wrapped neatly.

“A whole date,” you teased, sitting cross-legged beside him. “Who knew Jungkook Jeon was a romantic?”

His cheeks pinked, but he shrugged. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

Dinner passed in slow warmth, your toes buried in the sand, the sea glowing violet as the sun slid lower. He told you stories—of growing up with the others, how seven of them had stumbled through boyhood together. Yoongi teaching him guitar, Namjoon dragging them to art galleries, Taehyung insisting on midnight photography experiments.

“And Jin?” you asked softly.

His face shifted, a flash of something complicated in his eyes. “He… grew apart. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. He’s always felt responsible for me—sometimes too much. Sometimes I think he doesn’t know how to be my brother without being my boss.”

You reached for his hand without thinking, squeezing once.

Later, when you asked about the number stitched boldly onto his car, his helmet, his shirts, his skin, he smiled faintly.

“Seven. For them. For us. They’re not just my friends—they’re my brothers. We all got it, even Jin. When I drive, they’re with me.”

Your throat tightened.

Somehow, it made you love him more.

By the time you returned to the yacht, night had fallen fully. The air smelled of salt and wine, music floating up faintly from below deck. The others were laughing, teasing Jimin about something, but when you slipped away to Jungkook’s cabin, no one stopped you.

Inside, the air was cooler, the boat rocking gently against the waves.

It started quietly—his hand cupping your jaw, your mouths finding each other in the hush. But it didn’t stay quiet. The hunger that had been simmering for months finally tore free, hot and unrelenting. He pressed you against the door, lips sliding down your throat, your fingers fumbling at his fireproof shirt until it fell open.

Ink sprawled across his chest, his ribs, curling over his arms like living fire. Seeing his tattoos this close—raw, real—made you tremble. He looked dangerous, untouchable, and yet he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Your shirt came undone under his hands, bra straps tugged down your shoulders until lace peeked through—lace you hadn’t worn in years.

Your friend’s message flashed in your mind, and you nearly laughed, dazed, when Jungkook’s eyes darkened at the sight.

You'll have to thank her later.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough, reverent.

The kiss deepened, messy, desperate. You pulled him down with you, the yacht rocking gently beneath the storm you were creating. His mouth left marks on your skin, tattoos of his own making, while your hands memorized every line of muscle, every scar hidden under ink.

It wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate, molten. The world outside didn’t exist—only him, only you, the sound of waves colliding with the hull as you finally gave in.

After, you drifted in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your ear, the scent of salt and him wrapped around you. You barely noticed sleep stealing you under.

But near dawn, voices cut through the haze.

Through the cracked door, you saw him outside with Jimin, shadows etched in the pale gray of pre-sunrise.

“Hyung,” Jungkook’s voice was low but sharp, the kind of steel you’d only heard from him in the cockpit. “I don’t care. If this becomes a PR war, I’ll fight it.”

Jimin’s sigh carried across the deck. “I just want to make sure you’re sure. She’s not like the others. Once the world knows, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Jungkook said, firm, unshaken. “That’s why I can’t let her go.”

Your heart throbbed at his words.

But then—

The hairs at the back of your neck stood on end. A chill skittered across your skin, sharp despite the warm night. From the corner of your eye, through the half-open porthole, you swore you saw movement on the cliffs—something watching.

That same crawling sensation, the one you’d felt in Melbourne, sank its claws into you.

Only this time, it didn’t let go.

Something was coming.

And it was already close.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The season pressed forward like a fever dream.

Another qualifying session, another pole position for Jungkook. The rookie who’d once been brushed off as reckless was now commanding headlines—“Prodigy. Unstoppable. Future Champion.”

And yet, beneath the roar of engines and flash of cameras, you couldn’t shake it. That feeling. The one you’d first felt in Melbourne, then again on the boat in Italy. Like something was closing in, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Still, that night ended with champagne showers and laughter.

Jungkook hugged you so tightly it knocked the breath out of you, his joy bleeding into yours until you forgot the dread for a few blissful hours.

The morning after, your phone buzzed you awake.

“BREAKING: Car #7 hit with 15-position grid penalty for illegal part.”

Your blood ran cold.

That can’t be right. That can’t fucking be right.

You remembered every bolt, every recalibration, every sleepless night in the garage. You’d triple-checked before signing off after practice. It was airtight.

Yet the penalty stood.

When Jungkook saw the headline, his face fell—but he didn’t look at you with anger. Just heartbreak.

“We’ll fight back,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours in the quiet of the hospitality suite. It was barely a kiss, over before it began. But it was enough to send a jolt of fire through you. Enough to make you forget that anyone could be watching.

You caught Jin in the hallway before the race. He leaned casually against the wall, the corners of his mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“You should’ve taken my mercy when I offered it,” he said smoothly, as though the words were meant to sting and soothe at once.

Your stomach dropped.

Despite the setback, Jungkook was electric on track. He clawed his way through the grid, overtaking with a hunger that left commentators breathless. P3. Another podium. Another miracle drive.

But the headlines weren’t about his race.

Every screen in the paddock lit up with the same story:

“Red Bull Rookie Caught in Secret Affair with His Engineer.”

The photo attached left no room for doubt—your hands tangled in his hair, his mouth on yours in the waiting room. Too intimate, too clear to be spun as anything else.

And then, as if the wound needed salt, a carefully crafted statement began circulating. Soyeon’s words.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but it seems Jungkook was seeing her even while we were together. I wish them the best, but I deserved better.”

Her name trended within minutes.

So did yours.

By the time you caught your reflection in a TV screen, your face was already plastered across international broadcasts—zoomed-in, frozen mid-kiss. Not an engineer. Not a professional. Just a scandal.

And it didn’t stop there.

Podcasts uploaded within the hour, hosts laughing crudely into their mics. “She knew what she was doing. Playing his career like a ladder.”“Sleeping with your driver? It’s not even subtle.”“She’ll be gone in a season. He’ll move on. They always do.”

Tweets, Instagram threads, TikToks dissecting your clothes, your voice, your very existence. Even the race commentators, usually clinical, couldn’t resist slipping in sharp words about “distractions off-track.”

And then—one reporter’s voice, sharp as a blade: “This isn’t just unprofessional. It’s predatory. She’s supposed to be his engineer, not his girlfriend. What does that make her if not—”

The word cut like glass.

Slut.

It reverberated in your skull until everything blurred.

Your lungs seized.

The air in the garage turned to concrete.

You stumbled backward, past blurred faces, ignoring the weight of their stares, until you found the darkest corner you could crawl into. Knees drawn tight to your chest, fingers clawing into your temples, you tried to disappear.

But the panic attack swallowed you whole.

Breath ragged. Vision fragmented. The roar of the crowd outside felt like a hurricane, but inside your head it was louder still—the podcast clips, the headlines, Soyeon’s voice, that one filthy word.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the plan.

This isn’t love—it’s destruction.

And yet—traitorous, wild, merciless—your heart still beat in rhythm with the number seven car.

The world tilted.

Your stomach lurched.

You shoved past him and stumbled into the bathroom, barely making it before you doubled over the sink. Bitter bile tore up your throat, the acid burn mixing with the salt of your tears. You retched until there was nothing left, body heaving in brutal waves, forehead pressed against the cold porcelain.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too merciless.

You gripped the edges of the sink until your knuckles went white, the taste of iron on your tongue, your reflection a stranger—wild-eyed, mascara streaked, trembling.

Behind you, one of the senior engineers lingered in the doorway.

Not intruding, not offering empty comfort. Just waiting. Watching with that same grim patience carved into the lines of his face.

When the silence stretched too long, he spoke. Low. Gravelly.

“Chin up.”

You flinched, choking on a sob.

He stepped closer, crossing his arms, gaze sharp but not cruel. “I told you before. The worst is yet to come. This sport—” his jaw clenched, eyes flicking to the headlines blaring from a phone someone had left on the counter “—it doesn’t just test machines. It chews people alive.”

Your breath rattled, uneven. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone hardened, slicing through your spiral. “Because if you don’t, they’ll win. Every reporter, every armchair critic, every person waiting for you to fail—they’ll eat you whole. And he…” His eyes softened for the first time. “That boy is fighting enough battles on track. Don’t make him fight yours too.”

You bit your lip so hard it split, copper blooming on your tongue. Slowly, shakily, you straightened. Wiped your mouth. Lifted your chin, though your body still trembled.

Minho gave a single, satisfied nod. “Good. Now remember this—Formula 1 doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t forget. And it sure as hell doesn’t love you back.”

The words lodged like lead in your chest.

He left you there, hollowed out but upright, staring at the wreckage in the mirror. And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you’d ever be strong enough to survive this world.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The fallout hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook tore through the garage like a man possessed, searching every corner for you. His pulse hammered, his hands still raw from the steering wheel. He needed to see you, to make sure you were okay, to anchor himself in your eyes—only to be hit with the new headline splashed across every screen.

Not the kiss this time. Something worse.

A photo of you, months ago, smiling as you shook hands with Ferrari’s team principal. Out of context, harmless. But paired with the words stamped beneath it, it was poison.

“Espionage Scandal: Red Bull Engineer Feeding Ferrari Secrets?”

His stomach dropped.

The garage was a warzone—phones buzzing, engineers whispering, reporters already circling like vultures. And everywhere he looked, it was your name.

“Red Bull Seductress.” “She Used Him.” “Jungkook’s Miracle Season Built on Lies?”

He knew about Ferrari. He’d heard the offer, knew you’d turned it down for him. But seeing you painted this way—scheming, manipulative, disloyal—it felt like he was staring at a stranger.

And the worst part? The proof looked airtight. Too airtight. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used him. And God, you were so good at what you did—so good at reading him, guiding him. Maybe you’d been just as good at hiding the truth.

He tried to push the thought away. Tried to remind himself of the way you’d looked at him, the way your hands shook when you touched his, the way you’d whispered you weren’t leaving. But the headlines kept screaming louder. Doubt dug its claws into his chest.

When you finally found him in the hallway, it was like a blade to the heart.

“Jungkook—” your voice cracked.

He froze. Helmet still in his hand, eyes locked on you, throat closing around everything he wanted to say. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t trust his own voice. Because if he opened his mouth, he didn’t know if it would be to defend you—or to demand the truth.

So he said nothing.

The silence between you grew heavy, unbearable. Your face crumpled, the devastation in your eyes worse than any crash he’d ever endured.

Jimin appeared, cutting the tension like a knife. His jaw was tight, voice clipped. “You need to go home. Now.”

You shook your head, desperate. “I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t do this—”

Jimin’s voice softened, urgent. “I know. But this storm? You can’t fight it here. Not today. Let me get you out the back.”

Jungkook stood rooted to the spot, guilt gnawing through him as Jimin guided you away, his arm firm around your shoulders.

You didn’t look back. He couldn’t make himself call your name.

And that silence—the silence he chose—was louder than every headline in the world.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The garage was a blur.

Voices rose and fell around him, reporters shouting, cameras flashing—but none of it reached Jungkook. It was all static, like his head was submerged underwater.

What he couldn’t block out was you.

The image burned behind his eyelids: your body curled in on itself, eyes wild with panic, lungs choking on air that wouldn’t come. You looked like someone had cut every string holding you up. And he hadn’t moved. He’d just stood there.

Focus on the race. Jin’s voice echoed like a curse. His brother’s warning from Monaco clawed at him now—One mistake, and it’ll be both of your careers.

But this wasn’t a mistake. This was ruin.

His jaw locked, helmet crushing beneath his grip as the headlines blared across the big screen overhead.

Affair.

Espionage.

She used him.

They painted you as a stranger. Cold. Calculated. A woman with nothing but ambition in her veins. And maybe what terrified him most was the doubt gnawing at him—because he did know you. Didn’t he?

Every late-night strategy session. Every time your hands steadied his before lights-out. Every glance that lingered too long when you thought no one was looking. You weren’t some faceless manipulator in those moments. You were his.

But another part of him—the part trained to survive in this brutal world—whispered it would be easier if you had played him. If every kiss, every laugh, every whispered be careful had just been a performance. Because then he could hate you. And hating you would hurt less than this—than wanting you still, even as the world shredded you apart.

His chest burned with that contradiction. Anger, confusion, longing—all tangled into something raw enough to make him feel sick.

“Jungkook.”

Jimin’s voice cut through, steady but heavy. He had just walked you out. Jungkook could feel the absence of you hanging in the air, like smoke after fire.

“She’s gone,” Jimin said quietly. “I put her in a car.”

Jungkook turned, throat raw. His voice came out hoarse, breaking on the edges: “She didn’t do it.”

“I know.” Jimin’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. But behind it, there was something else—something that made Jungkook’s stomach twist.

“The question is…” Jimin’s words landed like a blade. “…do you?”

That night, alone in his hotel room, Jungkook scrolled until his eyes burned. Article after article, dissecting you, crucifying you. That damn picture of your kiss replaying on loop, like it wasn’t his lips too.

He pressed his palm against his mouth, remembering the warmth of it, the way you’d tasted like something he wanted to ruin himself for.

And he wondered—sick to his stomach—if he’d just watched the only person who really believed in him walk out of his life for good.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Monza.

Temple of Speed.

Temple of ghosts.

Jungkook hadn’t slept. The hotel ceiling stared back at him all night, the sheets twisted like restraints around his legs. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you—your face when the cameras swarmed, when the headlines called you a traitor, when you begged him with your eyes to believe you.

And he hadn’t.

Not enough.

By morning, the rain clouds had given way to a harsh September sun, but his chest still felt sodden, heavy. He walked through the paddock with his jaw set, refusing to meet the flashes, ignoring the questions journalists hurled at him. Let them fine him, let them crucify him.

Passing the Red Bull suite, he caught his brother’s voice through the crack in the door.

Calm.

Detached.

“It’s for the best. He’ll thank me when this storm blows over. She was never going to last in this sport.”

Jungkook’s vision tunneled.

He shoved the door open. Jin sat there with a tablet in hand, scrolling telemetry like none of this mattered. Like your life hadn’t been set on fire by his hand.

“You,” Jungkook rasped, rain still dripping off his jacket. His voice trembled, not with weakness, but fury. “You did this.”

Jin looked up, unbothered. “I saved you.”

“You ruined her!” Jungkook roared, shoving the table so hard the tablet crashed to the ground. “She believed in me when no one else did. And you—”

“I protected you from yourself,” Jin snapped back, cold as a scalpel. “She was a liability. She would’ve destroyed you.”

“She’s the only reason I’m still standing!” Jungkook’s voice cracked, rage spilling raw and unrestrained. “You think I’m your pawn, Jin? I’m your brother. And I swear to God, if you ever touch her name again—”

His hands shook.

With rage.

With grief.

With love that refused to die.

For the first time in his life, Jungkook hated his brother.

Truly hated him.

None of it mattered—not if he couldn’t survive the day in one piece.

Back in the garage, Jimin caught him by the shoulder. His voice was low but urgent. “If we’re going to help her, we need to be smart,” Jimin said. “To clear her name, you’d have to admit it wasn’t just an affair—it was real. You’d be taking the fall.”

Jungkook froze. The weight of it pressed against his ribcage. “Your reputation, your career,” Jimin continued. “You’ll risk lose everything you’ve worked for. Are you sure you want this?”

His throat burned. His fists clenched so tight his nails cut crescents into his palms.

“I’d rather lose everything than lose her,” Jungkook said hoarsely. And it was the only truth he had left.

The call came.

Race time.

The garage felt foreign with a new engineer feeding him numbers, the rhythm broken, the sync lost. His head wasn’t in the data, it was in the betrayal. Every instruction grated against him. Every lap felt jagged, wrong.

And then Ocon crossed him in the paddock tunnel before lights out, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t think Red Bull hired sluts as engineers, but—guess they’ll try anything.”

White-hot fury exploded in Jungkook’s chest. His fists flew before he even registered the motion, shoving Ocon back so hard the wall rattled. Another second, another word, and he would’ve driven his knuckles into the man’s face.

It took three crew members to drag him away.

Helmet on, heart pounding, breath ragged, Jungkook slid into the cockpit. The Temple of Speed roared to life around him. His pulse matched the scream of the engine.

He wasn’t ready. He knew it.

And for the first time in his career, he didn’t care.

The sky had lied to him.

Clear blue when he left the paddock, and now—ominous, swollen clouds rolling in faster than anyone expected. By formation lap, the heavens had split open. Sheets of rain slashed across Monza’s straights, turning the Temple of Speed into a trap.

The worst possible scenario.

Jungkook’s chest was tight beneath the harness. He hated wet tracks. Always had. The car never felt like his anymore in the rain—more like an animal barely tamed, snarling to throw him off at the first mistake. And now he didn’t even have you in his ear, reading the skies, steadying his pulse, warning him where grip might still exist.

The rain came down like knives.

Every lap blurred into survival. Tires aquaplaning. Wheelspin threatening at every corner exit. Visibility shredded by rooster tails that turned the track into a blind labyrinth. He gritted his teeth, fighting physics itself.

“Take it easy,” the new engineer urged through comms. Too calm. Too clinical. The voice grated. Wrong.

Because the one voice he needed—the one that always cut through the storm—wasn’t there.

And for the first time in his career, Jungkook realized how terrifying silence could be.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

London was gray, but not as gray as you.

You hadn’t left your flat in days.

The curtains were still drawn, the same mug of untouched tea sat cold on the table. You hadn’t changed out of your pajamas—just traded the same shirt for the same blanket, wrapping yourself tighter, as if fabric could hold together what your chest couldn’t.

Your best friend sat beside you, her hand wrapped around yours. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her thumb stroked your knuckles with the quiet patience of someone who understood that sometimes, words only made the silence heavier.

The screen in front of you glowed like a wound. Sky Sports commentary filled the room, but it felt muffled, distant, like it was happening under water. You knew you shouldn’t be watching. Every headline, every push notification for the past week had told you to stay away—that he wasn’t yours anymore, that you’d been erased from the story.

But you couldn’t.

You needed to see him. Just once. Even if only through glass and pixels. Proof he was still here. Still fighting.

Your friend’s grip tightened when the clouds above Monza darkened. The commentators were already whispering about the storm front, about “the curse of the Italian rain.” You knew his weakness. He hated wet tracks. And without you in his ear—

“Don’t,” your friend whispered sharply, as if she could read your thoughts. “Don’t go there.”

But your chest was already a furnace of dread.

And then—Lap 27.

The camera panned to the number seven car, rooster tails spraying behind it. You leaned forward, breath fogging the glass.

Just one clean corner, you begged silently.

Just one.

The car twitched.

Hydroplaned.

And in one impossible heartbeat—it was gone.

Steel met concrete with a sound that seemed to tear through your own bones. Sparks exploded into the storm, flames roaring to life before your mind could catch up. The screen turned into hell itself—black smoke, red fire, twisted carbon fiber disappearing into a wall of rain.

Driver #7 didn’t climb out.

The world stopped. The commentators choked mid-sentence. Other cars slowed, a few pulling off completely, drivers raising their hands, helmets shaking in disbelief.

Silence fell across the paddock.

Silence fell across your flat.

You didn’t even feel your knees give out. One second you were sitting, the next you were on the floor, palms pressed so hard into the carpet that your nails left crescents. A sound ripped out of you—raw, animal, breaking. “Please. Please. No. No. No—”

Your friend dropped down with you, pulling you against her chest, but you barely felt her. Your body shook with sobs that felt like they were tearing pieces out of your lungs.

Prayers tumbled out—words you hadn’t said in years, bargains you weren’t sure you believed in. Anything, anything, if he would just open that cockpit. If he would just move.

The broadcast cut to pitlane. Medics sprinting. Marshals battling the fire with foam and frantic arms. Time distorted—every second stretching into eternity. And then, at last—

They pulled him out.

Limp. Charred. Smoke still curling from his suit. The stretcher disappeared into a sea of helmets and orange overalls.

Alive.

But broken.

The only word whispered on the broadcast was critical.

As the storm kept hammering Monza, your tears blurred the screen into nothing but colors and light.

But you heard the crowd.

You heard the silence.

You heard the weight of the world as it realized Jungkook’s future, your future, hung by the thinnest of threads.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

The flight to Italy felt like punishment.

Hours collapsed into one endless blur of whispered prayers against your palms, of turbulence that rattled your bones, of an engine hum that drowned out the pounding of your heart. You hadn’t slept, couldn’t—because every time you blinked, you saw the fire swallowing his car, saw the moment he didn’t move.

By the time you reached Italy, you felt like a ghost chasing the living. Your body stayed heavy, dragging through airport corridors and taxi rides, but your soul—your soul was already there, racing ahead of you, desperate just to see him breathing.

The hospital was a cathedral of despair.

Bleached walls, sterile light, floors polished so clean you could see your reflection—one you barely recognized, hollow-eyed and trembling. Every nurse you passed wore the same expression: careful, pitying, heavy with things they didn’t say out loud.

And then—finally.

The nurse guiding you stopped at a door.

She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if sound itself might shatter him.

“He’s awake.”

Your pulse stuttered so violently you thought you might collapse.

Inside, the world shrank to a single bed.

He lay pale against the sheets, hair damp with sweat, bruises splashed across his jaw like dark ink. Bandages wound tight around his ribs, wires crawled over his skin, tethering him to machines that hummed with quiet vigilance. He looked broken, fragile. But then—

His eyes found you.

Instant. Unwavering.

Like they’d been waiting.

“Y/N,” Jungkook rasped. The syllables frayed, his voice like torn fabric.

Air tore from your lungs. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding it for days. You stumbled forward, hands trembling, hovering over his until he shifted—just barely—lifting his hand enough for you to seize it, to cradle it like it was the only real thing in the universe.

“You scared the life out of me,” you whispered, your tears dripping onto the back of his hand. Your voice broke. “I thought I lost you.”

His throat worked around the effort of swallowing. His lips cracked into the faintest shape of a smile. “I thought… I wouldn’t get to see you again.”

“Don’t,” you gasped, shaking your head fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

That tired, crooked smile tugged again. “Still bossing me around, even when I’m half-dead.”

A sound tumbled out of you—half sob, half laugh. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

Silence settled, fragile and holy. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, barely there, but it anchored you to him, tethered you to the rhythm of his unsteady breath.

“You know what I kept thinking?” he whispered, each word costing him.

“What?” you breathed, terrified of breaking the spell.

“That I didn’t tell you enough. That I didn’t show you enough.” His eyes shone wet under the fluorescent light. “I wasn’t scared of the crash. Or the fire. I was scared of never… getting to say it.”

Your heart lodged in your throat. “Say what?”

His chest shuddered on a breath, and the truth cracked him open. “That I love you.”

The words spilled like they’d been dammed for years, heavy and unstoppable. His hand tightened in yours with surprising strength, as though he needed you to feel it, believe it. “I’m so goddamn in love with you, Y/N. And I hate myself for waiting this long to admit it.”

Your tears fell faster, hot and unrelenting. You leaned in until your forehead pressed against the back of his hand, clutching it like a lifeline. “You’re an idiot,” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “The biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah?” His lips ghosted a smile, weak but real. “Takes one to love one.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze, every wall you’d built crumbling under the raw ache in his eyes. The words tumbled out of you before you could stop them. “I love you too. God help me, Jungkook, I love you so much it hurts.”

The monitor beside him beeped erratically with his quickened pulse. His hand shook, but he reached for your face anyway, thumb brushing clumsily against your cheek as if he needed to feel the tears he’d caused.

For the first time in forever, he exhaled a laugh that wasn’t bitter, wasn’t strained.

Just broken relief.

“Finally,” he breathed.

You pressed his hand harder to your cheek, closing your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. Not again. Not after this.”

And when his shoulders softened, when his eyes slipped closed with the ghost of a smile on his lips, you knew.

For the first time since the fire, since the scandal, since the lies.

He believed you.

The door opened softly.

Jimin stepped in, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. His gaze landed on your joined hands and softened. For a moment, he looked like he might break apart entirely.

“Good,” he said firmly, his voice low but steady. “Good. Because we’re going to fix this. All of it. Together.”

You nodded, and for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

Two Days Later – Press Conference

The media room buzzed like a hive before the storm.

Reporters jostled elbows, microphones angled forward, camera shutters popping even before he stepped inside.

Then Jungkook appeared.

Bruises still purple across his jaw, bandages peeking beneath the cuff of his shirt, posture stiff with pain—but his head was high. His walk was deliberate, almost defiant, like every step was proof that he was still standing.

The chatter died instantly. A silence thick with anticipation settled over the room.

He reached the podium, fingers curling briefly around the mic as if to ground himself. His gaze swept the crowd, steady, almost cold—until it caught on you at the very back. Just for a second, his shoulders loosened.

“There’s been a lot of talk,” Jungkook began. His voice was rough around the edges but unwavering. “About me. About my team. About my race engineer.”

A ripple of tension swept the room. Pens poised, cameras leaned forward.

“I want to make this clear: there was no affair,” he said, jaw tightening. “What there is… is a relationship. It may not be the kind you expect between a driver and his engineer, but her professionalism has never once been compromised. Not once.”

The room detonated. Reporters shouted over one another, flashes burst like fireworks, the noise rising to chaos. Jungkook didn’t flinch.

Jackson Wang’s voice cut through the clamor—smooth, insistent. “So are you confirming you’re together? And Jungkook—what do you say to those questioning her credibility in the paddock?”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitched, not a smile but something sharper. He leaned into the mic. “She is the most talented, most professional engineer in this paddock. Period. Anyone who’s worked with her knows it. And if they don’t—” His eyes burned into the cameras, unyielding. “They will.”

For once, the reaction was different. Instead of scandal, the room buzzed with something else—approval, even admiration. The headlines shifted in real time, the tone changing like the tide: Power Couple of the Paddock.

Later that day, the FIA released its findings. No faulty part. No espionage. No breach of conduct. Smoke and shadows, nothing more.

Ferrari, surprisingly, confirmed the whispers too. Their offer to Jungkook had been real. They wanted him for the scarlet seat. And though he hadn’t signed, the very acknowledgment validated everything.

And behind the scenes, you learned the rest.

It had been Jin who pulled the final strings—moving quietly to clean up the mess he’d created, scrubbing the false reports, leaning on his contacts until your name was clear again. He hadn’t asked for forgiveness. Jungkook hadn’t given it.

The silence between brothers lingered like an open wound.

But then Red Bull’s official announcement blazed across every screen: YN will resume her position as Race Engineer for Car 7, starting next race weekend.

Your hands trembled as you read it. Relief slammed into you, leaving you unsteady, lightheaded.

You weren’t just back. You were back with him.

And now—for better or worse—the whole world knew it.

But every race has a final lap, and theirs was still to come.

(End of Part I) EPILOGUE (PART 2)

🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️ 🏎️

author's note: hi guys, my name is farrow, just to introduce myself to you all! i'm not new to writing, but i am new to writing for this group/fandom! i had a lot of fun writing this, that's probably why it became so long to be truthful, so i hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much, or even more haha. i was really debating on when to make my txt blog or if i should even create one (since i have been trying to be more offline these days) but i wanted to release this fic for my ult's bday real bad, lol, instead of just keeping it on my computer for only me after getting all the words out onto page. btw this part one of two. the next part will come out in around week (because i’m not ai and I can’t write 20k words in one night unfortunately). as a small spoiler, just know that the smut will be heavy, filthy, and long. also, i chose to split the fic because i was afraid it would crash everyone’s apps when they tried to read it due to the length. i just wanted to finish off by saying: please leave him birthday wishes on weverse and other socials, our baby ningdungie deserves the world ♥︎ oh also if you guys could please give me feedback on this fic whether through asks, replies, or reblogs, i would really appreciate it! i guess i would just love a sign to see if i should write more txt fics ha.

The last thing you want to do after a long day of back to back Thursday meetings is make small talk with your direct manager about the forced corporate retreat taking place over the weekend that was disguised as a “team-building workshop.” Yet here you were, finding yourself cornered in the breakroom, swirling a flimsy wooden stirrer into the paper cup holding your lukewarm Earl Grey tea that you had accidentally dumped too much honey into. 

Your manager sighs, beside you, long and theatrical. The breakroom, for all its intents and purposes, with its aspirational signage and sad, fake succulents is not a very good place to rest or unwind. The countertops are stacked with half-clean dishes and there are multi-colored passive-aggressive Post-Its targeting those that keep leaving oat milk out and stealing other people’s food littering the door of the refrigerator. The rickety dishwasher hums like it’s preparing for takeoff, and someone’s tuna pasta is dying a slow, pungent death in the microwave which hasn’t been cleaned since last month. And because of its proximity to the copy room from which you can hear the whir of printers, rattling through reams of paper, spitting out copious stacks of memos and project proposals which everyone will spend 15 seconds flipping through while drinking their morning coffee or bored out of their minds at some all-hands-on-deck meeting and then never look at again.

Sakura, your manager is looking down at her Samsung tablet. Her frown deepens as she scrolls, manicured nail tapping the screen with enough force to qualify as abuse. “They changed the plan again,” she mutters darkly, her voice pitched just loud enough to hint that she will make sure that someone suffers for it. She’s five seconds away from hurling the device into a wall, much to the displeasure of Taehyun Kang, you’re sure, who runs the IT department like a warship under siege and treats every cracked screen and ruined device like an act of treason. “Now I have to bring the whiteboards and the workshop packets. I told them I couldn’t take anyone in the backseat if they made me take more supplies in my car.”

You don’t really need her to explain. Ever since she bought her C-Class with her Q1 bonus, Sakura’s been treating that Mercedes like a fragile newborn that was one scuff away from throwing her into an existential crisis. Nothing goes in the backseat unless it’s leather-approved or warranty-protected. The moment she mentioned “supplies,” you knew your chance at a carpool died.

You glance at her, offering a polite nod that you hope communicates both understanding and a desperate desire for this conversation to be over. It feels muggy in here and you are starting to feel dizzy from too many workers stuffed into one conference room sized mega breakroom. You can already start to feel your silk blouse clinging to your lower back, the faint tackiness of sweat blooming beneath your bra. You hope it’s not visible in the front or you will have to walk cross-armed the entire way back to safety. The last thing you need is to end the work day with visible sweat stains which you’re sure will make the sales department, you share your office floor with, leer at you. Alphas can show up in polo shirts, flex their biceps after an hour long lunch at the golf course, and croak out jokes but an omega with a wrinkled blouse that’s darkened from sweat? That’s just another HR debacle waiting to happen. “She seduced me,” you can already hear the pathetic alphas whining their excuses. Of course they don’t know that you are an omega but you’ve seen enough betas harassed by them too to know that it won’t end well for you either way.

“I was gonna say you could ride with me,” she continues, slightly distracted; she’s already switched tabs to the itinerary, eyes flicking across hotel check-ins and team-building breakout sessions with names like Trusting Your Cubicle Buddy and Synergy Sprints. “But I don’t think there’s space unless you want to sit under half a dozen tote bags in the passenger seat and a case of Celsius under your feet.”

“That’s alright,” you say, a little too quickly. “I’m fine driving myself.”

You deeply regret everything about this moment. The honey in your tea has congealed into a thick, viscous glistening blob at the bottom of the cup, entirely unappetizing. Your toes are throbbing inside your Chanel pointed slingbacks which you chose at 7 a.m. when you still believed you could manifest confidence by dressing like someone who had it together. Worst of all, you’re starting to sweat again, and you’re almost positive you can smell yourself—just barely, just underneath the blockers, but enough to make you spiral as you pretend to pay enough attention to Sakura to not raise any red flags. This is ridiculous; they said that they would fix the third floor central air system last Tuesday. Moreover, you’d used half a bottle of scent-masking spray this morning and layered two brands for a contingency measure but nothing works against an omega trying to slip under the radar like central air failure and the triple-digit misery of a late-summer heatwave. 

Sakura hands you an unopened bottle of water fresh from the cooler, “I talked to Soobin and he said apparently the HVAC guys are going to be coming in this weekend to work on the air conditioning while everyone’s gone upstate for the work thing,” she offers, like that’s supposed to help you now. “But where was I? Oh yes! I think Jake’s car has room for you. He and his team said they were taking his Rivian for the extra leg space. Alphas,” she scoffed, “I guess they need it.”

The sales team that Jake was a part of was led by Jungwon and was made up of seven otherworldly handsome, but truly awful alphas. Alphas only made up 20% of the population but they were constantly given leadership and client-facing roles in the corporate world. They just radiated aura and confidence. You’d rather walk barefoot on hot pavement than get stuck in an enclosed space with a bunch of post-fraternity alphas bragging about their elite university MBAs, expensive luxury penthouses, and all the other unnecessary things they spent ridiculous amounts of money on for six straight hours. What a truly awful way for them to compare dick sizes and how masculine, alpha, they were. There isn’t enough scent blocker in the world. Not for them. And definitely not for you. 

Abandoning your tea, which you think it’s destined for the trash bin at this point, you instead reach for the water bottle, twisting the lid just to keep your hands moving. You imagine sitting between two overconfident alphas in beige summer blazers, surrounded by heavy Dior Sauvage cologne and unsolicited takes on the stock market and their Robinhood portfolios. Alphas yelling about their fantasy football team lineups in the backseat, arguing about Travis Kelce and Joe Burrow. Someone eventually making a shitty joke about omegas being overly sensitive to people getting road rage or being susceptible to heatstroke. Them probably just bringing down the mood with bad vibes, assuming, of course, that you were a beta, and should stop defending omegas and to ‘lighten up’ a bit.

“No, really,” you say again, voice sharper now. “I’ll drive myself.”

There’s a finality to it, a sharp unquestionable edge that even Sakura knows better than to push against.

Sakura shrugs, already back to her tablet; she’s fervently swiping through a slide deck about the morning brunch food options from the looks of it. “Alright,” she says. “Safe drive.”

With that, you pivot towards the sink to first dump your tea before throwing the paper cup in the bin. Your heels click against the tiles as you cross the hallway toward the elevators, shoulders stiff, scalp prickling from the heat, slightly damp. Your head is already an organized chaos of thoughts, as you consider the fact that you still haven’t started packing for the trip or written down the rules for your cousin Yuna to take care of your grumpy maine coon kitty. 

You therefore cannot be blamed for not paying attention to the person who got into the elevator after you, whose presence you had dismissed until he starts loudly clearing his throat next to you.

You look up, a frown marring your face, “Something wrong Huening?” The words are said distastefully, pointedly hinting at your annoyance. You’re not exactly short for an omega, which is why no one ever seems to realize that you are one but of course it’s nothing compared to the towering hulking alpha next to you, forcing you to strain your neck to meet his gaze. 

“Are you driving to the retreat?” Kai Huening asks politely, looking down at you owlishly behind his circular spectacles which are sliding down his, you scowl, perfect Roman nose. 

“Why?” you ask, apparently full of aggression this fine Thursday afternoon, “Afraid I’m gonna invoice daddy the gas mileage?” You can feel the irritation bubbling just beneath your skin now, prickly and hot and irrational—except maybe it’s not irrational. You know what? You’ve just decided that it’s completely, deeply rational. Where does he get off on bothering you while you’re slowly melting from the heat waiting for the clock to strike 5 p.m.

Kai blinks at you, chocolate brown eyes flashing in confusion, the mole underneath his left eyebrow standing out against the stark paleness of his skin, his dark overgrown bangs falling forward, “Y/N you should always be asking the company for reimbursement for anything you have to pay for related to work.”

“Why then?” You’re looking at him discerningly and absolutely do not appreciate how he looks so put together and refreshed in his dark gray slacks and light blue button down. He’s even wearing a flattering slate gray sweater vest and doesn’t seem affected by the late summer heat at all. No sweat stains. No signs of heatstroke. Not even a wrinkle out of place. He looks cool. Calm. Like the humidity doesn’t touch him. Like being an alpha has its own internal A/C setting.

It’s offensive, really.

You’re actively dampening under multiple layers of silk, scent blockers, and aluminum deodorant, while he’s standing there like he just stepped out of the promotional campaign for Uniqlo’s end of summer catalog. Personally, you think to yourself with a delicate sniff, you’re more partial to J. Crew. 

Kai, leans back against the elevator wall, a hand thrown lazily into his slacks’ pocket in a move that is both smooth yet casual, like this is a normal conversation between two coworkers, like you haven’t been pointedly avoiding him for the last twenty-four months. The two moles above his upper lip, framing it on both sides, draw your attention as his lips split in a small assured smile and he says, “Can’t I ask you about your travel plans Y/N? We’re something like friends. Anyways, the planning committee has been acting like a bunch of screaming chickens with their heads cut off, so I can’t help but worry that people do have concrete travel arrangements in place.”

“There’s that leadership your daddy’s so proud of!” Wow. You are mean today. Surprising even yourself. But what were you supposed to do? Acknowledge his comment about you two being friends instead?

“Yeah righ. Not quite so,” Kai cackles, his eyes slipping shut for a moment, letting out a shriek of chortles, laughing like you guys are in on a joke together instead of you trying to attack him, for no reason that you can justify—well. It’s fine, you just won’t think about that. “But I’ll let him know your opinion on it.”

The elevator hums around you, soft and mechanical. You cross your arms too tightly and immediately regret it as the sweat under your armpits begins to trickle again.

You don’t know what to do with the fact that he doesn’t fight back. That he chuckles away verbal attacks, doesn’t even acknowledge your bite, sharp as it is, and keeps standing in front of you anyway without any sense of self-preservation. Is it because he’s an alpha, you wonder bitterly, does he truly have nothing to fear from you?

You’re not sure what to do with the part of you that wants him to push back.

“You’ve got that weird finance bro carpool, right?” you ask, trying to seem interested but you are just about tapped out of your ability to tolerate human interactions today. It’s Thursday. Meetings always get masspiled for Thursday so that Fridays can be light, with you all getting out after lunch as Summer Fridays were in effect. You were in enough strategy huddles and check ins today that if Kai doesn't end this conversation soon, you might do something drastic that you will both regret. You reach across him, pointedly tapping the elevator button like it’ll speed up your exit, denying the inevitable truth that you were both headed to the same floor and that he could just follow you to your office. 

“Mm, yeah right. Hardly,” Kai grumbles, shifting his weight as he readjusts his leaning pose against the brushed steel wall slightly, “I was meant to carpool with Soobin, Yeonjun, Beomgyu, and Taehyun, but of course Beomgyu tells me I suddenly can’t come.”

You arch a perfectly threaded and laminated eyebrow, hoping you look poised and unaffected by the heat, “He kicked you out?”

“Something about ‘too many extroverts and not enough aux cords,’” he says dryly. “Yeonjun offered to force Beomgyu to sit in the trunk to make it work, but I don't want to risk his wrath after he gets thwarted.”

“Great news,” you shoot back, maliciously. “I hear Jake’s looking for one more person to fill out his car.”

Kai narrows his eyes at you, “You want me to sit behind Riki? He’s as tall as Soobin.”

“You were going to be in a car with Tall x Together, what difference does it make?” You shrug, still furiously tapping at the elevator down button, it’s like muscle memory, you can’t make yourself stop. Tall x Together was what the other workers liked to call Kai and his band of nerds at Huening Corp. Five giant men who were gangly and only the slightest bit awkward but also kind, hardworking, and handsome. Even you can admit that much.

Kai suddenly covers your hand with his, pausing your rapid presses to the elevator buttons. His palm is warm, steady, and large enough to make the elevator buttons vanish beneath both of your fingers. His nails are shiny, like they get buffed regularly; they’re neatly trimmed, or had been filed, and there’s no dirt or grim underneath the nailbeds. The sudden contact jolts through you like static electricity. “I am pretty sure I got kicked out of the ‘Tall x Together’ car for my height, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low and even.

You still, hardly even daring to breathe.

He’s too close to you, almost caging you in between his body and the buttons. He doesn’t seem bothered by the proximity like you are, even though you know he knows. Kai suddenly adjusts the strap of his laptop bag, which you hadn’t noticed until now. But it’s all you can focus on now, the black utility type bag dangling off one shoulder and then his hard torso, together becoming the two sides of the triangle boxing you in. He gulps and your eyes snag on the scent receptor half hidden by the collar of his shirt, at the mole on his neck that looks like it’s begging to be kissed, or nibbled.

You shift slightly, trying not to let it show how much his heat is affecting you. But your scent blockers were already working overtime, and now you’re sweating under periwinkle silk and a thorough cross examination, the heavy unyielding weight of being perceived.

And then he looks at you—properly, this time, you mean. Head slightly tilted, expression entirely unreadable, lips parted and you can see his teeth peek out. The bottom ones are completely straight but the top ones are slightly crooked, loping down in a curve. He was always losing or misplacing his retainer in college; you can't help but wonder if he’s completely given up on it these days. You observe his bangs falling a little too low over his brow again, nearly hiding the way he watches you through those dark espresso bean colored eyes. Like he’s thinking. Calculating.

“I’ll just go ahead and say it. Can-I-accompany-you-on-your-drive?” he asks, words stumbling into each other as he speaks fast, like he’s afraid he will forget the words if he doesn’t get them out in a rush. 

You blink up at him, a deer trapped in front of headlights, “What?”

Kai sighs like he’s steeling himself to say the words again; not frustrated, not exactly, but like he’s bracing for impact, for what he thinks in his head is probably the inevitable rejection, “Can I—”

“No I heard you,” you interrupt, “I just…Why?”

His answer is immediate. 

“Because I was hoping you had space,” he says simply.

You blink… again.

“What?”

“In your car,” he clarifies, voice even, patient and unfrustrated by your lack of rapid comprehension, “If you’re driving, I’d like to ride with you.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Maybe two seconds, possibly three. But in that time, the overhead lights flicker slightly, and you realize with a quiet, crawling horror that you can smell him now. It hits you slowly at first. Familiar, but off-register. It’s muted under his cologne which just smells like crisp cotton and expensive detergent that probably promised him that he would smell like a mountain after the rain in its tagline, but you can smell his pheromones. He smells like a woody boozy mix of cedarwood and spiced bourbon. A rich, slow-burning concoction that smells a little too warm for August, just a bit too heady for the summer, slightly out of place. And as you involuntarily inhale deeply, against your will, tempted by his captivating alpha scent, you smell something that surprisingly comes off like the sugary syrupy scent of a juicy, perfect for harvest, peach. 

Your breath catches. It’s subtle. The kind of sweetness you want to paint on your tongue and lips, suck on and savor. Not floral, not artificial… just fresh ripened fruit, sun-warmed, easily bruised, prime for picking. You want to bite down on him. 

You inhale again, even more deeply. You don’t mean to. But your body betrays you before your brain can issue the opposing command.

It’s faint. Controlled. Nothing so forward that it would get him reported. Nothing about it is overtly aggressive, there’s no dominance spike, no flare of scent that would earn a side-eye from HR. But it’s there: clean heat, cedarwood and bourbon, something sharp and sweet curling at the edges of your awareness.

You wonder if it’s always been there, tucked under the abrasive clean scent of linen and alkalic soap, and you had just stopped noticing, or if he’s slipped up somehow and your heightened omega senses, primed for awareness of alphas, had finally picked it up.

You step half a pace back, just a fraction. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to breathe again.

“Why would I let you do that?” you ask when you are finally back in control; your voice is quieter now. Not soft. Just… tempered.

“We’ve known each other since college,” Kai says. “I don’t bite.”

You nearly laugh, but it comes out harsh, raspy. Your throat is dry. You fumble with the water bottle from Sakura, fingers scrambling over the cap, struggling to open it until he takes it from your hand and undos the cap for you in a smooth effortless move before handing you back the bottle. You drink too fast. The water’s cold, but not enough, a few drops escape the corner of your mouth and trail down your chin, dampening the neckline of your blouse. You swipe at it quickly, pretending not to notice his eyes tracking the movement. “That’s exactly what someone who bites would say.”

Kai inhales sharply; there’s a not unnoteworthy pause. He then beams, the first real smile of his that you’ve seen in months. And you know it’s real because of how his lips are slightly downturned in a small but steady grin. It’s the familiar sight of his unique upside down smile that you had almost forgotten. The one that’s so contagious that you can feel the corners of your own mouth lifting up. “Then I’ll wear a muzzle. You leaving at seven?”

“You’re assuming I said yes.”

“You didn’t say no.”

You glare. This fucking guy. Retort, “You don’t even know where I live.”

“Then pick me up,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like he hasn’t just casually inserted himself into your personal space and bulldozed his way into wrecking the rest of your afternoon. Sure, the conversation will end when you two get off the elevator, but you’ll be thinking about it forever. The entire night. Tomorrow morning. Maybe the whole weekend at the retreat.“I’ll get us coffee. You still like the stuff from that Yemeni place, yeah, right?”

You freeze.

You hadn't been there in months. Not since early spring. Not since the last time you'd been too tired to make breakfast before work and ended up grabbing a cardamom and rose iced latte and a pistachio date pastry, the kind you used to split with him in college, when you two had early mornings where you had to set up events together for the club you both were officers in or for your shared major’s department. 

Why did he notice that? Or was it worse than that? He hadn't noticed you with your little latte in March but had rather remembered your order from college. Your time at undergrad had only overlapped for two years: his first two with your last two. Why did he remember that still?

You glance at him now: tall and annoyingly put-together, maddeningly composed, and still half-hiding behind those messy bangs and that unfazed self-assured measured cadence to his voice. He had traded his oversized hoodies and ripped baggy denim for well tailored slacks and form fitting buttoned shirts but his hair remained slightly too long like he didn’t want to look cookie cutter and corporate. You wondered if he still had dark circles around his eyes, looking as though he was cosplaying a helpless raccoon that was in over his head. Was he sleeping well? Or had he gotten better at skincare and applying concealer over the years?

The elevator finally dings, letting you both know that escape is finally coming.

He walks out without looking back, headed to work on debugging some issue or another you were sure. 

You hesitate. A one beat pause, then a two beat pause. Your mouth moves before your brain can stop it before the third.

“Wait,” you blurt out, confused on how you were meant to contact him. You didn’t want to ask to trade numbers. “Send me your address on Slack. Or… or, whatever.” You try to finish off in a way that sounds casual. As it was, you were going to head straight into the ladies room when he disappeared from view and then speed the next fifteen minutes screaming into the palms of your hands, your well-manicured nails lightly dimpling into your cheeks.

Kai nods. “Yeah, right. Sure.” 

He then pauses, almost like he doesn’t want the conversation to end. Like he wants to stay longer with you in this moment. This confuses you. Wasn’t he rushing to get out of the elevator? Or was that just a facade to show you how cool and confident he was. Alpha of the Year.

“Don’t be nervous, Y/N,” he says, voice soft.

His gaze lingers on you. Unreadable. Unbearable.

“It’s just me.”

You’re sitting bleary-eyed in the driver’s seat of your car at 6:51 a.m. the next morning, forehead resting against the gray and black steering wheel while the engine hums quietly beneath you. You raise your head to shoot a tired glare full of heat towards the brownstone townhouse across the street. The early August sky is still that pale, washed-out blue that falsely promises cooler temperatures, but you already know that 10 minutes outside is enough to make you start sweating. Your body disagrees with the concept of time; it insists that it’s still the middle of the night, not almost seven in the morning. In fact, in 29 minutes, it would be the normal time that you usually get up at to get ready for work. You are starting to think that waking up two hours and twenty minutes earlier than usual is really messing with you. You briefly contemplate murder—his, your own—it doesn’t matter.

You had slept like hell. The kind of restless, shallow half-sleep where your brain insists on reminding you of all the things you still have to do before you left Friday morning or things you could be forgetting to pack. Your electric toothbrush. Your special shampoo and conditioner full of peptides that promised you things like ionic bonding and deep cuticle repair. Cute but work-appropriate pajamas, just in case, if you have to trek outside your hotel room in the middle of the night. Chargers for every work and personal device you need to bring. The very concepts of dignity and professionalism. You did do one very last minute sweep before leaving the apartment, but you’re still convinced something vital is sitting on your kitchen counter right now, mocking you.

To be in front of Kai’s home by 7 a.m., you had to wake up at 5 a.m. Your alarm? That bone chilling default ringtone that Apple has. It horrifyingly shatters your sleep and peace every morning. You now associate the sound with trauma. Your skull still feels fragile even though it’s been almost two hours since you heard that alarm and woke up from terror and there is a pressure behind your eye socket trying to do you in. Your back aches from how you slept, or rather didn’t as your night was spent mostly tossing and turning after frantically finally packing at 2 a.m. And your first thought, even before your eyes had opened, was: I hate him.

In any case, you woke up at five and stared at the ceiling for a brief six minutes before reluctantly getting up to shower and get ready. 

By 5:15 a.m., you were standing in front of your bathroom mirror, attempting to resuscitate your hair with a Dyson Airwrap and a multitude of prayers but the humidity had other plans. It didn’t want to let you leave the house with a perfectly sleek blowout that would make Kai Huening stop and stare at you awestruck. Unfortunately, your hair had started curling at the temples no matter how many passes you made before you were forced to give up.

Thus, by 5:30 a.m., you had moved on to doing your makeup. You had been committed to achieving the no-makeup makeup look that the Tiktok influencers flooding your FYP swore by. The Hourglass concealer you bought? Creasing under your eyes and around your smile lines almost instantly. The Ilia mascara? Despite promising to be a tubing mascara, you had been starting to bore resemblance to the sleep-deprived racoon you used to compare Kai to in undergrad. Your lips? Overlined with Charlotte Tilbury and sticky with a supposedly mauve Rhode lip peptide that refused to show any pigment no matter how much you layered. You were almost tempted to wash it all off and give up. And did. If anything, letting Kai think that you were one of those omegas that didn’t try to look good for alphas was a good thing. 

By 6:05 a.m., with the help of some Bare Minerals powder foundation and a dark cherry red Fenty gloss, you had been ready to seize the day—and repack your Victoria’s Secret duffle bag. It had come free with your massive For Love & Lemons purchase and it was truly gargantuan with tons of pockets and endless space for everything that you had to bring. It fit basically all that you needed for the weekend: two sets of business professional clothes, some less formal but still nice clothes for other events, a set of workout clothes, pajamas, and delicates in a packing cube, three pairs of shoes in draw string pouches: kitten heels, practical sneakers, and slides for the hotel, your work laptop, personal ipad, various wires and plugs, a very necessary 60oz reusable water bottle, and of course all the snacks you will need for sustenance during a 6 hour car ride. You had your work bag/purse filled with anything else you could possibly need, but you still found yourself frantically pacing your kitchen trying to wrack your brain and cursing as you tried to think of anything else you could possibly need. Your ginger cat, Clementino, had hissed at you, watching your trek with squinted eyes. He resented being awake so early in the day. That makes two of us buddy, you had thought. You had eyed the note you left for Yuna under your fruit basket, dimly noting that you needed to finish your clementines, the citrus not the cat, before they shriveled up and turned into calcified stone fruit. 

Now, parked across the street from his townhouse (which by the way, his choice in residence had completely surprised you since you either expected him to still be living in the Huening family home or some highrise luxury apartment like the other corporate alpha bros) there was nothing left to do but to open up your phone and check the message that Kai had sent you. 

You sigh, unenthused to make that next step. Your phone is currently face-down on the passenger seat, screen dark, but the memory of last night’s text sits heavy in your mind. That message wasn’t even at the top of your Slack private messaging tab. No. It was in your SMS app. At 9:43 p.m. the night before you had received a text message from an unknown number.

304-814-2002: hey it’s kai. see you at 7 :) this is my address below ⬇️  304-814-2002: 553 hhm road…

You had had a minor meltdown when you had gotten that message last night.

First of all: an unsaved number??? Sure you were expecting Slack but even if he somehow got your number from the employee directory (assuming it got deleted off his phone any time in the past four years through various software updates and device upgrades), why was it a different number from the one he had had in college? 

Meanwhile, you had stayed faithful to the same number since your parents got you your first cellphone in middle school. 

You had stared at it for ten straight minutes last night before muttering an anxious repeated, “No. No, no, no, no,” into the empty silence of your living room, while pacing like you were being chased.

Why did he always have the leg up?

Why did he always have to make his move before you could counter it?

Why did he always have to make it seem like it was no big deal? Like it was nothing. Like you were the only one spiraling. The one who was unfairly overreacting.

You had planned for a Slack message. Something innocuous, predictable. You’d even entertained the idea that maybe he’d forget to send it entirely since you had remembered how he would constantly get distracted back in undergrad and had a seemingly short attention span. But no. Not only did you not get to send the first message and thus get to dictate the tone of the conversation, didn't even get the advantage of pretending that you were somehow doing him a huge favor, but he had somehow had your number.

How? How did he get it? How long had he had it? Was it back from college? You two had really only ever talked through Discord or Instagram/Snapchat DMs back in the day. Maybe the occasional group chat ping if you were working the same event. Did he try to find it from the information the company had on file for you? Did he pull it from the company directory? Did he ask Bahiyyih to look you up in the HR system? And if so, when did he look you up? When he had started at Huening Corp. two years ago or was it sometime more recent???

This man was always destroying your peace.

Your car is idling, the engine’s low vibration buzzing faintly through the steering wheel. Your windows are cracked a little bit, just enough to let in the early morning air; it’s still cool, but the sticky promise of future heavier humidity and higher temperatures clings to it. However, it’s not bad enough that you have to turn on the A/C yet.

The digital clock on your dash blinks once to update the time and now reads 6:58 a.m. 

You still haven’t messaged him. 

You wonder if he’s going to suddenly materialize at exactly 7:00 a.m.; just appear from the ether and scare the hell out of you with a knock on the driver’s side window.

You don’t have to wait for long. 

The brownstone’s front door swings open, and there he is, stepping onto the landing like it’s a stage that he’s reluctantly gotten used to, the central platform for him to be admired by jogging college students and moms pushing their babies’ strollers in the morning before the sun has had its chance to get any higher in the sky.

He’s got an oversized black leather jacket on that makes him look imposingly broad. It screams ALPHA to your ovaries. You tell your delicate omega sensibilities to shut the fuck up. It has a hood, but it’s down; instead, a dark baseball cap sits low on his head, holding back most of his messy hair. Kai has impossibly straight hair but it always looks like it's lost a war with a fine tooth comb. His bangs are pushed off his forehead, and you have the ridiculous thought that you prefer him this way with nothing shadowing his beautiful magnetic brown eyes, when there’s nothing for him to hide behind.

The second thing you notice: he’s not carrying luggage. Not even a duffel. No coffee for himself. Just a clear plastic cup where a milky beige brown liquid, dried rose petals, clumped cardamom powder and tons of small blocks of nugget ice resides, the condensation beading down the side, and what looks like a plush Jellycat creature of some sort dangling casually from his other hand its brightly colored feet swaying with each step he takes as he bounds down the stairs of the walk up. 

He… he bewilders you. 

At seven, right on the dot, your phone alarm goes off with a sharp trill, making you flinch. You had set it earlier to remind you to stay on schedule. The sound slices through the quiet street and carries across the distance to him. It causes Kai’s head to turn sharply. And then he’s looking across the street, his eyes pinpointing your car, as he makes direct eye contact with you. You freeze against it. Just for a second. The morning air feels warmer, heavier.

You two stare each other down in a silent face off, his brown eyes boring into yours, until the snooze alarm kicks in and you’re able to fumble it to shut off.

You lift your left hand and gesture the clear, unmistakable universal sign: come here. The male has the audacity to shake his head. 

Your brows pull together. What the actual fuck? You narrow your eyes, trying to signal to him with sharper movements that you are not playing around: come here. 

Another shake of his head. And then—the audacity—he mirrors you. Tilts his chin, curls his long fingers, and beckons for you to come to him.

You glare at him from behind the wheel, completely thrown by this silent war of wills playing out across the street like some ridiculous pantomime.

Then he holds up one finger—wait—and pulls his phone out from his back pocket. He slides it unlocked and presumably calls you. A second later you get your confirmation, your dashboard lighting up with an incoming call from that same unsaved number. You should probably save it. But if you saved it now it would probably be as That Asshole Huening (Kai). You press the answer button and aided by Bluetooth, his voice floods the inside of your car through the speaker system, warm and unhurried in the early morning quiet.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Kai’s voice comes through loudly, it’s smooth, light, and entirely too awake for seven in the morning. “Could you please get out of your car and come over here?”

“No,” you retort quickly. You don’t even hesitate. “You come here.” You pause, narrowing your eyes as you look over at him through the side window. Wait. Does he need help? “Do you need me to carry something?”

There’s a small hum on the line, like he’s amused by the question: the omega asking to help the alpha with manual labor. “Hmm? Yeah, right. No, not quite. I just think it’s better if we take my car.”

“If you wanted to take your car, why did you bother me about going together?” you snap, stubborn in a way that feels almost childish, even to you.

“Come on, Y/N,” Kai coaxes, his voice as warm as honey but with a thread of quiet insistence beneath its timber. Unfortunately for him, you were on a no honey kick. You had given it up. Yesterday. A very recent development sure, but one you would be able to stick to. Probably. “Let’s save the planet. Be more fuel efficient. Let’s take my car.”

“Why?” you demand. “It’s not a Prius or something, is it? A fucking Tesla?” You utter that last word like a slur.

“Well,” admits Kai, sounding a bit offended, “No. It’s a Lexus hybrid.”

You squint across the street at him. Why is he doing this to you? Aren’t your cars made with the same parts? They’re just sold with different labels at widely contrasting price points. “Mine’s a Toyota hybrid. What difference does it make?”

“The difference,” he says without missing a beat, “is that I don’t think you trust me to drive your car, and I don’t want you driving six hours in your decade-old Camry just to be stubborn.”

It’s not the words that get you, but rather it’s the way he says them. Calm. Certain. Like he’s not asking you, he’s telling you, but making you feel like you’ve still got the choice. Like he will let you drive your ancient car for six hours to make a point. Like he will let you turn your car around, drive back to your apartment, feign an illness and dodge Sakura’s calls and messages all weekend long about why you are missing the work trip if you truly don't want to get into his car.

You sigh, stretching it out as long as humanly possible, making it loud and long-suffering enough that he has to hear it over the Bluetooth. You know the vocal fry is getting to him, you can see his ears turning red even with 24 feet in between you two, “Fine. I’ll turn around and park on your side of the street. Give me a moment.”

“You can keep your car in my garage,” Kai says, like it’s the most reasonable suggestion in the world. And perhaps it is. But you don’t like how everything he says just… makes sense. Agreeable alpha. Overdramatic omega. You don’t like how this is playing out and making you look.

In response, you hang the phone up, stabbing the end call button with enough aggression that you hope he can see from across the street. For good measure you throw up your middle finger at him and then do up your cracked open windows before you make your U-turn. 

His townhouse shares a wall with its neighbor, ivy curling over the sandstone blocks, but to the right there’s a small, single-car garage that’s empty and just wide enough for your Camry. Kai is leaning against the open garage door, one black leg of his tapered terry cloth joggers crossed at the ankle over the other, like he’s been there long enough to settle into the position. Can he chill? It took you maybe, and you are being generous, maybe two minutes. As you move your car forward into his driveway, he walks up to you with your coffee and the plushie (you still don’t know why he has that). 

“Y/N, wait,” he says, stopping beside your door. “Let’s move your stuff to my car, and then I’ll back yours into the garage.”

“I could make it in,” you grumble, “I learned to drive in New York city.”

“Well sure,” Kai nods, deadpan, a half smirk hiking up the left side of his face, “But why risk it? Gotta keep that Camry going for another ten years, yeah?”

“You fucking asshole.” You scowl, but it comes out more like a mutter. “Sure, why not,” you add, even though what you actually want is to drive your apparently prehistoric car straight into the side of his house.

He moves to open your door for you, stepping back just barely enough to give you enough space to squeeze out of your car. In fact, when you step out, you brush against his leather jacket, warm from his body's heat. He, blessingly, doesn’t comment on it as he hands you both your cardamon rose latte and the plush, which turned out to be a penguin.

“For you,” he says easily, the moles above his upper lip glinting when he grins, “Pastries are in my car. I thought they’d keep warm better there. What do you need me to carry?”

You stiffen. 

The question hangs between you two unanswered.

Because now you can smell him.

You can smell him even more clearly today. It’s so strong, fragrant, as it floods your nostrils. Cedarwood. Cinnamon spiced bourbon. And underneath, peach—that damned peach note; sweet, warm, digging its talons in as it clings to the edge of your senses, holding your tattered self-control within its grasp. Does he not put on as much scent blocker when he’s not going into work? Or is it you? Are you the problem? Are you attuned to him like an embarrassing omega who has imprinted on an alpha and can now hone into his scent with razor sharp focus regardless of how much effort he goes into to mask it. 

You’ve gone quiet long enough for him to notice. His brows draw together, dark eyes searching your face.

You blurt out, “Nothing. I just have my duffle bag and work bag. I can do it.”

“Of course you could,” Kai says smoothly. “But why should you when you have someone to do it for you?”

And then says lighter, but still leaving no room for argument, “Drink your coffee, Y/N.”

You take a sip before you even register moving your hand up to your mouth, the aromatic rose and cardamom blooming across your tongue, the cup cool and sweating in your hold. It’s only after you swallow that you realize, as you lick absentmindedly at your lips: you didn’t think when he gave you the command, you didn’t push back. You just… did it. This… is extremely unlike you. 

“Where’s your car?” you ask, already lifting the cup for another drink.

Kai nods toward the curb. “It’s parked against the sidewalk, right out front.”

You glance past him and spot it; it’s a dark green sedan, paint gleaming even in the early morning’s small tendrils of light. Pearlescent. Luxurious. New. No wonder he didn’t want to take your car. Is everyone suddenly upgrading? Maybe you should talk to his sister Lea about how you deserve a bigger promotion this year or you’re walking straight into Minatozaki Inc. Jake has a Rivian. Sakura has a Mercedes. Kai has what looks like is a Lexus in the next year’s model if the glinting four digit number on the trunk of the car gives any indication. 

With a huff you hit the trunk button on your keys to let the latch pop open. 

Kai moves past you without hesitation now that his hands are free, heading straight for the back of your car, grabbing your ebony colored knock-off Polène Cyme workbag from the yellow app. This doesn’t raise any eyebrows. It shouldn’t. You do research before buying your fakes. He wouldn’t be able to tell. But his eyes do widen comically when grabbing your powder pink VS branded dufflebag. Typical. All men think the same. Just because of the brand name, you think. It’s just a duffle. Unless he’s thinking about what’s inside it. Pity, because he will never be seeing you wear any of it. 

He doesn’t comment but just takes the lead, striding towards his sedan with easy confidence. He opens the rear passenger door and sets your bags neatly beside his silver Rimowa carry-on and that same damned laptop bag that had boxed you in yesterday in the elevator, trapped between him and the wall. Amazingly, he also has a heavy duty backpack that looks like it was originally meant for backpacking across Europe and a tote bag so full of snacks and prepackaged beverages that it looks like he’s preparing for a week in the wilderness.

“You realize we are going to be gone for only two days,” you say, peering over his shoulder, cautiously avoiding physical contact as you attempt to look into the backseat past his over six-foot frame. “Why do you have so much stuff?”

“I just think it’s good to be prepared, Y/N,” he replies, calm and matter-of-fact, like this is a perfectly normal amount of luggage for a forty-eight-hour trip. Then, without missing a beat: “Now, would you like to sit in the passenger seat and hand me your keys so I can park your car in the garage, or would you prefer to watch me while I’m in your car?”

“Obviously the second,” you grouse, crossing your arms, “How is this even a question?”

“You could stand to trust me a little, you know,” Kai mumbles, taking off his cap as he says it.

You watch as he gives his head a quick shake, messy dark hair falling forward before he roughly finger-combs it back. It’s an imperfect fix as a few strands fall loose again almost immediately but he doesn’t seem to care at the moment. The cap goes back on in a practiced motion, brim pulled low.

You ignore what he said. Choosing not to answer. Instead, you hold out your keys.

As he reaches out to grab them, your fingers brush his, cool against your skin, almost startling in the muggy August morning. The contrast sends a quick shiver up your arm before you can stop it. You pull your hand back too fast, stuffing it into your Lululemon relaxed fit jacket pocket in a hurry like the action will erase the moment that had just passed.

Kai doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and chooses not to comment, which somehow feels both better and yet worse.

He ambles toward the driver’s side of your car with the long-legged, loose-hipped gait of someone who knows they look good in motion. It’s the kind of walk that would suit a model (or an F1 driver stepping out for a race, given that he’s heading towards your Camry).

Sliding into your driver’s seat, he pauses to adjust it to accommodate for his height before he can start the car and you just know you will find it annoying to set the car back to right when you both arrive again at his house on Monday afternoon. You’re even grumbling about it now under your breath but you hope he can’t hear you since he’s currently doing what he thinks is a favor for you. 

The engine turns over with an easy purr. He drives like he does everything else: steady, controlled, and maddeningly confident. You’re loath to admit it, but he’s a good driver, although it probably is better for you that he is, considering the way he all but declared he’d be handling most, if not all, of the driving for your joint six-hour excursion. 

The garage is a snug fit for your Camry, but he guides it in with one hand on the wheel, leaving enough space on both sides to open the doors without issue. And he’s even left room behind the car, not backing it up so far that you can’t get to the trunk if you need it. It’s irritatingly competent.

He’s whistling by the time he gets out, a bright, precise sound reminding you that he has nearly perfect pitch, tugging at your memories of the past. “Ready to go? I’ll get your door.”

And with that, a short moment and a dozen steps later, you’re in his car.

The first thing that hits you is his scent; it’s stronger here, saturated into the space like it belongs as much to the interior as the leather and clean detailing do. Personally, you think he doesn't even need car fresheners, distressingly enough. Crisp cedarwood, rich spiced bourbon, that maddening bite of sharp peach underneath. It’s utterly poignant. Not only filling up the space, but surrounding you, saturating you in his scent. It engulfs your lungs, winding into your chest before you can stop it. It settles on top of your skin, trying to burrow inside you, seeping into your veins. His scent is so strong. It furiously attempts to draw you in, ensnare you. You can feel it begging to let you be drenched with it. It’s futilely trying to sink its claws into you, all without you even being physically scented. Yet somehow you're still afraid that it will succeed. That you will exit the car in six hours, wearing his scent on your skin like he owns you. 

Trying to distract yourself, you set your iced latte down next to his in the cup holder, your fingers brushing against the wetness covering both cups, your fingertips drawing designs on the layers of condensation before you withdraw. Moving on, you rest the penguin plush he’d given you on your lap like a makeshift shield. This penguin can't protect you. It's a fool's endeavor. You clear your throat trying to look as though you are busy and glance back down at the central console, noting that he got a Sana’ani iced coffee with no cream. 

Finally when you can’t avoid him anymore, you look up. Gazing up at him, wide-eyed and nervous. The door to the passenger’s side is still open and he hasn’t moved away from it. He’s still there, just tall enough to block off the light from hitting your eyes. Watching you. Not impatient. Just… present.

Your throat goes dry. “Is everything—” you have to swallow, “—Is everything alright?”

“Just checking if you need my help adjusting your seat or getting your belt on before I settle in,” Kai murmurs, voice low enough that the sound comes across as a pleasant rumbling before it settles in your ribs. Just below your heart. Making your chest ache. 

“No, I—I’m okay,” you whisper; your voice comes out softer than intended.

He nods once, like that’s enough, as if that's all he needed to verify, but he still does a quick sweep, making sure your sleeves dangling risking getting caught, that your unzipped gray Lululemon jacket that's half falling off your body isn’t hanging out the door, and that you’re tucked entirely into the space, comfortable, before he closes it with a quiet, deliberate click.

You watch him walk around the hood to the driver’s side, the morning light highlighting the tendons of his neck muscles as they disappear into his leather jacket. The car suddenly feels warmer, heavier, as if it knows what’s about to happen.

This is it. The next six hours of your life. Trapped in a car with the alpha you’ve avoided for the last twenty-four months at work—longer, if you count the years since graduation when you didn’t speak to him at all. Four years.

The gentle hum of the Lexus fills the silence between them, pleasant and steady. Kai had only bought it a month ago. He’s never been the biggest car enthusiast. That’s always been more of his younger sister Hiyyih’s thing with her sky blue monstrosity. And besides, a sports car would be highly impractical. He can’t be seen taking a Ferrari into work, not when his coworkers already side-eye him and mutter “Nepo Baby” about him under their breaths. Thanks Dad—that alpha announcement was super necessary. Really helpful in making his colleagues like him.

Fortunately the traffic is light, as they travel down the streets for now. The stoplights seem to be taking a while but he doesn’t feel pressed for time. They’re not expecting anyone to do anything at the hotel the company had booked until the welcome dinner. People would all be getting in at different times and were encouraged to explore the city and go out to town for their earlier meals. C-Suite had all gotten plane tickets together. They couldn’t be bothered with a six hour drive. But Kai didn’t mind; he didn’t like taking plane rides for in-state trips. And he was kind of jealous of all the camaraderie between the different cohorts and departmental teams as they were planning their drives. He had even been part of one until he had had to tell his friends that he had made other travel arrangements.

You were angled toward the window, your relatively short hair catching stray beams of sunlight. Your hair looked like it did most mornings when you got in at work: your collarbone and shoulderblade grazing locks arranged in a sleek blowout. However, it looked like today your hair was losing the battle against the August humidity, the silky locks curling up and showing a little frizz at your temple and nape. Kai swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Your short hair—in all honesty—your everything, had fundamentally rewired his body and changed his brain’s chemistry from the first moment he had laid eyes on you six years ago. You were the reason that he liked women with short hair; he just liked you. He looked for you everywhere, in everything. Because he couldn’t have you.

His throat is too dry. He doesn’t know how to start a conversation with you. You were in his car but he can’t make a fucking move. He reaches for his coffee cup, his eyes still on the road. The fragrant cardamom flavor makes his taste buds sing but is hardly effective in lubricating his throat. 

He chances a glance at you. Your latte is balanced in your left hand, hugged towards your chest. You absently hold the penguin plush with your right hand, not really paying attention to it but keeping a tight enough grip so that it wouldn’t get jostled and dislodged during the drive. You haven’t moved it. That’s something. He’s going to take it as something.

He goes back to keeping his eyes on the road, but his head’s already playing back the morning like he’s reviewing Real Madrid football match footage with Taehyun. Every step had been deliberate from the moment that he had regained consciousness this morning. 

He had gotten up at dawn before the alarm could steal another five minutes from him, showered, shaved, stared into the mirror until he could decide between having his hair meticulously slicked back or keeping it soft and fluffy with his bangs down. Having his hair back made him look like the kind of alpha his dad wanted, but maybe you were into those types of alphas. He had seen Jake and even Sunghoon hovering around you during work. He had even heard you laugh at something Heesung had said. But bangs down felt safer, It was usually his go to. He didn’t like cutting his front hair too short, always liked the coverage it provided when he felt too seen—too perceived. In the end he decided to tuck his half dry hair under a cap where it would be hidden and not be as distracting. A sensory nightmare that could ruin his focus while he drives.

The penguin had been the toughest choice. Sitting on his desk last night, it looked ridiculous: much too soft, much too obvious, much too much. He hadn’t scented it though he had been tempted. That would have been a faux pas; you probably would have thrown it out. But he had bought it because you had been rubbing your temple more frequently these days. It was like every day you were going into work, only half-functioning. And you seemed prone to migraines, had a shorter tolerance for deadlines and delays. Your skin had even started to take on a paler, more sallow tone like you were not getting enough sun or sleep.

Plushies had always been his go-to for comfort for most of his life; when it came to his long nights coding, when he was losing a ranked match in Valorant or tilting in League, there was always something fuzzy within arm’s reach. He would bury his face in the softness of a plushie and scream his frustrations out, the sound muffled by their fluff. He would even use them in the place of pillows occasionally; his bed in undergrad had been half buried under different plush animals and characters of various sizes. And sometimes he still hugged them in his sleep, lonely as he was, without any romantic partner in his life. His work and obsession with you took up all of the attention and time he would have otherwise spared on a lover. 

He had agonized over whether you would think that it was childish or not. If you would just ditch it in his car or at the hotel reception, discarding it at the first chance you got. He had thrown it into the side pocket of his laptop bag anyway after a small enough risk/reward analysis. Either he would see you smile or he would take another stab to his heart. It was fine. He could take it. His heart was strong enough to withstand it. Big enough for loving and caring about you, even if you ignored him and his attempts to woo you.

It was pure luck—or perhaps just good timing—that he had caught you in the breakroom with Sakura yesterday. Hearing you say that you would drive yourself had rang every alarm bell in his head. He didn’t want you to be a lone driver on the vast and scary highways driving for six hours straight. You would only have truck drivers for company on those roads. What if you got into trouble? The cell service could be spotty sometimes, especially when the highways got to the higher elevations. Or worse, Jake and his Rivian full of cocky, attractive alphas were all just waiting for a chance like that. He couldn’t take it if they had found out about your predicament and offered you a ride. He had heard them talk about you and other women at the office enough times with comments like:

“Even if she’s a beta, I bet I could get her to act like an omega in bed.” “She’s pretty enough for me to date, even if I am an alpha.”

His grip tightens on the wheel. Those guys are the kings of great first impressions: beautiful, charismatic, and quick-witted. But they weren’t his kind of people. They were like sharks in the water, circling around prey, waiting to devour anyone they saw as weak. They were better suited for relationships with other alphas or the aggressive beta that could hold her own. You were too good for them. They would take your confidence and self worth and crush it beneath their heels. You were… everything. You were strong. You were proud. You were… defiant and brave. But unfortunately there were just some alphas who just didn’t respect omegas. They didn’t actually respect anyone but other alphas who conformed to the norms like them. Even Kai was constantly getting ribbing from them. They were the type of alphas who would test an omega just to see how far they could go until they could break one and make her heel. And then she would become their picture perfect Stepford wife or the type of trophy girlfriend that everyone admired but didn’t want to take the place of. 

So he had stepped in before Sakura could suggest anything else. With a casual voice, hinting at friendly history and no bad blood, and there wasn’t, not on his side, he had uttered:

“We’ve known each other since college. I don’t bite.”

He had talked about practicality. Fuel efficiency. Just enough to make it seem like no big deal. You had almost said no. Were hovering around the cusp of a rejection. He had sensed it. But he had been so desperate. He now wonders if you had picked up on the undercurrent of urgency coming from him. In that moment, he had almost been tempted to do a bad thing; to use his dad to reassign you to something and tell you that you weren’t needed at the work retreat. But that would have been the absolute worst thing he could have done in that situation. 

But in the end you hadn’t refused, and in his book, a door that isn’t locked is much easier to coax open.

Now here they are, twenty minutes into a drive that will take a full quarter of the day. You are still quiet, but he’s made his peace with it. It gives him time to think, to plan his next move since conversation was always tricky with you, even in college. You always had your guard up. He never understood it back when he had thought you were a beta and you had thought the same of him, but now he gets it. He knows how to manage you. If he pushes too hard, you will retreat, understandably; but if he leaves you with too much space and you would settle into silence, making it your armor until he becomes too anxious to disrupt your repose.

He takes the next lane change slowly, thinking about how to chip away at the distance between you two without making you suspicious. In his video games, this would be the part where he would build his party’s trust if he was playing with new people—small interactions, shared resources, little boosts that add up by the time the real fight hits.

Well better now then ever, he supposes. Kai clears his throat, more to test the waters than because he needs to; he had done it yesterday and been rewarded with you snarkily snapping at him, addressing him by his last name. If it isn’t broken…

“Did you eat breakfast?” He had eaten a small full fat yogurt that was imported from France or something. He had no idea. His mom had signed him up for grocery delivery. The yogurt had been all the sustenance he needed before making the drive to pick up coffee and pastries for you. 

Your eyes don’t leave the window; he guesses you are steadfastly trying to avoid eye contact with him. Or maybe he’s disrupting your attempts at disassociation. “Latte,” you say finally, likely feeling the heat of his gaze on your nape, raising the cup just enough for him to see it in his periphery.

Two beats pass between his question and your answer. Enough time for him to count; it was enough time for him to overthink about why you didn’t look at him when you said it.

“Mhm.” He makes a noise that he hopes comes across as thoughtful yet casual. Nonchalant. He can be a nonchalant king. He can. He’s not being sus at all. “Yeah. Right. And here I was hoping that you’d tell me you actually consumed something more… solid. You’re looking a little bit…peckish,” He lets his gaze flick over quickly, cataloguing the darkness underneath your eyes, the way your hand seems to waver around the cup, which isn’t the least bit heavy. “…like a Victorian invalid. Suffering from consumption. Or like the undead. I don’t suppose you’ve taken up practicing vampirism recently, have you, Y/N? Not sure which one fits your ‘Everything is Tuberculosis’ vibe more.”

That earns him a sideways look, pointed but not cold. He internally files away that your mouth doesn’t twitch up at the corner. No smile. Not yet. But it had taken you a bit to hit him with that glance. You had considered his words. The pause had been long enough that he knew you had at least thought he was being clever, even if you didn’t find it funny enough to dignify with a response. You sip your drink instead of answering, and he can’t tell if it’s your attempt at a dismissal or just poor deflection.

He lets the silence sit, waiting to see if you’ll fill it—three, four, five seconds, he taps it out on the steering wheel—bites back a smile when he sees you readjust your posture clearly irked by his motions, he then gestures at the central display of the car. “Alright. Music’s yours. Whatever you want. You can log into Apple Music if you want if you don’t want to use my Spotify.”

There’s the pause he was expecting. He can almost hear you thinking—no, actually he can. You have the cutest habit of hissing under your breath when you think, verbalizing things to yourself. You turn to look at him like he’s offered you his life’s savings or added you to his townhouse’s title. “You’re just… handing it over? No curated Kai playlist? No ‘we’re starting with track one and we don’t hit shuffle’ speech?”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but he’s hyper-aware of your gaze now, cascading over his skin. He’s never been as bad as you’re making him sound. It’s an exaggeration, honest. But he likes your barbs; he always has. It’s always been a sign of how comfortable you are with a person. Otherwise, you would just keep all your comments to yourself. “The road’s long,” he says, shrugging like it costs him nothing, because newsflash, it doesn’t. “You can choose.”

“Wow.” You shake your head, and for a half-second he thinks there’s a smile starting to peek out. It’s almost like how it used to be between you two. “You’ve gotten reasonable since university. Where’s the guy who threatened to hold my ears hostage to hostile heavy metal if I ever slipped Ayesha Erotica into the playlist again. You said I was ruining your perfectly curated Spotify sound profile.”

The ease with which you are replying to him makes him think that you’ve almost convinced himself that he’s forgotten. But you’re wrong. He hasn’t. He just doesn't want it to overshadow your interactions with him. He wants you to stop being uncomfortable with him. He wants you to realize that it doesn’t matter to him, at least not in the way that you might think that it would.

The thought drops him backward into the past before he can stop it. He hopes you don’t realize what’s running through his mind as you hook your phone up to his carplay, fiddling with the screen to make sure it’s not affecting the navigation he had projected on there, before you turned up the volume and let the sound of Arctic Monkeys flood the sedan.

The University Campus Health Center. Your last semester. His second year. The last interaction he had with you. And then you graduated. Always on his mind as the girl who got away. And then he didn’t get to see you again until his first day working at his family’s company as a full time employee.

He had been there for allergy medication, his hay fever had been going crazy as the winter changed into spring, leaning against the wall with his ticket, playing Cooking Mania on his phone. The place had smelled like heavy lemon disinfectant and the somehow strangely sterile smell of the drip coffee seeping in from the machine in the corner. You were at the counter, only one arm of your mustard yellow Kånken backpack slung over a shoulder, your voice pitched low as the pharmacy tech handed over a white stapled paper bag. He hadn’t meant to look, but his eyes caught the words before his brain could look away:

Rhea: Omega Heat Management Suppressants. Extra Strength. 500 µg.

He hates himself for being able to read the words. His actions had ruined everything. He had just had to have his contacts out that day due to how much his eyes had been watering from his allergies, and the strong prescription of his glasses had picked up the words, crystal clear.

He remembers the crinkle of the bag when you shifted it in your hands. The tiny crease in between your brows as you had read over the instructions on the thick 15 page pamphlet the tech had provided that had all of the information on your medication. And then your phone had rang.

You had tucked it between your ear and shoulder, blue ballpoint pen still in hand from signing off that you had received your prescription, and whoever was on the other end didn’t bother with discretion, the voice so loud that Kai could make it out, standing five feet away from you:

“Hey, Y/N, before you start taking those, I really think that you should maybe just try hiring someone. You can get a professional alpha. It’s safer than suppressing. That can fuck up your cycle for ages.”

He remembers every second of that moment in the health center: the way his fingers tightened around his phone, the time running out on his game, making him lose one of his lives. He can still recall the exact shade of white green the digital queue screen was flashing. The way you had instantly folded into yourself, your frame becoming smaller, almost disappearing under your yellow backpack and pale purple knit cardigan. He remembers how he had to take several breaths to calm himself down. How he had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled and he could taste the iron just so he didn’t just lose all sense of self and accost you, offering himself up as your willing tribute. 

Then you turned. Saw him. And he knew you knew.

Your face had gone still. There had been no movement in your eyes, you didn’t blink, your gaze hadn’t darted away. You stared at him blank-faced, nodded as you uttered just a single, clipped “Hey,” passing him, downplaying the moment with heightened, forced casualness but also moving quickly to get away. He’d replayed it in his head later and had determined that he had done the right thing when he didn’t say hi back, just stared at you absently like he hadn’t heard anything, noticed anything. That he had been still absorbed in the game on his phone. 

He had told himself it was respect that kept him from saying anything. The truth was uglier: he didn’t want you to think he was the kind of alpha who took advantage when someone was vulnerable. And so he did nothing. Let you walk away. Let graduation come up without another word between you two.

And now four years later, he’s here, driving you north with a penguin plush in your lap and that latte in your hand, trying to make up for every word he didn’t say back then.

You’re still holding the cup close, like a shield. He notices your knuckles ease around it with each sip, the slight dip of your head towards the small opening. Your face has more color now but not enough for him to stop worrying. He lets the music conversation go for now. Instead, he will bring up the pastries. It will make him feel better. He needs to see you eat something. And if you don’t want a pastry, which is probably cold and hard by now, he’s going to make an emergency stop at the first shoulder he sees and dig through his tote bag full of snacks. He’ll even take you eating a bunch of sugary jelly gummy candy.

“Pastry now or later?” Kai asks, pitching the suggestion like he doesn’t already know which answer he wanted from you. “There’s your usual: the pistachio date scones, but I also got an orange blossom and cream cheese danish pastry, some Dubai chocolate croissants, and two slices of cake: rose milk cake and lavender honey cheesecake.”

You glance down at the latte in your hand, thumb rolling along the edge of the order sticker, the hard edge of your pale blue painted nail digging under to work the slip of paper off little by little. “Later.” 

It makes Kai narrow his eyes; he gave you a whole smorgasbord of filling delectable options, and he knows you have a penchant for sweet things like him, but there was still that split second of hesitation before you went ahead with your denial. It’s enough for his brain to start running scenarios. Was it because you weren’t hungry? Or because you didn’t want to eat something he brought you? Or was it because you’d already decided to ration your own bag of snacks so you wouldn’t “owe” him anything beyond this morning’s drive?

“Company policy for road trips says you have to eat at least one every 50 miles,” he urges, voice light, but not fully being able to hide the hurt he was feeling. “It’s in the handbook, look it up.”

“That’s not a thing,” you respond, trailing your eyes across the landscape of his side profile, mentally logging every mole, every line, the shadow of his stubble starting to creep in already.

“Could be,” he says, grinning faintly. His ears are starting to get warmer, as each second passes with your gaze still on him. “I’m in a position to make it one. I am a Huening. Got my name on the building. Or maybe these are just the rules for those who are passengers in my car.”

You scoff, turning your face to shoot him a glare. Fuck, you’re so pretty, the thought comes into his mind, entirely unbidden. “I knew—I just knew you were going to make this trip a pain in my ass.”

Kai manages to hold his tongue; he would love nothing more than to be a pain in your ass. But you’re skittish, and prickly. He needs to cajole and coax you into compliancy first. 

He flicks a glance in the rearview mirror, checking the brown handled paper bag wedged against his Rimowa carry-on. Still looks like it’s been keeping the pastries in a decent condition. He’s seen you go to the Yemeni cafe on Friday mornings and ask for their unsold baked goods from the previous day. You weren’t that picky when it came to a sweet treat or how old it was if you could get it for a good deal. In this case it would be free, since Kai had paid for it.

You don’t look toward the backseat. Don’t even make the slightest shift in your seat. He decides to adjust your A/C vent, angling it toward you so the air now blasted directly into your profile. Your lashes caught the early light slanting through the windshield. Long without mascara; you were always using some kind of lash serum to grow them. A subtle swipe of a beige-gold toned eyeshadow across your eyelids. He doesn't think that you are wearing much makeup. Or if you were, because you had always been talented at it, he’s sure it’s some seamless application where you had melted the layers together until they looked like they were the skin that you had been blessed to be born with. 

​​“If you’re not eating because you don’t have anything to wash it down with,” Kai says suddenly, breaking the silence with a tone he hopes comes across as almost too relaxed, “I’ve got water. Cold, even. Straight from the Sub-Zero fridge.”

Your forehead wrinkles and you rattle the dried rose petals in your almost empty coffee cup just to have something to do with your hand. “That’s not—”

Before you can finish, he is already reaching one long muscled arm back towards the pastries, shoulder rolling with the effort, the brim of his cap dipping to the right as he glances over to the back seat. His fingers brush the edge of the bag but don’t quite hook onto anything. “It’s fine, I can—” he makes a short, muffled grunt that could have been a laugh, or just a shriek from mild frustration. He just knows that you will interrupt him if he gives it enough time. You hated seeing incompetency. You were so easy to rage-bait. No wonder why people never thought you were an omega. He’s seen alphas with more chill than you. Case in point: him. 

He can feel your eyes on him as you watch him strain for another couple of seconds before exhaling sharply. “Fine, fine. I’ll get the damned pastries and the water.”

A quiet “hah” escapes him, soft enough that it could have been amusement or satisfaction, before he shifted his elbow out of your way.

You twist in your seat to grab them yourself, legging covered knees brushing the edge of the center console. The movement brings you close enough to him that your shoulder grazes his bicep, and he has to keep himself from involuntarily flexing. It’s barely a touch. In all honesty, it is the kind of contact anyone else might have missed, but it is enough for his focus to stutter for a fraction of a second. His jaw twitches, the corner of his mouth ticking up like he’s just remembered something that bothered him.

And in that moment, his senses pick up the faintest, shifting edge of your scent.

Bright citrus—citron, maybe bergamot, perhaps lime—cutting cleanly through the warmth of roses underneath, and something deeper, rounder, like vanilla or tonka just starting to caramelize. It is subtle, controlled, yet not as muffled as he was used to it being. He doesn’t know when he has ever picked up anything from you other than the lightest most delicate yet sharp citrus zest note. The fact that he can smell anything else in your scent is concerning to put it mildly.

He adjusts the A/C vent again, this time the one on the driver’s side, pretending it needed a new angle. And maybe it does. He lets the cold air brush over his face and upper body, breathes in to buy himself a second to steady his grip on the wheel, and get his control back under wraps.

By the time you drop back into your seat with the water bottle, once again tucking the penguin back onto your lap, you are acting like nothing had happened. You crack the cap off, take a long drink, and say, likely to change the topic, “Still working in back end, right? Or is what you do considered full stack?”

Kai’s long fingers flex once on the wheel, he has a pianist’s hands, and then he taps his thumb along the seam of the leather, a quiet rhythmic fidget before he answers. “Still in back end,” he said, throwing you a sideways glance under the brim of his baseball cap. “Still making sure the systems don’t set themselves on fire.”

You hum, eyes on the road ahead. Your coffee cup has finally been abandoned to the central cup holder. Your right hand has a new object to grip and caress: your newfound water bottle.

“And your sisters? Is it strange having to work with them?”

He smiles at that, it’s small, lopsided, tilting to the right, and gives a tiny snort before answering. He supposes the question is fair but he’s been forced to spend his summers interning at Huening Corp. since high school. He and his sisters would always be the youngest workers. They had banded together, a familial unit of solidarity against the sharp stings and barbs from talented college students who resented their ties to the company. “S’not weird working with them. Lea barely has time to yell at me between board meetings, and Hiyyih’s in HR, which means she likes to communicate through emails. Everything has to be documented when it comes to her.”

The corner of your mouth curves, just enough for him to catch your faint grin, and his brows lift in quiet acknowledgment. He shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders once as he is able to finally loosen up for the first time on this drive.

You trap the water bottle in between your thighs; he tries to ignore the way they tense under your clinging heather gray leggings and tries to instead focus on your words: “So… you were supposed to ride with your friends, right? The other Tall x Together guys?”

He’s sure you catch his mouth twitching as his eyes crinkle, “So you’re one of those,” he murmurs.

“One of those?” you sound absolutely affronted, roughly squeezing the penguin plush distractedly.

“I didn’t know you were a fan, Y/N.”

“I’m not!” you splutter, “Wow, I’ll never pretend to care about you and ask questions with that attitude, Kai.”

Kai sings, his voice light and airy, teasing you, “Yeah. Right. It’s just I can’t help but wonder who started that nickname.” His heart is light; you finally stopped calling him Huening.

You give him a slow look, totally offended. You look like a tiny angry chick that’s just hatched from the egg and is absolutely pissed off to discover that it’s alive. “You think it was me?”

“I think you have the kind of personality that would feign innocence while setting that kind of nickname loose into the wild.” His tone is light, mischievous, but there is a glint in his brown eyes as he waits for your response..

You cough as you futilely try to continue the conversation, take back control of it before it goes completely off the walls, “So, who actually kicked you out of the car? Was it really Beomgyu or is that just something you said so you didn’t have to suffer being in someone’s car that smells like unwashed gym clothes.”

“Beomgyu,” he agrees easily, drumming his fingers against the driver’s door, lightly tapping the pads of his fingers against the buttons, wondering if some fresh air would do the two of you some good instead, “Claimed I was too tall. Which—”

“—makes zero sense in a group where Soobin exists,” you finish for him.

This earns you a quick laugh, bright and unrestrained, the kind that slips out before he could decide what version of his laugh to use. Oh god, he would never live it down if he accidentally frog-croaked in front of you or cackled like a decrepit kobold.“Exactly.”

You grace him with a small upturn of your lips. “Soobin, Beomgyu, Yeonjun… they’re all going up together, then?”

He hums a confirmation, but his brows become furrowed. He shifts his weight in the seat as one hand flicking the brim of his cap. He wants to brush his bangs out with his hand, let it cover his face. He has to hold back on the habit, though; he can’t block his vision with his hair when he’s driving. His eyesight is already bad enough as it is. “You know who you’re quite pointedly not asking about?”

You glance at him, looking like you have absolutely no idea where he’s going with this. 

“Taehyun,” he mentions, grinning widely, letting all his teeth show like the Cheshire cat. “The guy who spends half his day rescuing your manager from IT disasters. And you, while you’re busy pretending you don’t need help.”

“Taehyun’s fine. Sakura just likes arguing with him,” you grumble as you roll your eyes. 

“Mhm. Yeah right,” Kai agrees easily, adjusting your A/C vent again; and there was no reason for it except that it gave him an excuse to subtly lean into your space. You glance at him like you are battling with yourself on whether or not you should tell him to fuck off. When you say nothing, he continues, “But what about you? You're still juggling three projects at once?”

“Something like that,” you reply, voice just clipped enough to signal to him that you wouldn’t be discussing your job with someone related to the CEO. Someone who had his last name on the company’s logo. 

He doesn’t push but his grip on the wheel tightens, thumb clawing at the seam of the leather like as he tries to manage his facial expressions to not throw your guard up. How can he convince you that he’s not like that? In fact, where you are concerned, he’s an open book. He has no ulterior motives. 

Except fuck he does. Okay he has one ulterior motive. But only because you put the thought into his head. 

It’s the way you were asking about Soobin, Beomgyu, and Yeonjun. It’s still gnawing at him. The way you’d said their names in that almost fond way, with that casual ease like they’d earned the right to it. It sits wrong in his chest, in fact, it sits quite like a pebble in his shoe. Irritating. Impossible to ignore.

He knows what people see in them. They’re loud, magnetic, and made for being looked at. The kind of alphas who never had to learn how to work for anyone’s attention. They’re his friends. But they’re different from him. He doesn’t think they had ever struggled with feeling like their second gender was a misclassification. He knows it’s not. He knows he was meant to be an alpha. It’s just the way everyone makes him feel about being one. Like he’s not good enough. He can’t ever quite measure up to people’s expectations of him.

He reaches for his coffee, taking a slow sip, willing himself to let the thought go and that’s when it happens again; your scent, sharper this time. The citrus is brighter, almost fizzy in the warm air, and the rose has gone a little heavier, richer, twining with the tonka bean in a way that makes his pulse become erratic, skipping a beat. He forces his jaw to unclench, breathing slowly like he’s just out of sorts after being cooped in the car for an hour and half. Like he just needs to get some oxygen into his system.

But your scent is… Dangerous. Distracting.

He needs to focus on something else, desperately. “Pass me the danish?” he almost begs.

You turn your head. Your hair swishes, hitting his neck, almost curling towards his scent receptor, and he captures another sniff of your scent. He curses internally. 

“You can’t grab it yourself?”

“I’m driving,” he says, leaning into the plaintive note like he’s auditioning for a drama, his voice tilting upward, just shy of a whine, as he adds in a half-smile for good measure. “My hands are busy. What if we hit a pothole and I die because I was trying to reach for the pastry?”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “So dramatic.”

“Deadly serious,” he insists, eyes flicking from the road to you, just long enough to flash an exaggerated pout. And then he reveals his secret weapon, turning the smile up a notch. It's not the blinding corporate one he uses in photos, but the slow, lopsided grin you used to see in college, the one he doesn’t let everyone have. “Please?,” he’s voice takes on a childish tone, “I’m so hungry. You can’t say no to a man in distress. I’m still growing. I need nourishment.”

You let out a long plaintive sigh. As you twist toward the backseat again, your shoulder brushes against his arm more fully this time as you fish the bag out. It’s a fleeting touch, but enough to send another ripple of heat searing through his chest. He swears he can feel the imprint of it even after you’ve already pulled away.

“Here,” you say flatly, the wax covered paper crinkles in your hand before you drop it into his lap.

He makes a delighted noise, like you’ve just handed him a gift instead of something he bought himself. “Look at us. Cooperative travel partners. And you, hand-delivering me food. You’re spoiling me already. I feel like it would be even better if you fed it to me directly but I digress.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says around a grin, tearing off a piece of the danish and holding it up in your direction, “You still helped me. Want a bite? It’s good. Like… might be better than your scones good.”

You glare, but you take it anyway, if only to shut him up. He’s smug about it for the next ten miles.

When Kai finally speaks again, licking away a bit of cream cheese from the corner of his lips, his voice is mild, almost conversational, “Do you still end up working with the sales team much?”

It’s an easy enough question on the surface, and one he’s glad that you don’t immediately bristle at. “Sometimes,” you say after a beat. And he’s left wondering if you’re dissecting and analyzing his words and actions the way he is with yours.

He hums like it’s just small talk, but the sound comes off a touch too gravelly, even to his own ears. Sometimes, his mind slots in the faces automatically: Jake with that easy charm that all the support staff adores, Sunghoon’s smirk that makes half the office go stupid, Jay’s piercing gaze that makes it feel like you are the only person in the world when he shifts his focus to a person. He doesn’t like thinking about any of them in your orbit for too long.

“Bet they love having you on their projects,” he says lightly, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “You make them look good.” He’s proud of your accomplishments even if he hates who you collaborate with. 

“That’s one way to put it,” you murmur, gaze still on the road.

He drums his fingers against the wheel in a slow rhythm, trying to keep it together, but there’s a tightness sitting under his ribs. When your gaze shifts to his fingers, he forces himself to stop. He’s got to stop tapping his fingers to fill the space when the conversation lags. He can’t jig his leg instead. He doesn’t want the car to go careening off to the side. It doesn’t help that the scent in the car feels thicker now; the citrus tanginess of it transforms just enough toward something warm and sweet to make the back of his neck crawl with shivers. It’s doing terrible damage to his focus. 

He flicks his eyes toward you, catching the way you worry the edge of the bottle between your teeth for a second before taking another sip of water. “I guess Jake’s still running point on the big accounts?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And Sunghoon?” The name comes out sharper than he intended.

You glance at him, eyes narrowing like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is. “He’s chill.”

Kai nods, but it’s more for himself than you. Chill. He keeps his gaze ahead, jaw working as he attempts to unclench his teeth before he softens his voice again. “If they give you too much trouble, you know you can call me, right?”

It earns him a faint scoff, but you don’t outright reject it.

He lets that be the win. For now.

He allows the conversation to drop, letting the low hum of the tires on the highway fill the space for a beat. Outside, the early light has gone from a washed-out gray blue to a cloudless bright azure, heat already shimmering off the asphalt.

An hour in, he notices you’ve shifted your position for the third time in as many minutes: one knee bending, then stretching out, then the heel of your foot, encased in a slate and ivory New Balance, tapping faintly against the rubber floor mat. Your fingers dig into the poor penguin’s soft rump before you move it away from you and reach up to twist your hair into a knot, baring the back of your neck.

He tries not to stare. Your silky shiny hair slips out of the bun almost instantly, earning a groan from you. You seem aggravated by the spiky ends of your strands tickling your nape. Your skin seems irritated at your scent glands; a bit swollen and pink. He swears he can see your pulse throbbing at that junction where your ear touches your jaw. It’s doing crazy things to him, having you in his car, bearing your neck to him. 

The citrus-rose-tonka in the air also seems stronger now. Or maybe, that’s just the A/C pushing it toward him. It’s distracting in a way that makes his attention snag, like catching a familiar melody mid-song. He tells himself it’s nothing. You always smell good. That’s not new. Well, it’s kind of new. He usually just smells your perfume or hair products. He can usually never smell you underneath.

What else is new is the way you keep tugging at the collar of your T-shirt, rolling your shoulders like the white cotton fabric is bothering you.

“You good over there?” he asks, aiming for unbothered but hearing the edge in his own voice.

“Fine,” you say, a touch too quickly. You’re looking out the passenger window like the scenery suddenly got more interesting. Then, he catches you suddenly reaching for your phone which you had on the charging station. Ouch. Thus far, he had been able to keep you from going on your phone and cutting him out. But now, you’re holding your phone like armor. The lines of your arm and hand, sharp and rigid. 

“Something wrong,” he asks. His voice sounds crisper, more gritty. 

“No—I. I just need to make sure my cousin fed my cat his breakfast,” you sound strangely breathless, pulling the collar of your shirt from your neck again.

Kai lets it go, but when you’re on your phone, switching between the apps and swiping around, he notices you’re not on the messaging app. What are you looking at? From what he can glean, it just looks like a gardening app for plants. He thinks he saw cute cartoon icons of seedlings and small sprouting buds. 

You’re only on the app for a few seconds. Your expression darkening as you look at the various herbage. You bite your bottom lip, worrying it, as you reluctantly close the app and make your phone screen go black before returning it to the port.

“Everything good with your cat?” Kai asks.

“Um,” you pause, looking slightly panicked like you hadn’t expected him to follow up on that. “Yeah it’s fine. She just fed him the wrong brand. She used the food that I usually give him when he’s feeling under the weather. Not his daily one.”

Wow, Kai thinks, you’re good at lying. But he’ll let it go. After all, he suspects that you are the one feeling under the weather and not your cat, which may or may not exist. 

He lets out a soft sound of acquiescence and glances at the clock. “We’re coming up on a good resting point. We can get out, stretch our legs. Use the restrooms. Want something else from the bag before it’s all crumbs?”

You shake your head, but there’s the faintest crease between your brows, like you’re debating something.

He tsks under his breath before deciding to push his luck. “Don’t want one of the cakes? Or maybe a croissant if you prefer. I’ll even let you pick first and take whatever is left.” His tone is light, teasing. But he watches you carefully, the way you don’t quite meet his eyes when you answer.

“Not hungry. Really.”

It’s such a simple refusal, but it lands wrong. His grip on the wheel tightens, his other hand flicking the A/C vent toward you again. The scent swirls in the small space, caustic now, cloying. He swallows against the sudden dryness of his throat, his tongue darting against the roof of his mouth.

Something’s off. He can feel it.

The next six miles go by slowly. You guys have hit traffic unexpectedly. It’s taking you guys 28 minutes to crawl forward half a mile. 

Even worse, Kai’s instinct was right.

Something is wrong.

He knows it before he’s even fully conscious of why. There are needles under his skin; there’s a restless coil deep in his gut. The steady thrum of the tires under them now feels louder, the sensation drawing in a headache, he feels slightly dizzy like he’s got a mild bout of motion sickness, and his grip on the wheel tenses a fraction tighter than before. Every few seconds, his thumb nail digs into the seam in the leather as he’s trying to ground himself, but nothing helps; his nerves are wracked. He feels like he’s tapdancing on a live wire.

You’re not doing anything out of the ordinary. Not really. Just sitting there, your body angled slightly toward the window, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the blur of hills, small mountains, and asphalt. But he notices the way your hair has fallen loose over your shoulders again, hiding your throat from view the best it can, the way you hook a finger under the collar of your plain T-shirt to pull it away from your skin for half a second before letting it fall back into place. He catches how your thighs tense when you shift your legs, how your hand rests on one knee, thumb brushing idly against the heather gray fabric there.

And then there’s the scent.

It’s not just more poignant; it’s different. The crisp zinginess of the citrus zest is still there, but the rose is fuller now, lush and warm, with the tonka bean roping through it. It threads into the cooled air pumping from the vents, moves through the cabin in slow waves until his every inhale is laced with it.

He tells himself it’s nothing. That the A/C just carried more of it toward him, that the cabin’s too small for him not to notice. You’re fine. He’s just overly aware of you. Fine-tuned to every shift of your body. Zeroing in on your scent, like the thirsting alpha that he is. 

And yet, he’s never reacted like this to you before. Not in college. Not at work—

The Lexus feels claustrophobic. His chest feels tighter than it should. His pulse ticks faster, a steady beat behind his ears. That low-level mild irritation he’d been nursing about Jay and the other members of the sales team shifts into something heavier, more primal. His brain keeps pushing the same unwelcome flashes of scenes at him: you in this seat, flushed, breath hitching, your sweat revealing your bra and the toned lines of your stomach through your white T-shirt; of you on a bed in some quiet, locked-away room where no one could knock or call or walk in, hips undulating under the covers. Somewhere no one else could smell you. Somewhere only he could.

The intrusive thoughts make his shoulders tense. He rolls them once, twice, but it doesn’t shake the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He pants out a breath. Maybe he should stop inhaling through his nose. 

Don’t go there. Not now.

You cross your legs, and his peripheral vision catches the movement, his eyes wanting to lock in on that hidden crevice between your thighs. It makes his grip tighten just a little bit more. It feels as though the air inside the car has gotten thicker, so dense with your scent and nothing else. The pleasant hum of the engine suddenly too loud and grinding, the world outside too overwhelming, crashing into his senses.

He flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, like that might help reset his brain. But the scent’s still here. You’re still here. And the primal part of him, the one he’s kept leashed for years, is wide awake now, teeth bared, waiting.

He prays for his sake that this is just an overreaction on his part. Wistful musings. Who knows what will happen to you both if he lets his alpha senses take control of the ship.

Kai groans, staring at the red line suddenly highlighting your route. The view outside the windshield reflects the traffic the navigation noted on the smartscreen. The highway has slowed to barely moving, each car inching forward in fits and tiny starts. The lanes are packed tight, walls of metal locking everyone in on all sides. It’s the kind of traffic that makes whatever is happening inside the car feel infinitely worse. The air is thicker, heavier, like the inside of the cabin is its own sealed ecosystem, every molecule saturated with your scent.

You shift in your seat. It’s small at first, a roll of your shoulders, a tug at the gray hem of your oversized Lululemon jacket, but his gaze catches on every movement. The thin fabric of your leggings constricts over the curve of your thigh as you adjust, and for a half-second, the citrus-rose-tonka in the air heightens, richer. It hits him like an explosion.

Kai keeps one hand clamped on the wheel, the other curling loosely against his own thigh. The urge to do something—anything—is almost unbearable. He could lower the window for air, but the thought of letting your scent spill out into the open makes his jaw clench as he grits his teeth. Out there, anyone could catch a whiff of it traveling through the air, as they sit trapped bumper to bumper. He feels possessive about it. And in a traffic jam, he doesn’t want every alpha within a two mile radius hone into whatever is happening with you. 

“Almost there,” he manages, his voice a little strident, definitely raspier than before. “There’s a rest stop in about… seven miles.” He doesn’t mention how long seven miles will take at this crawl.

You murmur an acknowledgment, tugging your jacket sleeves low on your arms, covering your hands and wrists, your gray legging covered calves press together, and he can’t stop his eyes from honing into that part where your thighs meet. His pulse jumps in his throat. He’s hyper-aware of how little space is between you two. Every inch you shift, every twist and turn of your body you make shoves your scent closer to him, almost assaulting his senses.

The urge to reach over, to clamp his hand around your thigh and keep you still, to feel the heat radiating from your skin, have his fingers dip into your center, is so powerful he has to glance away and focus on the brake lights glowing ahead. You ask something then, striving for laid-back, missing it almost completely, “Aren’t you hot in that leather jacket of yours?”

It’s an innocent question. Would be in any other situation but he knows you’re just asking as a distraction. In his head, it’s tangled with everything else: the way your voice dips at the end, the faint flush of your cheeks, your swollen scent glands at the base of your throat, the sheen of sweat across your collarbone and sternum where your T-shirt dips low. He swallows, hard.

‘Not as hot as you,’ he almost says, a bit too easily, too honestly. Too flirty, though; and you’re too unwell to receive it well right now. So he bites it back, defaulting to a small shrug. An offhanded, “I’m alright.”

Alright is a lie. He’s tightly strung, half-feral, and he can feel every beat of his heart, furiously pounding in his chest, the rush of his blood coursing through his head, his ears burning up, his throat tightening as he feels like he can’t breathe. And you are completely unaware, or trying to act like you are, just making it all worse. Every fidget, every slow inhale, every shift of your thighs has him imagining pulling over, doing something to you that he’s not sure that you’ve ever let any other alpha do. Staking his claim, keeping you underneath him until the scent softens, mixes with his own, and the world feels safe enough for him to share you again.

Stop getting distracted with your fantasies, Kai, he admonishes himself internally.

He makes himself blink, like it’ll clear it out of his head. The tightness in his chest. The fire flickering under his skin. The whisper in the back of his mind that says you’re starting your heat.

No. No. You're not.

You can’t be.

You’ve been on suppressants since… well, since that spring. He remembers the prescription in your hand, the way your shoulders had gone rigid when you realized he’d read the label. What he had heard on the phone call. He doesn’t think that you would have stopped. And if you had, this was very dangerous for you both. 

So maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’s the problem. Maybe being stuck this close to you, in an airtight cabin for the last two, almost two and a half, hours, is enough to trick his brain into conjuring up what it wants most.

His fingers tighten on the wheel, white-knuckling it. Yeah, that’s all it is. Wishful thinking. Some caveman part of him that’s desperate for you to need an alpha—to need him—and to have you look at him like he’s the only one who can pull you through it.

He sneaks a look at you again. You’re still staring straight ahead, posture stiffly set, your mouth drawn into that stubborn little upside down curve you get when you’ve decided ignoring him is the fastest way to survive a situation. Except your lashes are heavier now, blinking slower. Your fingers are twitching on your thigh like you’re fighting the urge to fidget again.

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumps in his cheek. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay, no longer trusting his voice to come out steady, but he keeps stealing glances at you between the lanes of unmoving cars. You look… decidedly not fine. Definitely not great. And you’re still not looking at him.

Seven miles, he reminds himself. If the traffic gods show mercy, they’ll be off the highway before either of you combust.

He shifts in his seat, his joggers sticking to the leather a little bit, and forces his attention on the cars ahead. If he focuses on driving, on the brake lights and lane changes, he can pretend the air in here isn’t thick with you. Pretend he’s not imagining every possible way this could go wrong—and every way it could go exactly the way he’s dreamed about for years.

A mile and a half later, the silence starts to grate. It’s not comfortable anymore.This is brittle. Tense. Every passing minute stretches long and unbearable between you two, and he hates not knowing if you’re just tired… or if he’s right.

He clears his throat, drumming a hectic, uneven rhythm on the steering wheel. “So…” His voice is almost too casual, and it annoys him. “You, uh, ever been to that rest stop before? They’ve got this diner there. I think you’d like it. It serves these really good chicken fried steaks with gravy.”

Nothing. Not even a curious glance his way.

“Y/N,” he tries again, letting your name sit in the air, harsher than he intended. “You’re really quiet. Starting to freak me out here. Cough twice if you’re still conscious.”

That earns him a slow turn of your head, your eyes narrowing just slightly. But you look like you’re squinting against the sun rather than glaring at the alpha who is annoying you. “I’m fine,” you say, but the words are a little too flat, the pitch a little too low.

His stomach twists itself into knots. A ‘fine’ from you is never fine. He knows your tells, knows how you’ll bite back anything that might make you seem like you need help. He’s seen it at work, watched you as you shouldered more than your share just to keep from owing anyone.

He hums like he believes you, but he doesn’t. “Good. Because if you pass out in my car, I’m stopping at the next shoulder and drawing on your face with a Sharpie. Soobin told me to pack a bunch of office supplies. Expo markers and shit. I am not bluffing.”

The corner of your mouth twitches, just barely. A win, small as it is.

Still, he keeps talking, because the sound of his own voice, tense and ringing as it is, is still better than him hearing his heartbeat echoing in his ears like he just ran two marathons back to back. “You know,” he says lightly, “We could’ve been making great time separately, if Beomgyu hadn’t decided I was too tall to sit in his car. The whole trip, ruined by one guy’s insecurities about leg room.”

That earns him a faint huff, something that could be considered almost a laugh. “You would have been miserable with them.”

Abso-fucking-lutely. The image of you crammed into the backseat with Jake or Heesung Jungwon, probably not Jungwon or Sunoo though, still claws at him, and the tidal wave of possessiveness that follows is harsh enough to sting. If he had chosen to go with his friends, you would’ve been in a Rivian with seven alphas while going into heat. Or a false heat. Whatever this madness is. He grips the wheel tighter, eyes locked on the sea of brake lights ahead.

“You’re probably right,” he says. “Still… better you as my dependable travel companion than them.”

He should leave it there, let the conversation die before he says something that tips too much. But his fingers are already loosening on the wheel, his right hand sliding down, resting closer to the console than it needs to be. Closer to you.

It’s not a conscious action. It’s the same pull he’s been feeling since you got in his car. It’s some stupid, magnetic gravity that has no business existing when you’re not sending him any signs. But the warmth radiating from your side seeps into him, and before he can register it, his fingers inch toward the empty space between you two.

What the hell are you doing?

His own voice in his head is sharp, frantic. 

Keep your hands to yourself. You’re not—this isn’t—

He snaps his grip back to the wheel, fingers straining hard against the metal covered in  leather. The A/C hums in the silence, pushing cool air over his knuckles, but it’s doing nothing for the smoldering heat trapped in his gut. Wound tightly like a vise. 

You shift in your seat, adjusting your jacket, and the faintest trace of your scent unfurls into the air: soft and layered, citrus-bright at the edges, wrapped around that rose warmth and the sweeter gourmand underneath. It brushes over him in ripples, subtle enough that any sane alpha would ignore it. Or maybe only an alpha who hasn’t been breathing it in for two hours straight could ignore it. He used to think his self-control was legendary. Unshakable. That he was unflappable. Then came you, he supposes. This cursed work trip. 

He tells himself it’s not what he thinks. You’re on suppressants. You’ve been on suppressants for years. Maybe it’s just the car, or the heat outside, or that you’ve been stuck here with him too long.

But when your fingers start flexing against the seam of your leggings again in those small, compulsive movements that bunch the fabric and ease it again, his eyes catch on them. It’s not just restless energy; your pulse is jumping visibly at the hollow of your wrist, your jacket sleeve has moved away, no longer covering it. The fine skin over your scent gland has flushed to a deeper pink, and even from here he can feel the faintest bit of warmth radiating off of it. His own scent glands give a low, answering thrum, an involuntary pulse at the base of his neck that sends heat crawling down his spine. It’s a reflex centuries old, the kind that makes every nerve in his hand ache to close over yours, thumb brushing that gland until you’re still. He wants to hold. To anchor. To stake his claim—

No. Four miles. Just make it four more miles.

The four miles might as well be forty.

The highway is at a standstill now, cars idling, packed in like sardines, under the thick weight of late-morning heat. Kai drops the speed down until they’re just inching forward, the low rumble of the engine and the muted whoosh of the cold air from the vents the only sounds in the vehicle.

It should be fine. Just a few more minutes. But the air inside has changed again, becoming even denser, heavier, more saturated with you. That subtle vine of citrus and rose has deepened, wrapped itself around something warmer, sweeter. Richer. Fuller. Tonka and vanilla twisting around each other. It clings to the back of his throat; he fears that he might choke on it.

He takes a slow inhale before he can stop himself. Then another, deeper, until he can almost taste it. Swallows hard. His tongue flicks over his upper lip and then lower lip without thinking, chasing something that isn’t there.

And that’s when it hits. Low and brutal, a deep jab in his gut that makes the heat flood straight down until it’s a heavy, aching weight between his legs. Blood rushes fast, making the thick press of his shaft strain against the confinement of his black joggers. The seatbelt feels restrictive now, too tight across his chest, pinning him in like it’s saving him from hard braking, a minor collision. His seat seems suddenly too small, the edges pressing into his hips. He has his thighs spread as far apart as the driver’s side will allow, before his leg is obstructed by the center console and gear shift, just to make room for the insistent throb. Sweat pools at his hairline then trails along his temple, dripping down. The leather underneath him clings to his ass, heat pooling to where his body’s trapped in place. Every slow agonizing bump of the road makes him shift against the swell, makes the tension spike until his jaw aches from clenching against it. He’s big enough that even with the accommodating terry cloth fabric of his joggers, he’s running out of space. That there’s nowhere for it to go—just a trapped, pulsing heat straining against the fabric. He feels caged, every instinct clawing for space, for relief, for you. He swears under his breath, his groan guttural and low, and chances the quickest sideways glance at you.

Please don’t look down. Please don’t look at my lap.

It turns into a steady loop in his head, a desperate mantra he can’t shut off. You’ve got your gaze fixed straight ahead, eyes following the sluggish creep of the automotives out front, and for now, that’s saving him.

But his mind is betraying him—flashing images of leaning across the console, of closing that last gap between you, of seeing what you’d do if he just made a move. The primal part of him doesn’t even want to entertain a guess. It’s too much of a temptation.

Kai’s grip on the wheel tightens until the tendons in his hands stick out like thick cords, there’s a dull ache pulsing through his forearms. He forces his eyes to stay pinned straight ahead, even as he can feel them dilate, counting the mile markers, trusting them to keep him steady and on task. Four miles turns to three.

You shift in your seat causing the diagonal strap of your seatbelt to slide across your chest, settling between the two plump mounds of your breasts easily. Kai dimly wonders if you feel as hindered and constricted by the seatbelt as he does. He gets the answer to his question a moment later when you huff under your breath, pushing the penguin off your lap with a scowl, letting it drop by your feet, and then pulling the seatbelt away from your body with your now free hand. Your rapid movements push another surge of your scent into the air, even more pronounced now. It’s thicker, heavier, clinging to his mouth until every breath tastes faintly of you. The air in the cabin feels viscous, humid, like he could reach out and touch it with his hands, feel it on his fingertips.

And the worst part? His body’s already moving toward it, perpetually shifted towards the right, breathing in deeper, pulling more in. That shameful, primal part of him, the part he’s spent years training into obedience, is starting to hope he’s right about what it means.

But he promises if you don’t look at his lap, he’ll steel himself and try to stop catching glimpses of yours. Trying to theorize if the gray fabric has gotten darker in color between your thighs due to your rising body temperature and sweat or if its… what he wants it to be.

Three miles. The rest stop sign flashes green out in front, but your scent is the thickest it’s been all day, saturating every surface of the car cabin, clinging to everything inside. Kai swears it’s in the air vents, laced in with the recycled A/C air, like it’s decided to haunt him. It’s in his mouth when he swallows, his tongue darting against his lips as if he could catch the taste of it there. It’s deep in his nostrils. Kai even feels like it’s seeping into him. Doesn’t know if his scent will ever smell the same again, or if it will always smell like a mixture of yours and his together.

The muscles in his hands pulse with each heartbeat, veins popping as he forces them to stay wrapped around the wheel. He keeps both hands on the wheel. Has to. His wrists ache from the angle, but it’s safer than letting them wander into dangerous territory. Because the part of him that isn’t a rational, decent human being is thinking about what would happen if he just went ahead and touched you, in all the ways that he wanted to. Every bump in the road makes the leather slip beneath his palms, slickened as it is with a faint layer of sweat, and the smallest of tremors runs through his fingers. His mind keeps feeding him the most vulgar impulses but he smothers each one before it can become reality. He squeezes the wheel instead, hard enough that the leather creaks, and tells himself to get a grip. The seat feels smaller, the cabin tighter, every inch of him aware that if he lets go even once, he won’t stop. He has to keep his cool. For your sake.

Your head is tipped toward the passenger window now, cheek resting against your knuckles like you’re trying to ground yourself. You haven’t said anything in a while. Not since that last sad attempt at conversation, and he doesn’t like how pale you’ve gone beneath your glowy skincare and sunscreen. How your breaths keep halting and stuttering, shallow and restless, like your lungs can no longer regulate themselves.

He shifts just enough to sneak a better glimpse of you. Your knees are drawn a fraction tighter than before, your left hand worrying the sleeve of your gray jacket until the seam frays under your pale blue manicured nails. A tell. Maybe a warning for him.

You are not doing so good.

The GPS chimes about the rest stop ahead, but he doesn’t even pretend to care. His thumb flicks the blinker on, the other hand darting down to the console to cancel the route and reroute, two taps, a slide, done. Closest motel, one-point-two miles. He keeps the volume on low so you won’t hear the robotic voice confirm it.

He tells himself it’s not about him. That it’s not about the way his pulse has been hammering against the inside of his throat since you first leaned over to grab the pastries and brushed against his bicep. That it’s not about the way every mile has wound his nerves tighter.

No. This is about you.

If you’re slipping toward heat, even with suppressants. And yeah, his brain keeps insisting you’re still on them. Even though a logical part of him knows that would mean that you would have been on heat suppressants for four straight years which is just… straight up reckless and dangerous. Then you need somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with four walls and a locked door where random trucker alphas can’t sniff you out and aggressively pursue you. Where bored betas on road trips can’t offer you Slim Jims and make unsubtle dick jokes, turning your heat into a joke. Somewhere you can ride it out comfortably and without risk.

His knuckles flex on the wheel. He drags in another breath through his nose before he can stop himself. It’s a mistake.

Citrus first as always, the top note: blinding, harsh, almost effervescent. Then the rose, the lush kind, the expensive kind, not the sad grocery store wilting bouquet kind. And under it: soft and warm, tonka bean, so sweet, so rich, he wants to lap at your skin for a direct hit. A direct taste.

He forces his eyes back to the road. Forces his voice into something calm when he says, “We’ll take a quick break soon.”

It’s not a lie.

He just doesn’t add that the break won’t be at the rest stop.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, causing you to look at him. His face is soft. Concerned. “You still with me?”

The way he says it, soft and gentle make things worse. Makes you want to whine and cross the lobby floor to him, to let him pull you in tight and tell you it’ll be okay. To comfort you. The desire is so bad that you realize you’re much farther into Stage 1 than you thought.

Panic starts to nip at your heels. You’re unsure what to do. There’s nothing on you besides your nasal spray and your patches to help you out, but those aren’t what you need. Your patches protect others from your scent and the nasal spray protects you from others - from Seungcheol. 

You try to answer, but your voice catches in your throat, coming out thin and shaky. “I’m okay.”

“Are you in prodrome?” he asks quietly, voice pitched low and careful.

You flinch when he finally says it out loud, letting the acknowledgement ring in the lobby. You close your eyes for a moment, your silence an answer in itself. 

Seungcheol sighs and pulls his phone back out of his pocket, dialing as he lifts it to his ear. “Yeah, I know. Look, you need to expedite. My colleague needs medical assistance and we’re still locked in the lobby. No… no.” Seungcheol glances at you. “She’s experiencing prodrome. Can you please expedite? Yes. Thank you.” 

He hangs up and turns back to you, stepping slowly so he doesn’t overwhelm, arms loose at his sides in a show of calm. “They’re sending someone now. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nod, but your breathing is uneven, shallow now. You can feel the sweat dripping down your spine, the pressure behind your eyes. Everything smells too sharp, too thick. Especially him. Spice and warmth and safety. It’s awful. 

Seungcheol stays where he is, a careful distance between you, but his voice is steady when he says, “Tell me what you need. What I can do to help.”

“I’m fine.”

“I mean it. If you need space, I’ll back off. If you need something cold, we’ll figure it out. Just don’t… don’t try to pretend this isn’t happening. Let me help you.” 

The kindness in his voice cracks something in your chest. No judgment, no pressure, just him, steady and solid, offering help while your body betrays you one symptom at a time. 

You swallow hard. “I just need to get out. I just need to make it home before it gets worse.”

Seungcheol nods, no hesitation. “Then we’ll get you home. I promise.”

Time moves like molasses. The silence between you thickens. You give up on standing, sitting on the cool tile floor. It only offers momentary respite until you’re panting again, struggling to maintain your grip on yourself. 

It’s not working. Your entire body is pulsing, tingling, burning in waves that crest and fall without rhythm. Your skin itches with hypersensitivity, every shift of your clothes unbearable, your breath slow and ragged. It feels like you’re melting, burning up from the forge in your chest.

You can feel Seungcheol watching you from his assigned corner. He says nothing, keeping a respectful distance. You steal a glance at him through bleary eyes. He’s just leaning against the wall, hands clenched and jaw tight. He’s doing his best to appear calm, but you see signs of irritation. His throat works and your eyes linger on the way his Adam's apple bobs for too long. You think about sinking your teeth into his neck, tasting him-

His scent, normally warm and grounded, spikes. You sense the shift and it makes you squirm, pressing yourself further into the wall. You look away from him, hiding your face in your shoulder while you squeeze your eyes shut as another wave of cramping crashes into you. 

Seungcheol’s irritation is sharp. Shame floods you, thick and fast. Of course he’s annoyed. Today has gone from bad to worse. He’s now stuck in a lobby with an omega in prodrome, a liability that he now has to be responsible for, and you’re barely holding it together, shaking like a live wire. You’re stuck, and he’s stuck with you, and-

The lobby doors beep and hiss open. You don’t even lift your head. Don’t even hear the first few words from the guards. You only feel cool night air and the sudden shift in pressure, making you keen and melt into the tile. 

Seungcheol appears at your side, his scent fading from acrid to soothing. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching down to your level. It’s the closest he’s been to you all day. You feel the heat of him, the nearness overwhelming. “They’re here. We can go.”

You don’t move. The thought of moving suddenly seems like an insurmountable task. Your world is tilting, your ears ringing. Your limbs feel detached from your brain and your body is locked, curled in on itself. Heat prickles across your skin like static.

Worst of all, you’re starting to panic. Fear sets in, stabbing deep. You don’t know how to get up and take the train home. Don’t know how to get yourself up the stairs and into your apartment. To the cabinet to take a suppressant. To the fridge for water. 

Seungcheol’s voice sharpens. “Hey. Look at me.”

It’s a command. You blink up at him, barely able to focus. Something flashes behind his eyes and he’s on the phone again. “Hi, I need emergency assistance for an omega. She’s in heat prodrome and she’s deteriorating fast. No, she’s conscious. She’s overheating, but having trouble standing and struggling to focus. I have no idea what to do.” 

You barely hear the voice on the other end of the line, but Seungcheol does. His expression shifts, each word they say tightening his jaw.

“She’s a coworker - we were locked in a lobby at work but I can take her to an omega hospital.” You whimper and shake your head vehemently, whining. He softens. “They said they can give you a heat inhibitor on-site” 

“No,” you pant. “Those hurt.”

He nods. “I can’t do that, she doesn’t want to go.” The operator says something else and he nods. His eyes tighten at the corners and he glances at you. “I can take you to a service clinic. They can assign you-”

“Home,” you plead. “I just need to get home. I can- I can deal with it.”

“I don’t know… do you have um. Do you have an alpha you usually…?”

“No.”

Tears well up fast and hot, blurring your vision, sliding down your cheeks in silent streaks. Your whole body feels wrong, like you’ve been unraveled from the inside, trembling and raw.

“I just want to go home,” you whisper, folding in on yourself. “I have my meds. I can manage if I can just get home. Please.”

He repeats what you say into the phone. They say something and he shakes his head and hangs up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Okay. Alright. We’re going to get you home, okay?”

“And you think they’ll complain about some extra time alone?”

You deliver a blank stare, not a single blink as you watch him shrug a shoulder. He sports a smirk that you would’ve clenched your jaw to months ago, but today, even if you won’t admit it right this second, it amuses you.

He laughs when you stand there unmoving, like a stick figure silently reprimanding a lethargic boyfriend. You hate to break, but when the contagious chuckle infects you, too, you feel a light wave of relief and serotonin ripple through you violently.

Jungkook hasn’t left vacation mode just yet; while the work for the gallery is still ongoing and he diligent, you catch him slouching ever so often, doodling away at times. You’ll confess, the grey outside is tiring; different from the sunnier countryside you left behind.

There’s a sort of post-bliss blues that even you can hardly shake off.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” he utters amidst his melodious laugh, and you roll your eyes, taking two big steps towards him — much like two days ago.

“I don’t have to deny it to still teach you the importance of punctuality, right? Get up,” you say, smacking his hip — and he uses the opportunity to lift his arm from under his head, reaching for you, but… failing. “Uh-uh. Enough with your tricks. Get up.”

Last night still wasn’t enough — is it ever? You’re not surprised; neither by his thirst nor by your own inner, involuntary reactions. But no time. It’s rude to let people wait.

And you know exactly what Jimin would say — tease — if the two of you arrived at the double lunch date with him and Yoongi too late again.

Jungkook’s voice turns half into a yawn, half into a sigh, tired when he responds, “Yes, ma’am.”

This should do.

But since everything good comes in three, and just for good measure, you add another laser-glance, shooting at him in warning to lift his ass and meet you ready once you are, too. A playfully sigh breathed, you amble to the bathroom, make up awaiting on the sink from when you put it there this morning.

This shouldn’t take long; you’re opting for the minimalistic approach today.

As the hues colour your lips and fill your lashes, you hum a random melody you can’t quite identify. It’s quiet in the apartment until it isn’t — and when Jungkook’s voice chimes, your hand halts mid-mascara-stroke, assuming he’s calling for you.

He’s not; you understand this much when he greets the person on the other end in his liveliest tone at first, volume decreasing as the conversation continues. He’s soon hushed enough for you to not really make out proper words anymore. Hums here and there — Jungkook doesn’t seem to say much at all.

Perhaps it’s Yoongi, or Tae, telling a story. Narrating recent occurrences, the joys and pains that emerged and shrivelled on the vacation that you weren’t part of anymore.

You don’t ask just yet, decide not to disturb.

You finish up whatever is left of your routine, setting the make up and ruffling through your hair, adding volume. When the talk he’s indulging in still remains when you deem yourself ready, you let out a breather and step back into the bedroom.

Still in the same clothes and with the untamed hair as his crown, Jungkook’s gaze is lowered, fingers barely curled into the sheets. He’s sat up now; you see his Adam’s apple bob when you walk in. Instinctively and immediately, you blurt, “Now what did I tell you just a moment ago—”

But the jest dries in your throat and then fades, as dead as Jungkook’s eyes when he looks up at you. Or maybe… maybe they’re not dead.

More so — in disbelief. As if he hasn’t really fathomed what he’s just heard, mind sprinting in circles, attempting to understand.

His chest isn’t moving as it should, and just in general, his body emits inner trouble. Distress. When he lifts his pupils and shifts them towards you, it looks as if he’s hoping that your presence could reverse reality, as if you’re pulling him out of the inevitable quicksand.

But you can’t. You get it; see it right away.

Because the watery gaze and the gap between his lips, this expression, are new to you, no matter how many of his aches you’ve mended. And you guess it has something to do with what his conversation partner just said.

Something that certainly wasn’t part of today’s agenda at all.

Fun things that will be included: 

lots of concert backstage content

red carpets 

multiple fake dates for that ✨publicity✨

a sexy bodyguard💦

an awards ceremony 

an adorable cat named Winston 

positive fandom representation (but ofc will look at the negatives too) 

There’ll also be some serious topics, which include: 

negative aspects of fame 

loneliness

mental health struggles 

manipulation and controlling behaviour (not carried out by either mcs) 

heartbreak 

Progress: 

I currently have 8 chapters written, so still a very long way to go, but it’s coming along! 

My goals this month were to 1. read through what I have and edit/make relevant changes and 2. share what information I can with you all on Tumblr. 

Next month I’ll be attempting to write every day (word count to be determined.) 

There it is, you think as you roll your eyes, scoffing at the audacity. “Wow! Thank you for the ‘Two Dollars Tuesday’ pizza!” You take an enormous bite out of your pepperoni slice before adding with your mouth full, “How will I ever repay you?!”

“How about you…” Jimin trails off, eyes squinted and his hand covering one side of his mouth while in deep thought.

Before you could tell him that you weren’t serious, he brightens up as he points at something behind you. “THAT!”

You whip your head to look at what it was and immediately you let out a huff, your eyelids falling at half-lid. Jimin is so fucking predictable, you knew the second you saw those group of girls walk into the restaurant earlier that he would perv on them because of their costumes.

“Wear something like that tonight and I’ll be a happy man!” Jimin answers, covering his mouth as he giggles, most likely already picturing you in one of the outfits. When you turn back to him, he drops his hand and smirks “I like the police uniform the best.”

“First of all: In your dreams!” Jimin nods in agreement at that and you ignore him to move on to your other point. “- And Second: Did you really just call me here to get shitty pizza?” You lean in, lowering your voice, “And not to discuss the ritual?”

You really thought this was an emergency meeting; like maybe his Circle couldn’t gather all the ingredients in time for tonight or Taehyung and Jungkook accidentally casted a spell on Jimin that made his dick deflate. You weren’t expecting to just eat greasy pizza with him like it’s some sort of… sort of… d-da…

Date!

Yeri… you warn.

Hehe!

It’s a date?!

No Wendy, it’s not!

Sure, it’s not…

As you try - and fail - to shut out the voice in your head chanting ‘Y/N and Chimmy sitting in a tree…’, Jimin shakes his head. “We’ve discussed it plenty enough. I just wanted to take you out.”

You swallow hard. What? Why?

Then you realize that it was just Jimin being Jimin. Flirting with you even though he never really means it.

“So that’s really all?” You ask with your brows raised and Jimin nods with an all too pleased smile. You smile tightly back as you stand up, packing what’s left of your pizza into the thin, white paper takeout bag it came in. “Good. I’ll be going then!”

Jimin’s jaw falls. “Wait, what?!”

Already walking away backwards, you shrug as you tell him, “I have to get all the supplies ready.”

“I’ve told you that we’d take care of that,” Jimin reminds you as he stands up too, both hands flat against the surface of the table. “I’ve ordered the guys to get one ingredient on the list each so even they can’t mess that up.”

You stop to ask him, “What was Hoseok getting?”

Jimin quirks an eyebrow up, answering a second after the voice of the man in question tells him in his mind, “Candles. Why—Goddamn it, Hoseok!”

You chuckle as Jimin face palms, sitting back down in a slump.

“Guess I’m going to Bath and Body Works. I’ll see you tonight,” you tell him, and Jimin waves weakly with the hand not against his face. It makes you giggle a bit, grinning slightly at how cutely defeated he looked… Quickly you shake your head, walking away before any more stupid thoughts fill your head.

Once you’re gone, Jimin fumes alone at the table, munching angrily on his last slice of pizza.

Guys, I ask you to do one fucking thing and you couldn’t even do it?!, he glares at the table, his eyebrows moving a lot to express his irritation. He’s not insane, he’s just addressing the members of his Circle in his head!

I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry, Jimin-ie! Midterms really messed me up!

Okay, it’s fine, Hoseok… Y/N’s already getting the candles. Anyone else wants to come forward?

Ask Tae! He’s been playing Cuphead all day and all night to do anything else, he probably forgot too!

Hey, shut up Jongin, I was a good boy and got the caraway seeds like Jimin asked! But I think our youngest has something he wants to confess!

WHAT THE HELL!?

Jimin winces at the volume of Jungkook’s thoughts in his head. It happens quite often; his Circle is filled with a boisterous group of young adult men.

A Circle is a group of six witches who performed the Binding Ritual together, making them bound for life with links between each of the members. Being in a Circle helps them to control magic their magic better and together they can perform more powerful spells.

The downside was that they’re in each other’s head all the time, there’s no way of stopping it – unless they gain access to their individual power.

But without the ritual that they’re performing tonight, they’re not able to access enough magic to have individual powers.

So yeah, they really need all the ingredients or else the whole ritual plan will crumble.

Jungkook…?

Ugh, I’m sorry! Unicorn blood is really hard to come by. I really thought I’d have some by tonight but–

Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I can get some from my Grandma.

Thank you! I love you!

No problem, kid. Respect me more is all I ask…

Thanks Taemin, Jimin sighs with relief, You’re a lifesaver. If tonight goes terribly, I don’t think Y/N will ever speak to me again.

You’re welcome. Just don’t fucking ruin this chance! We’ve all been tired of you moping and whining about Y/N not loving you since high school, and now that we have our Circle connection, it’s so much worse!

Right! Make it stop!!

As his friends and fellow Circle members continue to make fun of him, Jimin groans loudly, earning strange looks from the family of five dressed as the emotions from Inside Out at the table beside him. He nods apologetically towards them; his pearly whites bared in an awkward smile. People without magic are so damn lucky that they don’t have five other voices in their head.

I think he’s crush on Y/N is cute!

This time, Jimin manages to suppress his chuckle and keep his face straight as he cleans up his table, ready to leave.

Thanks Kookie, but it won’t be cute if tonight is a disaster.

Jimin really hopes that tonight won’t be a disaster.

“Pumpkin Cupcake or Pumpkin Pecan Waffles.”

You sniff both jars of 3-wick candles that Irene is holding up for you to smell and then wrinkle your nose. “They smell exactly the same?”

“No! How?!” Irene smells the candles again to try and prove you wrong. She holds up the one on her right hand, exclaiming, “This one definitely smells nuttier… Like pecan-y!”

“That’s the cupcake one,” you tell her laughing, and she quickly checks the label, blushing a deep red.

With a sigh, she tosses both of them in the basket she has on her arm. “Whatever, I like them. It’s buy two, get two free anyway and–”

When is it not? You think and Irene jokingly glares your way as she finishes, “I’m sure Taemin will like it too!”

As Irene lists off who will be getting what candle she had in her basket, you had a hard time paying attention. Usually, you’re better at listening to your friends, even when they’re talking absolute nonsense; it’s one of the qualities that got you the role as their leader. But right now, what comes in one ear goes out the other as you worry about the night ahead. Your saliva feels hot against your tongue, the urge to throw up has been lingering inside you since Jimin had approached you last week to ask if your Circle would like to do the Mastery Ritual together with his. For someone who claims to hate Park Jimin a lot, you don’t know why you agreed so easily to it.

The Mastery Ritual was a ceremony that could only be done during Hallow’s Eve - when the four elements are at their strongest - and it could only be done between complete and binded Circles. The result of a successful Mastery Ritual is the elevation of power in the Circles’ magic for the whole year until the next Hallow’s Eve arrives, then ritual has to be done again.

To start the spell, the leaders of the Circles involved magically create a pentagram with the bonding of their blood. Then 5 set of partners (one from each Circle) stand at one of the 5 points of the pentagram, chanting the incantation together. While they do this, in the middle of the pentagram - the main act of the ritual - the leaders have to engage in coitus until their completion.

Meaning, you and Jimin have to have sex…

Just thinking about it makes you feel lightheaded.

“Y/N… Are you alright?” Irene touches your arm, head tilting and expression filled with concern. You blink at her, and she brings you back down to earth when she says, “You can still back out, you know…”

Swallowing thickly, you give a forced smile.

“And spend another year of hearing all of you in my head?” You ask and she chuckles as you answer your own questions with a, “No thanks.”

You’ve only been bonded with your Circle for a year a few months (the Binding Ritual took place a few days after Yeri’s – the youngest – 19thbirthday) and you already knew why 95% of complete Circles partook in the Mastery Ritual every year even though it wasn’t obligatory. Having five other voices in your head was a lot!

It’s nice to know how much you love us! Joy’s voice resounds in your head sarcastically and you can even picture her pouting.

You exchange giggles with Irene – who was now adding multiple calming lavender candles in her basket, probably all for you -  as you think, I love you girls, but if I wake up another day with ‘Baby, let the games begin’ being sung over and over again, I think I might actually just kill myself!

That’s just an attack against me! Suelgi whines. At least I don’t give everyone very detailed play by plays about every sexual act I want to do to my professor like someone else here…

I CAN’T HELP IT! HE’S SO HOT!

Wendy… He’s like 70 years old!

Mmm… Daddy…

More like ‘mmm… grandpa’, and you and Irene howl with laughter from Yeri’s joke while the cashier’s eyes widen, mumbling under her breath about how Halloween always brings out the crazy people before she slowly and cautiously shoves the 4 bags full of various scented candles towards the two of you.

Hand-in-hand, you and Irene leave the store quickly, giggling to each other and heads ducked in mortification.

Your Circle arrives at the front gate of Kim Taehyung’s hauntingly beautiful mansion at exactly ten o’clock that night. Even as a group of witches, you and your friends thought the drive through Taehyung’s wealthy neighborhood was eerily quiet and gloomy, no kids dared to walk around treat or treating in the area. But when the gate opens and Wendy drives the long, straight dirt pathway leading up to mansion, you were all surprised to see that all the lights were on, dozens of cars parked haphazardly on the lawn, and a song that sounds like a dubstep remix of the Goosebumps theme booming so loudly that you were able to hear it even though all the windows of the car were rolled up.

Of course, even though tonight was a night meant for freaky sex rituals, Taehyung couldn’t pass up the chance to throw a Halloween party.  

Squealing with excitement, both Joy and Yeri jump out the car even before it was fully stopped, running to the front door in their matching Sailor Uranus and Neptune outfits. They were hopeful that after the ritual they could catch the tail end of the frat party their sorority was invited to, but knowing what you all know about how strenuous the ritual was, it was wishful thinking on their part. At least now they get to have a bit of fun before the hard work starts.

Seulgi follows right after the car is properly parked, scolding the two girls for the safety hazard they just committed as she readjusts the mouse ear headband on her head. Irene is right behind her, dressed as an angel. Hanging off her arms were the bags of candles the two of you bought earlier. She’s so at ease that one would think that the bags contained nothing but a grain of sand, but with the whole Circle present, Irene was able to focus her magic to make bags weigh as light as a feather

Before you could get out of the car, Wendy stops you with the sing-song of your name. In her hands was a dark navy blue police officer hat, and you instantly shake your head, knowing why she was giving it to you. “No… Nope… No…”

Wendy pouts as best as she could with the plastic vampire fangs in her mouth, “Indulge him a little bit…”

“Why should I?” you whine, scowling as you look off to the side.

Oh, wowie! You hear Yeri exclaim. Y/N, you lucky girl! Jimin looks so good tonight!

Aww! He just told us he wanted to look good for you, Joy coos.

With your heartbeat speeding up, you tell them, You guys are way too gullible!

“Or maybe… he means it,” Wendy points out cheekily. When you roll your eyes to the high heavens, Wendy huffs, shaking the hat in her hands. “Come on, Y/N. I didn’t kill a cop after my shift at work just for you to not wear this!”

Eyes bulging open wide, you screech, “You what?!”

Wendy chortles at your reaction, head falling back. “Relax, I’m kidding! It’s from Party City!”

You glare as you snatch the hat out of her hand and Wendy smirks mischievously and adds, “Or was it?”

Shaking your head, you sigh deeply. “Well then you should be counting your blessings that I’m willing to let Park Jimin’s gross penis inside my vagina so you girls can have enough magic to do things by yourself, like breaking yourself out of prison!”

“Oh, our mighty leader!” Wendy cries, bowing her head and hands down towards you. “You’re so benevolent and generous! What can we do to show our gratitude for your selfless act?!”

“Just don’t make me regret this night more than I already do,” you tell her with a grin. “Meaning, don’t use your individual magic as a Viagra for your decrepit professor.”

Wendy laughs with a strangled shriek, grabbing the hat from you again and squishing it down on top of your head, succeeding in her intent to mess up your hair.

When you step foot into Taehyung’s mansion, you were kind of glad Wendy brought you the police hat to wear because no one else that attended the party went without a costume. You hated standing out or being different, it’s probably because of the stigma you had growing up as a witch without magical parents.

When you came to your magic at the age 7, your parents were obviously and rightfully freaked out because not many non-magical folks even knew that witches existed. But they were visited by one of the Elders (the most respected and long-living Circle in your city) Min Sungha, and he explained to them what was happening to you, that you were a witch. Your parents understood as best as they could, and they supported and love you for who you are.

Though you couldn’t say the same about your peers.

During the weekdays, you kept attending your regular elementary school; but on the weekends, you would attend the Girduin Academy for Young Witches that Elder Min was the Headmaster of. At both places, you were ostracized.

You guess you couldn’t really blame your non-magical classmates for being terrified of you because you would lose control of your powers when you got too emotional. A person that’s always setting things on fire or causing things to burst into teeny, tiny pieces isn’t exactly BFF material.

You thought that at least the kids at Girduin would like you but you quick to learn that you were wrong.

The kids looked down on you for not being pure-blooded, treated you like a pariah.

You didn’t know any other witches with non-magical parents until Seulgi moved to your neighborhood in your freshman year of high school. But until then, the only person who would even speak to you at Girduin was Elder Min’s grandson, Min Yoongi, who was also Jimin’s best friend.

So yes, that means that although you’ve known Park Jimin since you were 7 years old, it’s only a few years ago that he started treating you like an actual human being.

With that thought in your head, you glare when he appears in front of you in a champagne satin jacket, dark blue jeans, and brown leather driving gloves. It makes you sneer with irritation that he looks so good.

“Who are you supposed to be?” you snap, arms crossing.

“Uh… The main dude in Drive,” he says, but the look you were giving him intimidates him enough for it to sound like a question instead. He drags a palm down the shiny satin of his jacket and adds, “I thought you’d like it. When we watched the movie together, I remember you saying that this outfit ‘makes your panties wet’.”

Your face feels hot as you hiss back, “Because Ryan Gosling was wearing it! Not you!”

I thought you think Ryan Gosling is basic? Seulgi asks, and your eyes shift across the room where she’s talking with Lee Taemin, a red cup in both their hands. You could use a drink right now, but you decide that it’ll be better if you’re sober for the ritual. It appears Jimin is doing the same, only a can of Sprite in his hand.

Shhh… Jimin doesn’t know that!

“Oh, well… I tried,” Jimin shrugs, the hand without the drink rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. With the same hand, he gestures towards you. “You look nice!”

You look down at your outfit – a black oversized fisherman sweater and black skinny jeans – then back up again at Jimin, an eyebrow quirking up in a silent ‘really now?’.

“You do!” Jimin insists with a laugh that turns into giggles. “The hat is a nice touch too.”

He’s adora- you catch yourself and quickly think instead, I hate him!

No, you don’t, Irene’s voice calls out, Also get down here guys! We’re done with the preparations!

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Park. Wendy forced me to wear it,” you grumble, pushing down the lid of the hat. Then you look towards the door of the library, cheeks flushing even more, “And, um… They want us to come down now.”

“Let’s go?” Jimin asks nervously like he was silently asking if you wanted to back out. When you nod, he ducks his head, smiling shyly. “Ladies’ first.”

The basement of Taehyung’s mansion was a room that one cannot access without magic. Inside the library, you had to perform a magical spell that allowed you to walk through the third bookshelf on the north side of the room and from there, you found yourself inside a tiny room with a just a crystal ball in the middle. With your palms on the crystal ball, more spells had to be chanted before the some of the bricks on the ground disappears and reveals a spiral staircase going down.

When down at the bottom of the stairs, you had more walking to do. Yeri is tightly holding onto your hand as you all – meaning everyone except Irene, Taehyung, and Jungkook – make your way down the long hallway. You couldn’t blame Yeri, it was a bit creepy… Wendy and Hoseok trying to scare her wasn’t helping either.

At the end of the hallway was a huge double door, already wide open. Stepping inside, you see that the room was shaped like a pentagon with double doors in the middle of all sides of the walls.

“You’re finally here!” Jungkook cheers as he stands up from kneeling on the floor where he had just placed a tealight candle down. He spins around, arms wide. “Like what we’ve done to the place?”

You look around, impressed. Littered all over the floor were most of the candles you and Irene had bought. It was one of the things needed for the spell to work.

Your gaze knowingly skips over the other thing needed for the ritual, furiously heatingup. In the center of the room was king-sized bed with luxurious bedding. It looked really comfortable, but you’re praying that it wasn’t the same sheets that were on the bed when this room was used last.

Don’t worry, it’s not, I’ve already asked, Irene reassures you and you smile at each other.

As if he could read your mind, Taehyung reassures you as well, “We got the bedding just last week and it cost us over $1000 because our leader wanted only the best for you.”

“$1000?” You gape your mouth in disbelief, and you turn to Jimin. “ARE YOU CRAZY?! PLEASE TELL ME THAT’S A JOKE!”

Jimin laughs awkwardly, he can’t deny it. “To be fair, it’s not only for you! I’ll be on it as well!”

You’re still staring at him like he was insane when Joy jumps on top of the bed. “It’s so soft and comfortable! This is worth it!”

“See?!” Jimin exclaims. “When you feel how soft the sheets are, you won’t be complaining!”

You decide to let it go, calling everyone around you instead. The clock was ticking and you can’t waste any more time.

As Taehyung explains the each of the doors around the room opens to a tunnel that leads to the exact spot outside where a point of the pentagram that will appear after the first step of the ritual was complete, Irene goes around to hand each set of partners (one from your Circle and the other from Jimin’s) all the ingredients that they needed for when they get to that spot.

The room is buzzing with excitement, expressed through their laughter and awe as they look through the items they got. Well… Everyone except you and Jimin. You guess it’s because the weirdest thing the other’s will be doing is sharing their blood together; while you and Jimin have to do that too and also, you know, have sex.

They’re really lucky in that sense.

You look towards Jimin and you see that his eyes were on you as well. His cheeks are rosy and there’s a shy grin on his face, a bit awkward but still cute.

Maybe you’re a bit lucky yourself.

It takes you a second realize that the other girls weren’t the ones who thought that.

You’re left alone with Jimin in the room once the others leave through one of the five doors with their partner.

Though the two of you are standing beside the bed facing each other and only a foot apart, both your eyes are looking everywhere but on the other.

Was his heart beating as loud and fast as yours? Was he as terrified and uneasy are you were?

You know that unlike you, Jimin has done this ritual before – with Son Naeun, one of your biggest tormentors growing up. You’ve wondered why he asked to perform the ritual with you instead of her again. The greater the bond between the leaders, the greater the magic strengthens. They’ve been friends for so long (and you’re pretty sure Naeun is in love with Jimin) so surely their bond is stronger than yours and Jimin’s.

Maybe their bond wasn’t strong, Wendy suggests after your musing. Maybe that’s why he’s trying it with you.

And he thinks my bond with him is stronger?!

Maybe it is, Joy singsong. Also Jongin told me to tell you to calm Jimin down. He’s freaking out in his head!

Huh? You regard Jimin carefully. He was looking stiff but you’re sure he always looks like that, at least around you. He looks fine.

Just say something nice! Joy hisses.

I’m bad at being nice to him!

Then they something funny!

“Does every pureblood family have a sex dungeon like this?” You ask jokingly, trying to lighten the mood like Joy suggested.

“Oh god- No!” Jimin chokes out, laughing so hard. “Well at least my family doesn’t… Tae’s family is a whole different level of… Too much…”

“I’ve never met them but judging from Tae… I believe that.”

The mood was lightened as both of you laugh, but it doesn’t last long when the girls relay to you that they’re at their spots. It seems that Jimin got the same message from the guys when both of you stop laughing at the exact same time.

After clearing his throat, Jimin says, “They’re ready. Are… Are you?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, nervously rubbing your sweaty palms on your thighs. Focusing your magic on the lights around the room, one by one, each dims until the room was almost pitch black.

“Mood lighting,” you say with a shrug, but really you’re just a bit self-conscious to strip in front of Jimin with the lights brightly on.

“Ah… Smart,” Jimin says with a grin, and you mirror yours back to him.

And then the awkwardness starts again, knowing that you both have to get down to business because the others were waiting for the two of you.

Jimin starts first, unzipping the jacket he was wearing and shrugging it off, revealing a white Henley t-shirt underneath - only for that to come off a second later as well in that sexy way that guy’s pull off their shirt. You swallow audibly, looking away from Jimin’s body to drop the hat from your head, starting to undress as well.

The sweater was the next thing to go, and you turn your body away from Jimin to do so. Next were your boots, and one you accidentally kick far to the other side of the room, hitting the wall. You cup your mouth gasping in embarrassment. Jimin laughs loud and you shift your eyes over to him just to see that he was already fully naked. The outline of his dick makes your mouth drop in astonishment. You were glad your hand was covering your mouth.

Quickly, you take off your pants and your socks come off with it. The faster the clothes come off, the less you overthink it.

You’re not a brave as Jimin, so you leave your underwear on as you climb into the bed. Plus, you hardly ever wore matching underwear but you did today, and the ones you’re wearing are the really expensive black lacy ones you bought from Victoria’s Secret when they weren’t even on sale, so he better appreciate your effort here!

Jimin follows right after grabbing a small switchblade knife from the pocket of his jeans.

Both on the bed, you have to get yourselves situated. It was a bit tough to coordinate, mumbling apologies under your breath whenever the two of you would accidentally bump into each other or graze each other’s skin. It takes a while but finally, you and Jimin managed to face each other, both on your knees.

Jimin darts out his tongue to wet his lips as his dark eyes trails down your body. With the weight of his stare on you, you cross your arms to cover your chest, suddenly feeling insecure. He notices right away and drops his gaze to the bed, mumbling, “Uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble back, taking a deep breath as you drop your arms back to your sides. You were kind of checking him out as well so it was only fair.

“You’re just…”  He lifts his eyes back up and into your own as he says, “Really beautiful, Y/N.”

It sounded so genuine that you chew on your inner cheek instead of responding, though the butterflies are fluttering in your stomach. Did he really mean it?

Jimin lets out a breath after a few silent seconds, scrunching his nose and feeling embarrassed that you didn’t say anything back. Shaking his head, he knew he shouldn’t dwell on it, and so he presses on the switchblade in his hand causing the blade to flip out. With the knife, he cuts the tip of his left forefinger and he hands it over for you to do the same. When the cut on your finger starts bleeding, you close the knife and toss it somewhere on the floor.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Jimin asks once more. “There’s still time to back out.”

“I’m good,” you tell him, smiling and nodding. You’re grateful that he’s asking you so much, then you realize that you’ve never asked him. “What about you?”

“I’m great,” Jimin says with a chuckle. He shifts closer towards you, placing his hand without the pricked fingertip on your waist. You quiver slightly from his touch, and he lifts his brows up, stating, “Here goes…”

“Earth,” Jimin begins the incantation, pressing his bloody finger just in between your collarbones “Air-“ He drags the finger down to the right, leaving a trail of blood. “Water-” his finger drags up now.

“-fire and blood.”

In the end of the first line of the incantation, there’s a pentagram drawn in blood just above your breast and in the middle of your chest. It’s strange, but for some reason, knowing that Jimin’s blood was on your skin makes you rub your thighs together. No… No… It can’t be, it’s probably because of how he sounded while saying the spell, his voice deep and smooth.

Maybe it was both.

“By these elements we ask for more power and control from those who came before us, from our ancestors and for our ancestors, we will fall into the darkness, we will find the light, two Circles, bound together as one, we accept the darkness, we accept the light.”

When he was done, Jimin nods towards you. It was your turn.

You do exactly what Jimin just did, drawing the pentagram on his chest as you chant the incantation, although your voice was shakier and the blood pentagram on his chest messier.

Once you said the incantation, Jimin gently grabs your chin, using his thumb to press on your bottom lip. “Open up,” he commands and fuck, something about that shoots arousal straight to your core. You do as he says, opening your mouth, and he puts his bleeding finger inside, tasting iron against your tongue. You do the same back to him, sticking your finger in his mouth and he closes tightly around it, sucking the blood with a moan.

This shouldn’t be so hot. But fuck it, it is.

Jimin must have thought so too because even in the dim light, you see him hardening instantly (though he was already half-hard before he got on the bed).

When you both pull out your finger, you see that the cut was fully healed.

The Mastery Ritual has officially started.

With that, you feel a ghostly rope being tied around the top of your breast and around the bottom. It makes you whimper softly, chest thrusting forward. Jimin groans, feeling it as well, and you both know that means that two of you are now connected, bound to each other until the end of the ritual.

Then six new voices come flooding into your mind. One of them being the man in front of you.

In your mind, the others relay that they’re all in position. Irene and Taemin at the most Northern point of the pentagram, Wendy and Taehyung at the North-East point, Seulgi and Hoseok at the South-East, Joy and Jongin at the South-West, and Yeri and Jungkook at the North-West.

Now it was their turn to start the spell. Together, the partners light the candle they have with them and one by one, they drop the ingredients needed to solidify the lines of the pentagram into the fire: first the caraway seeds, then the root of an old willow tree, tadpole eggs, and finally, a vial of unicorn blood.

Once they’re done that, they have to start the incantation all together and they have to keep chanting until you and Jimin are done with your ritual, but the two of you cannot start until they’ve said the spell the first time round.

As the members of your Circle and Jimin’s Circle start chanting the incantation, the unlit candles that are spread around the floor light up, illuminating the whole room with a soft, golden glow.

Heating up, you close your eyes. One half of the reason is that if you kept them open, you’ll be able to see Jimin in all his naked glory, and the other half because you knew there were only a couple lines left of the spell – pretty soon, you and Jimin will have to start fuc—the ritual.

Before you know it, the “pretty soon” comes just a matter of seconds later, when all the voices in your head fall silent.

And now that you’re all alone in your head, you realize how fucking nervous you truly were.

The grip Jimin has on your hip roughens when his other hand grabs onto the other side as well, pulling you out of your head. With your eyes now open, it was hard not to check out Jimin’s body. His smooth chest, his pretty collarbones, his arms, the well-defined muscles on his lower abdomen, his thighs, the light trail of hair underneath his belly button leading to his erect cock… Everything about him was so sexy.

With trembling hands, you find yourself second guessing where to touch him. First you lay your hands on his chest, then his shoulders, then back on his chest. It was as though you were a virgin again with no prior experience. You haven’t been this anxious about sex since your first time, shaking like a leaf in the backseat of Min Yoongi’s car.

Jimin chuckles slightly with amusement as he leans down, his face really getting closer and closer to your own that you feel his hot breath against your cheek; it tingles and smells like fresh mint. Your eyelids flutter shut and your lips unknowingly pucker forwards with bated breath.

But he doesn’t kiss you, instead presses his mouth on your jaw, then down your neck, sucking the skin there.

You let out your breath through your mouth. You shouldn’t be disappointed but you are.

Get yourself together, Y/N! you chastise yourself. We’re just fucking to get more power! Of course he’s not going to kiss you!

It would be nice though, you love kissing, and the way his mouth feels against your neck was so, so good that you couldn’t help but think about how good it will feel against your lips. While you’re thinking that, one of Jimin’s hands begins to descend down your body, reaching the waistband of your underwear.

He’s so close where you need him to be but he hesitates, making you whine out, “Just fucking touch me, Jimin!”

He chuckles because of how impatient you were, until his fingers press against the crotch of your underwear, his laugh gets caught in his throat, nearly choking on air. “Oh fuck…” He sucks in a breath, “You’re so wet.”

You heat up while he trails his fingers up and down your slit, so in awe of how soaked you were. He smirks, asking, “Is this all because of me?”

“Sh-shut up, just—“ you gasp, stopping mid-sentence to moan out loud when Jimin pinches your clit. You fall forward, your chest against his. Even with your bra still on, he can feel your pebbled nipples pressing on his body. That spurs him on to rub against your clit harder, though still in slow figure eights, making you clutch onto his broad shoulders.

“Why is this still on…” You hear him mumble in irritation, and before you realize what he meant, you hear the tearing of lace. Appalled, you lean back slightly, slapping Jimin’s chest lightly while he drops the scraps of beyond ruined lace on the ground.

“What the hell, Jimin!? That was expensive!”

“Don’t worry,” he says as he starts to lay you down on the bed. When you’re lying flat, he sits straight up again, parting his legs your so your thighs will spread wider for him. Biting his lip at the sight of your glistening pussy, Jimin promises, “I’ll buy you new ones…”

You glare as you tell him, “That’s not the po-“ then his fingers are back against your bare slit, rubbing back and forth. It feels so much better than before, making you squeak out the rest,“-OINT!”

“Mmm, yeah? What is the point?” Jimin teasingly asks, and before you could answer, he slides two fingers inside you, the lewd squelching sound rings in your ears - and that’s when you feel it. You knew the elements are going to come into play during the ritual but you didn’t know it was going to feel like this. Jimin’s fingers are like ice inside you, the cold sensation around your walls causes you to shiver in delight, bucking your hips to get him deeper inside.

You hadn’t realized you were the only one moving and making any sound while Jimin stayed still, drinking up the image of you debasing yourself on his fingers – until he speaks up. Panting heavily, Jimin hungrily watches the way your pussy slides up and down his digits that were now completely drenched with your arousal, and then he praises with a low, rough grunt, “That’s it, baby… Keep fucking yourself on my fingers.”

The pet name causes you to mewl out his name softly, doing as he says by gyrating your hips faster and with more force. Jimin has his palm on your swollen clit now, leaning down again to put his mouth around your hardened nipple. Like his fingers, his tongue and breath are icy cold.

You arch your back, your hands holding the sheets underneath tightly, screaming out, “O- Oh my god! That feels so good!”

He bites down, teeth scraping against the lace, and you let out a sound between a whine and moan. “J-Jimin, please don’t rip my b-bra…”

Jimin bites down your nipple on last time before growling a fine, then he pulls his finger out of you so he could flip you over, pulling you up by your hips so you’re on your knees, ass and dripping wet pussy up in the air. Whimpering at the loss of his fingers, you rub your ass against Jimin’s hardened length and instantly, the palm of his hand smacks against your ass. His touch was electrified, the sting feeling like lighting had struck you. Body buzzing and shuddering, you keen out, burying your face into the pillow.

“You have to wait, baby,” Jimin whispers tenderly in your ear as he unclasps your bra with one hand. Nodding, you shrug your shoulders so the bra will fall off your arms and onto the bed before you throw it somewhere across the room. It lands on one of the candles on the ground, and with wide eyes, both you and Jimin stare as it catches on fire.

“Well… That one wasn’t my fault,” Jimin chuckles.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut in mortification. “Oh, fuck me.”

You receive another smack of Jimin’s electric touch against your rear, feeling the tingling shockwaves all the way up your spine. Jimin smirks at the brazen way you’re moaning in both pain and pleasure, back arching so you can wiggle your ass closer to him for more. The shyness from earlier was gone, and now you’re acting like how he had always pictured you to act in bed. His fantasies coming to life fuels him on, so he slaps you once again as his teeth pulls at your earlobe before he growls, “Oh, I will.”

With one hand soothing circles on your inflamed skin, Jimin uses his other to help his cock gather your arousal that had dripped along your thighs. Then he rubs it and his precum together along his length as lubricant before he lines himself up to your entrance.

No warning, Jimin slams into you, bottoming out completely. Instinctively you tighten around him, causing him to mutter ‘fuck,fuck,fuck’ under his breath and you earn another hard smack on your sore bottom. When Jimin first starts moving his hips, it was a slow and gradual drag of his big and rigid cock against your walls, allowing you to get used to his size. But it doesn’t take long for him to lose the softness, going faster and harder a few minutes later, the vulgar sound of skin against skin echoing around the room. Once again, your face was buried into the pillow and nails digging holes into the expensive sheets, taking the brutal yet satisfying pounding to the best of your abilities.

Jimin gathers the hair from the base of your neck, pulling at it roughly like he was handling the reins of a frightened horse to get your face out of the pillow, and he hisses, “I want to hear you… I want to hear how well I’m fucking your tight pussy… I want to hear you begging for more or I’ll stop… Do you want me to stop?”

Shaking your head back and forth so quickly that it might snap off, that was the last thing you wanted. He can’t stop, not when he was making you feel like you’re on cloud nine, fucking you so good that you could barely think, your mind can only focus on how well his cock fit inside you. So that’s what you blabber to him and other nonsense while drool drips down your chin and onto the bed, “Please don’t stop! Your cock fills my pussy up s-so well! Oh, fuck, Jimin! M-my pussy was made for you to fuck!”

As you kept your praises going, he keeps fucking into you with no intention to stop anymore. How can he stop when you’re saying such dirty things like that?

“So the only reason you exist is for your filthy pussy to take my cock, huh?” Jimin questions, cold breath against your neck.

“Y-yes,” you gasp and Jimin snarls in contentment, biting into neck until he draws blood.

Pulling you up so you’re now both standing up on your knees, your back pressed closely against his chest, Jimin continues to pound into you, one hand groping your boob and the other firmly around your neck. The invisible rope from earlier tightens and tightens around your chest, and both that and his hand makes it harder to breathe. He sucks at the skin on the juncture of your neck and shoulder, the bite marks no longer there and the skin had healed, while your head lolls to the opposite side, mouth gaping and struggling for air.

A particularly rough snap of Jimin hips causes you to scream out loud, all the light bulbs around the room brightening into a blinding light before they all burst and shatter into pieces.

While you were able to breathe once again and slightly had your focus on the commotion happening upstairs - the party guests screaming in both fear and joy because of the power shutting down so suddenly - Jimin had flipped you over once again, both laying down now and face-to-face, while he placed both your legs over each side of his shoulders, entering you once again but this time so much deeper than before.

With your eyes staring into Jimin’s dark ones, you bite your bottom lip to keep from screaming as Jimin began thrusting his previous fast pace, his balls slapping noisily against your ass. Now that the music has stopped, you’re worried that the people upstairs would be able to hear you and maybe they’ll somehow discover what’s happening, that witches are real and they’re into fucked up sex rituals. Jimin didn’t give a fuck, grabbing your jaw so he can push his thumb into your mouth to open it wide, “Baby, you know how much I love hearing you. You’re so, so close, I can feel you tightening around me. Come on, baby… Let me hear you.”

With Jimin’s coaxing, you allow yourself to moan out your desire for more, your fingernails searing lines of flames into the taut muscles of his back all the way down to his firm, round ass. The burning causes Jimin to snap his hips with so much force into you, hitting that spot inside you that has you screaming because of how amazing it felt – you’re sure the people upstairs could definitely hear that, but you couldn’t care less anymore. Once, twice, then on the third time, you feel the coil snap, the ropes tightening once again. Your back arches, eyes rolling far back, seeing darkness. Your body spasms as pleasure crash through you intensely, feeling like you could never feel this amazing ever again while your lungs struggle to get air.

When you come down from your high, you find yourself blinking rapidly but still seeing nothing. Your whole vision was shroud in darkness, you were as blind as a bat. You feel around you, touching hard floor instead of the soft, $1000 comforter.

Shakily, you push yourself off the floor to stand up. You know this is the next part of the ritual, but still, you wrap your arms around your naked body, slightly frightened. Well, who wouldn’t be scared when they’re in between life and death?

You start walking, knowing what you have to find but no clue where to find it. It’s so weird, you feel eyes watching you but you can’t from where. It causes you to hasten your steps, bare feet loud against the cold floor.

Then you see it, the altar ahead, and you waste no more time, running to it.  

When you got closer, you see that it was the altar of Melisande, the first witch. It was a marble statue of her dragon form, being the only witch able to transform into one.

Surrounding the marbled altar were twelve items, each one symbolizing a person from your Circle or Jimin’s Circle. The thin purple silk headband with the diamond jewels is Yeri’s from her deceased mother, the ballet slippers are Jongin’s, the tiny pot of succulent is Seulgi’s, and…

Oh!

You reach down to pick up a yellow rose that caught your eyes. This has to be Jimin’s. There’s a garden maze at the backyard of his home and at the centre was a gazebo growing magical yellow roses along the columns. A memory flashes in your mind of you sitting on the white metal bench inside that gazebo and crying into Jimin’s arms, his hand rubbing your back as he tried to console you. You had forgotten about that day, it was first time you and Jimin ever really hung out together. You remember that he came to your house, looking highly disheveled like he had ran a thousand miles just to get to your front door. Then he took you out to brighten your day knowing that you were having a hard time. It happened five years ago, after–

As you shake your head, your eyes find your item, picking it up as well. Usually the old grimoire was heavy, needing two hands to carry it, but here, it was light. You smile sadly, finger tracing the engraved wording on the cover, realizing that the person who gave it to you was the person you were supposed to do your first ritual with.

Sniffling, you place both the rose and grimoire back down on the ground to face the altar. That’s something to worry about another time, but for now, you need to finish the ritual.

“Earth, Air, Water, Fire and Blood, By these elements we ask for more power and control from those who came before us, from our ancestors and for our ancestors, we will fall into the darkness, we will find the light, two Circles, bound together as one, we accept the darkness, we accept the light.”

The eyes of the dragon glow red after the incantation and then a candlelit path appears before your eyes, leading to a light in the distance.

Walking on the path, you start to hear a voice coming from the direction of the light, seemingly coaxing you, “Come on, baby… Come back to me…”

And with that, you take off running, following the voice as it keeps calling to you. As you got closer and closer to the light, the warmth of it envelops your whole body, until finally, all you see was blinding.

Blinking rapidly, Jimin’s face hazily reappears in your vision, your back once again feeling soft and cool sheets.

“There you are…” Jimin sighs of relief, holding you close and smiling against your neck. You realize that he was still inside you, his cock throbbing and ready to burst at any second. That means the ritual still isn’t complete.

You run your hands through his loose and somewhat sweaty hair, encouraging him to finish inside you with a roll of your hips and the tightening of your walls around him. He’s groaning again, thrusting again, fucking you as hard as he can again. Through the oversensitivity, you manage to gasp out, “Jimin, please c-come inside me! I need your come in me! Please, please, fill me up!”

The lines get blurred there, you didn’t know if you were saying that just to complete the ritual or because you just really wanted Jimin’s cum inside you. Whichever it was, it satisfies Jimin all the same, plunging into you one last time before he tenses up, mouth colliding against yours as he spills his white seed all over your pulsating walls. Streams upon streams of his hot cum shoot deep, but you can barely think about that when the feeling of Jimin’s mouth against yours felt better than the orgasm you had earlier.

You were so shocked that you stay like that, his lips on yours and your eyes wide open while he was in the afterlife, his weight heavy and lifeless on top of you.

It’s a good thing Jimin blacks out for only ten seconds, lifting himself up slightly while grinning dreamily at you once he languidly blinks open his eyes. You wonder if that’s how long you were gone for, but you had a feeling it took you longer.

“Almost done,” Jimin states, and you nod tiredly. He has a kind smile as he touches your burning cheeks then his fingertips follow the reddened trail of your flush body down, down, down. He admires every part of you he touches; from your neck to your nipples to your bellybutton and finally to where you and him were still connected. With a low guttural groan, Jimin pulls out his softened dick, quickly scooping back up the cum that spills out, pushing it back inside you. You cup your hand against his, both trying to keep it all in.

“That’s it, baby… Just a little bit more,” Jimin coos as you clench tightly around his fingers.

The candles in the room all blows out and the feeling of the rope disappears, but the two of you don’t notice as his palm rubs against your swollen and sensitive clit, making you see stars once more. Jimin watches in wonderment as you twist and turn under him, the loveliest whimpering sounds leaving your pretty swollen lips, the messy mixture of the two of you spilling out your welled used pussy in globs along your slit and onto the sheets below.

“Ah, fuck, you’re so beautiful when you come,” Jimin moans just before clashing his mouth on yours again. Holding onto the nape of his neck and the other grabbing onto a fistful of orange hair, you pull him closer to you, your body still buzzing with delight. His tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, and you were about to give him entry - but suddenly, five voices are back inside your head, causing you to push him off.

Jimin chuckles, collapsing beside you. As you both catch your breath, chests heaving and bodies weak, Jimin turns to you with a smirk, “Good job. Everything went well.”

To test out if your individual magic was truly strengthened, you block out the thoughts of your Circle members. It works, alone with your thoughts once more, but maybe that’s the last thing you wanted. Jimin’s plush lips were all you could think about.

“Why did you do that?” You ask with a frown, unable to look at him.

A single eyebrow quirking up, Jimin questions back, “Do what?”

You lick your lips, mumbling after a few seconds, “Kiss me.”

Jimin shrugs, stating, “Ending the ritual with a kiss can strengthen magic even more.”

“Yeah…” You roll your eyes. Was he really deliberately being obtuse right now? “But only if the people doing the ritual are in love with each other…”

“Huh…” Jimin muses. “I didn’t know that.” He nudges your arm, smiling, “Guess that was pointless then?”

You don’t believe for one second that he didn’t know that. Jimin was the Hermione in your group of friends. Whenever you guys would watch those inaccurate portrayals of witchcraft and wizardry, someone would always make the connection between the two know-it-all’s.  So should you call out his blatant lie? But what will that even do?

You decide against it and instead, you just turn over to your side, facing away from him. You’re not really sure what answer you wanted from him. Maybe you were hoping for something more meaningful behind the kiss.

You sit up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, getting ready to leave. You don’t see the longing look on Jimin’s face with your back turned towards him, a look that wanted you to stay. Before you get off the bed, you look over your shoulder, answering with a light tone of voice and a small smile and shrug, “Yeah… I guess.”

You don’t ask about the second kiss.

One morning, a couple weeks after Halloween, you’re all alone in the small kitchen of your apartment. There are dishes washing and drying themselves in the sink, a broom and dust pan cleaning the floor, and meringue being whipped to perfection on the counter (you were baking a cake for Wendy, celebrating the fact that she had happily began dating a cute guy her age a few days ago). While all that was happening, you sit at the small table, stirring the coffee in front of you with a twirling of your finger.

The individual magic strength you had gotten from the ritual astounds you. It was a lot more than you thought you would have gotten by a tenfold. You were able to do spells that would usually take three members of your Circle to do before, that’s how powerful it was.

During a scary movie marathon with the girls last night, Joy mentioned that it was odd, that the magic you all got was a little bit too much, unless of course… The other girl had shut her up before she could utter the rest of her sentence. You knew what they were all thinking, but you pretended you didn’t.

Well… You didn’t know exactly what they’re thinking because now you and the other girls don’t really go into each other’s minds anymore. Whenever someone from the Circle needed to relay something important, you would feel a tingle in the back of your mind, a pulling of some sorts that asks for you to open up your mind to them. It’s a bit lonely in your head sometimes but at least your cellphone plan was worth it again.

You also got many calls and texts from the guys, thanking you for doing the ritual with their Circle. Most of their texts or calls ended with ‘You should really talk to Jimin’ or something of the same vein. You’ve told them that you will, but you haven’t done so yet.

Jimin called as well – four times, actually. The first time, he left a message asking if the two of you could go out and talk somewhere. The second time, he left a message asking if two of you could, just by phone or text, whichever would make you feel more comfortable. The last two times, he just hung up after you don’t answer. The last call was a week ago.

Maybe he gave up.

But you didn’t want him to give up. You realized that when you found yourself waiting for his call every passing day since the last one… And that also, you didn’t really hate Jimin after all.

Yes, you might have had a slight grudge on him for having no backbone growing up. Though he never bullied you himself, he witnessed the way other kids were treating you and never spoke up. But throughout the years, he’s more than made for that.

Maybe you were just slightly scared of letting Jimin in because you knew he could break you the same way his best friend did, so you pushed him away by claiming you hated him.

Actually, not even slightly scared… You were terrified. The last time you opened up your heart to somebody, he ran away, never to be heard from again. Who’s to say that Jimin won’t do the same thing?

But who’s to say that he will?

You curse under your breath, chuckling to yourself. Now, even when alone inside your head, you find yourself thinking things that the other girls would have replied to your dumb musings.

So what now? Should you reach out to him? How do you even know that his feelings are true?

That’s when you remember the silly love spell that the girls at Girduin would do during the break time. It was a spell that showed whether the person you liked had a crush on you back. If nothing appears on the surface you were focusing the magic on, then that means they don’t. If something does appear, it means that they really, truly do.

You’ve never done it before because it’s not like they had let you join in, but you think you still know the words of the spell.

Focusing on the creamy foam inside your up, you start to chant out:

“Show me, Show me,

Because the universe has moved for this, Without missing a single thing…”

Shutting your eyes in embarrassment, you couldn’t believe you were doing this. Nonetheless, you kept going.

“Because our happiness has been planned, Show me, Show me.”

After that final line, you’re holding your breath, opening just one eye to peer inside the cup. The milky foam swirls and swirls, in just a moment you’ll be getting the answer to your question:

To call Jimin or not to call Jimin?

“Y-yes, of course,” you forced a smile. ‘Please, pick up,’ you mentally muttered while counting the sound of ringing. 

On the fourth ring, he finally answers with a husky morning voice, “Missed me that much?”

Above all else, you were an actress. Today was one of those tests that tested your versatility in acting.

“Hello my baby, why aren’t you here yet? I miss you,” you say softly, almost sounding that you needed his attention and presence.

On the other line, Jeongguk, who was still tangled in his sheets, pulled his phone away from his ear with a furrowed brow, still disoriented because he just woke up and confused with what had gotten into you, “Y/N, what the fuck?”

Everyone watched you endearingly, seeing how sweet of a girlfriend you were to him. Meanwhile, Hoseok and Namjoon tried to avoid each other’s gaze as best as they could, knowing that if they did, they wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from laughing. Both of them pinch their thighs, attempting to keep a straight face.

“Everyone’s waiting for you already, and I haven’t seen you for a day,” you anxiously fiddled your thumb with your index finger with a pout.

“Chill out, let me shower first–oh no, wait. Actually, I won’t anymore,” you tried your best not to gag. You could hear Jeongguk's clothes shuffling and the zipping of his pants, “Can’t Namjoon hyung just sign on my behalf?”

One glance at Namjoon, and he instantly knew what you were about to say. He shook his head while running his hands across his neck as a subtle way of saying ‘No’ to whatever Jeongguk had asked you to do.

“I–uh–yes, but they need your presence here, and so do I,” Hoseok closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, as he tried to concentrate on being the professional manager that is expected of him.

“I don’t know what kind of drugs you’ve been snorting these days, but you’re honestly creeping the fuck out of me right now,” your jaw tightened, but you still tried to smile sweetly at Director Bang and his producers. “I’ll be there in–uh–15 minutes! I’ll just overspeed my way–”

“No!” Everybody jolted when you suddenly stood up with a raised voice. When you noticed how abrupt the shift in your tone was, you cleared your throat and slowly sat back down, “But baby, you need to shower.”

Jeongguk’s brows arched when it finally hit him, “Oh, so everyone’s listening to you right now?”

“Yes, love,” you tried to pull a cheerful voice. 

He smirked, “And you can’t say anything you want, am I right?”

You pretended to light up in his response, “Babe! You know me so well!”

“If you want me to shower, call me ‘baby’. If you don’t want me to beat the red light, call me ‘love,’” Jeongguk’s muffled snickers agitated you even more.

“Oh, you’re on the way? What was that? But you’re stuck in traffic right now? Okay, I can’t wait to see you, love,” you were sure he was having the time of his life making fun of you right now. In front of everyone, you were doting, but deep inside, you felt stupid for going with his demands.

“Got it, princess. Tell me you love me, and I’ll drive safely,” he asked while styling his hair. Even if he had skipped taking a shower, he still had to look presentable.

“There is no way that I–” you paused briefly, then gulped to get back to your character, “Baby, I can’t let you do that. You can’t have a road rage right now.”

Jeongguk snorted, “Wow, throwing me under the bus already?”

“Okay, drive safely!” You quickly ended the call and beamed at everyone, “He says he’ll be here in 15 minutes.”

You and Jungkook burst out laughing at that. It was the funniest joke Taehyung has ever uttered in the two years that you’ve known him that you weren’t even mad that you lost your count again. You close the cash register, knowing you won’t be able to do your job right now.

“Nah…I think Jin takes that title,” Jungkook corrects him. You agree with Jungkook – Jin, the newest hire, is definitely the most good-looking guy you work with. Hell, he is probably the most good-looking guy you’ve ever seen.Ever.

Taehyung frowns deeply, but he knows he can’t argue back. “Okay, yeah, sure, whatever… Up until three months ago, I was the most good-looking one–”

“That’s subjective,” you cut him off, placing your hands on either side of Jungkook’s chubby cheeks. “I personally think Jungkookie is the second best looking.”

As Jungkook giggles, you flash Taehyung a cheeky smile while he sighs and rolls his eyes. “Can you just answer my question?”

It takes you a while to remember his question after all the unnecessary ‘facts’ he added. What was it again? Why does Hoseok seem to get all the girls? You think about it for a few seconds and realize the only answer you can give Taehyung is an exaggerated shrug because like him, you don’t fully understand the Jung Hoseok charm. Hoseok is pretty hot if you were being honest but so were a lot of the guys working with you. But somehow, he is the only that manages to get girls – and even guys – to return to the shop to coyly ask you or your other co-workers if he’s working that day, if he’s around, if he’s single, or if they’re bold enough, giving you their phone number written on a slip of paper to give Hoseok.

It’s not like Hoseok is overtly flirtatious either. Watching him now, he treats the girls around him like how he treats you or Jungkook or Taehyung or anyone he has ever interacted with – just chill banter, easy laughter, and a slow, lazy grin gracing his sun-kissed face.

Maybe that’s his appeal? He’s so easy-going that there’s this calm infectious feeling when you’re around him. Plus, he’s a great listener – he hangs onto every word that’s being said to him like it’s the most fascinating thing that he has heard in the history of his 23 years of living. He also makes for a good conversation. Always asking questions that causes people to think really hard and wonder what’s going on in that mind of his…

It’s probably the weed - Hoseok’s a big stoner. Don’t a lot of girls like the stoner types? Especially in this part of the city that you work at. It’s near a University specializing in the Arts and in the hipster-ish area as well, so…  

But that’s just a theory you’ve made up on the spot. Maybe it’s something else.

“Hoseok just has something about him, I guess,” Jungkook answers for you. “I think Y/N’s the only girl that has never showed interest in him, so I don’t know why you bother asking her. When Doyeon comes in for her shift tomorrow, you should ask her instead.”

“True,” you and Taehyung say at the same time, though he says it in a much more irritated manner, now that the girl he likes laughs and slaps her hand lightly on Hoseok’s shoulder.

With a slight frown, you tilt your head to the side as you trail your eyes over Hoseok’s figure. Taehyung might be inherently correct that Jungkook was the most fit out of the guys, but there’s something about the way Hoseok’s body is built that makes him a close second best. His toned arms were crossed over his chest, biceps shown off because of the loose white muscle tee he is wearing. He is also wearing those really ugly distressed jeans with paint splattered all over it (that you’ve told him many, many times to burn), yet his long legs wear them well (but not that well- you still want him to burn them).

Once again, you are reminded that Hoseok is really hot – even with that bright green backwards snapback he insist on wearing all the time (at least it shows off his cute little folded ears). So why don’t you find him attractive? He has your “type” written all over him, and yet you don’t feel anything for him…

Then in that moment, you flashback to the time around a year ago, when Hoseok, Taehyung, Jungkook and Jimin (a former employee but still a good friend to all of you) had a competition on who could make the most putrid smoothie in the world, and they made you, Doyeon, and Momo judge. Yeah, now you remember why you weren’t attracted to any of them. Evil little shits. (Sure you didn’t have to drink the cottage cheese+tuna+olives+mango combo Hoseok made, but the boys promised they would cover the shift that you girls needed off to attend the Agust D secret concert. Did the disgusting taste of the “smoothie” linger in your mouth for a few weeks? Yup. Was it worth it? Hell yeah!)

Even though you don’t understand Hoseok’s appeal, you’re not complaining like Taehyung was. In fact, you’re all for it. The biggest reason for that was the envelopes and the empty jar in Namjoon’s grip as he enters the room from the back door that leads to the break room. He places the empty tip jar back to its rightful place on the ledge that also displayed the sizes of cups the store carries. The tip jar was usually filled to the brim by the end of the day – and it’s mostly because of Hoseok’s amazing people skills that dazzles the customers to drop their change or loose bills in the mason jar. Luckily, the tip is split amongst everyone working for the day, and thanks to Hoseok, you usually have $40 more dollars to spend whenever you have a shift with him.

“Hey, Hoseok!” the assistant manager calls out. As Hoseok and the girls turn towards him, Namjoon continues, “Time to say goodnight!”

Hoseok nods with a grin, uncrossing his arms to sit up from the table he had been slightly leaning on. The girls were still giggling as he ushers them out the door, and you hear a promise from the one with the long and flowing light orange hair named Sooyoung – the one Taehyung has a crush on – that they’ll be back soon. While you sympathetically pat Taehyung back as he sulks, Hoseok flips the sign from Open to Closed before making his way towards the rest of you.

Once he arrives, Namjoon begins to hand out the envelopes, stating with a big smile, “$47 each.” While everyone’s attention is already fixed inside each of their own envelopes like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings, he adds with a tired yawn, “Now let’s finish up so we can get out of here.”  

15 minutes later, once all of the tasks for closing were done, Jungkook appears in front of you, excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet, while you were putting on the light cardigan you brought in case the fickle summer weather changed throughout the day. You ask him what’s up and he answers with, “We’re going to the ramen place down the street! Do you wanna come?”

“Sorry. Can’t,” was your immediate response without even thinking about it. When he frowns, eyes big and wide to play up the hurt look, you explain after a slight shrug of your shoulders, “My roommate’s out for the weekend so I’ll be taking advantage of that…”

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow up. “What could you be doing that’s possibly better than eating $5 king sized ramen?!”

“Hmm…” You purse your lips to the side pretending to think about it, then a sly grin spreads on your lips, “Spending some quality time with my vibrator, perhaps?”

The way Jungkook’s face reddens like a bright, ripe tomato in just a couple milliseconds was absolutely priceless. But it’s the way he starts sputtering out incoherent words that was the cherry on top. “You- I- vib- you- wha- hnng- you serious–!?”

In between your giggling and telling the poor boy you were joking, Hoseok comes over. He nudges your side with his elbow while his curious gaze is on Jungkook –  whose face was still frozen, looking traumatized (or turned on… it’s really hard to tell) -  and asks, “Why does he look constipated? What happened?”

“Nothing!” You answer, voice too chipper and so was the big dumb grin on your face that Hoseok raises an eyebrow skeptically. As you wrap your arm around Jungkook’s neck, you turn towards him and frown mockingly. “Jungkook’s just a bit upset that I can’t make it for ramen tonight. Right, Kookie?”

“Mmhmm!” Jungkook squeaks out, unable to look you in the eyes. He is clearly not upset because of the image that you had put in his head. You giggle again when you catch him stoically peek at you from the corner of his eyes before he clears his throat and turns to Hoseok instead, nervously babbling rapidly, “It really, really sucks she can’t come tonight – well, I don’t know, maybe she will, I hope she does, Y/N deserves it — OH GOD! I mean she can’t come— FOR RAMEN! WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY IS: DO YOU WANT TO RAMEN WITH US?!”

Hoseok winces, popping his ears from how loud the younger boy was. “Dude, Jungkook!? Calm down!”

“Fuck, sorry!” Jungkook cries just as you unwrap your arm around him to double over laughing.

While Jungkook grabs Hoseok’s arm as he keeps apologizing profusely, you say through your laughter, “He’s just really excited about ramen!”

“Yeah! I can see that!” Hoseok exclaims, laughing along with you. He then turns his attention to the boy still saying sorry to him, “It’s alright, Jungkook! It’s okay! But I also can’t go out with you guys tonight.”  

“Ooooh! Hot date?” You ask, eyebrows rising teasingly.

“Yes,” Hoseok nods happily, “With Isley.”

That has Jungkook finally relaxing down to giggle and you to stick out your tongue with a gag. “Seriously?Her?”

“What’s wrong with Isley?! She’s my best girl!”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit weird that you named your bong…And gave it a gender?! You weirdo!”

“What’s so weird about that? Isley deserves a name because she’s honestly… my rock,” Hoseok sniffs dramatically, looking faraway as he thinks about his beloved bong. “She’s always there for me whenever I’m down, and she also picks me up when I’m blue-“

“Those are the same thing.” “- her curves are so thick and so beautiful. She’s absolutely gorgeous with her apple green accents. So sexy. And the way she just –“ Hoseok bites his fist and then sucks in a hiss. “Gets me so high… God –“ Hoseok shakes his head, smiling big. “I love her… And she’s probably the only girl I’ll ever love!”

You roll your eyes, although deep down you are quite amused, you just weren’t letting it show like Jungkook was with his bunny-teeth smile wide as he looks between you and Hoseok. “Again… Weirdo.”

Hoseok shrugs, grinning as he returns to cool and chill Hoseok with the way he crosses his arms and steps a foot forward. “How about you? Do you have a hot date tonight?”

“Yeah, I do. With my bed…” When you notice Jungkook go rigid again, you grin as you emphasize, “Sleeping.”

Hoseok notices Jungkook too and rags jokingly, “Hey, get your head out of the gutter, man.”

As Jungkook mumbles another apology, Hoseok asks you with a tilt of his head at the back door of the shop, “Want a ride home?”

“Sure,” you smile at him as you hang your small red Supreme shoulder bag across your body. That catches Hoseok’s attention, reaching his hand out to play at the strap on your shoulder as he murmurs something unintelligible under his breathe. You roll your eyes, ignoring him to say goodbye to Jungkook, and then to Taehyung who appears beside the three of you a second later, reeking of his perfume to mask the smell of whatever he just did in the employee washroom.

“I’ll see you guys on Monday!” You say as you and Hoseok begin to walk away.

“Have fun eating ramen!” Hoseok adds with a slight wave, then returns to inspecting your bag.

Taehyung and Jungkook wave back, watching you and Hoseok exiting out the door, still playfully bickering whether your bag was authentic or not. And when you are both out of the building, Taehyung whispers to Jungkook, “Do you think they’re banging? God, I hope they are banging!”

Jungkook gives him a very judgmental side eye and a very slow, “Why…?”

Taehyung groans to himself and cries, “So then maybe Sooyoung will finally start coming here to see me instead of Hoseok!”

“You know, you really need to give Sooyoung a hint-hint and a nudge-nudge that Taehyung’s interested in her,” you tell Hoseok through a mouthful of McDonalds cheeseburger. It’s no ramen, but at this time of night when almost all the drive-ins were closing, it’s better than nothing.

As his eyes leave the road, Hoseok quirks up an eyebrow at you. “I have…” Opening his mouth, he requests as he leans in, “Fries me.”

Stuffing a few pieces of golden fries in his mouth, you question with narrowed eyes, “Really? How come she’s still drooling over you then?”

Hoseok shrugs, eyes back on the road. “S’not my fault I’m too irresistible.”

You laugh heartily at his big ego, crying out in a tone of disbelief, “Oh, please…”

And yet, for the second time that night, you find yourself checking him out – completely in an educational way, of course!

Now that you are much closer to him, sitting at the passenger seat of his car, your eyes carefully trace over Hoseok; from the chestnut brown of his hair, to the furrow of his concentrated brows, to the perfect slope of his nose, and to his soft lips, parting just as he swallows down his food.

You tilt your head and exhale deeply to yourself, begrudgingly resigning to the obvious fact: He’s cute, you guess… But nothing jaw-dropping.

But then he throws you a quick lazy smirk as he feels your eyes on him. So effortlessly captivating with a slight twinkle in his bedroom gaze that your last thought quickly vanishes from your mind with a hitch of your breath.

“Take a picture, Y/N. Lasts longer.”

You let out a puff of air from your mouth, refraining from once again rolling your eyes for the nth time that night to instead squirm in your seat to pull your phone out from your tight jeans’ pocket. Then you point your phone towards him, calling out a “cheese!” and he smiles brightly your way.

Kicking your feet as your slide down your seat, you snicker childishly at the end result of the picture.

“What? Why are you laughing?!” Hoseok asks as his eyes continuously shift from you to the road. His mouth quirking up in an amused smile, finding your behavior cute. “Show me!”

You are still laughing when you turn your phone around to show him and what he sees is he is himself – only with pink cat ears and his cheeks and lips tinged a bright red. But it is not the filter that makes him groan (he’s used to the girls he works with putting overtly cute filters on pictures they take together), it was the way he closed his eyes when the flash blinded him briefly, and the camera captured him mid blink, only the whites of eyes visible. It was seriously an unflattering picture, and now it’s on Y/N’s camera roll forever – or at least until her phone breaks, which knowing her, that would be in a couple months. He curses under his breath before saying, “I would ask you to delete it but I know you won’t…”

“You know me well…” You tell him absentmindedly, admiring the picture again. Mumbling to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear, you add, “I can stare at this forever…” You flash him a grin, “Thanks for the advice! Pictures do last longer!”

“Yeah, yeah… Whatever,” He grumbles, then leans closer to you again, “Drink me.”

And so you pick up the soda in his cup holder and guide the straw in his mouth. While he sips, you kept looking at the picture and giggling, until a text pops up the top of your phone. It is from your roommate.  

[10:34 PM] Roa —Heading out now! I probably won’t be back until sunday night!

[10:34 PM] You —wuv you 💓… gonna miss you sooo much 😢…

[10:35 PM] Roa —Love you too! —Don’t overexert yourself tonight 💗💗💗 —Though I’m sure you will…😏

[10:36 PM] You —I take my love for you back, bitch!!

[10:36 PM] Roa —kslkslksk I’m just looking out for you bitch!! I LOVE YOU AND YOU LOVE ME AND YOU CAN’T TAKE IT BACK —EVER

[10:37 PM] You —Fine… 💓 have fun and stay safe!!

[10:37 PM] Roa —you too darling !! 💗 —Drink lots of water!!

You pout to yourself, sighing deeply, “I’m gonna miss Roa…”

“Your roommate, right?” Hoseok asks, and you nod sadly. “Why? Is she going somewhere?”

You bob your head dejectedly yet again and Hoseok frowns. He hates seeing his friends look so sad.

Especially you, for some odd reason.  

It might be because you always look like a poor, wittle puppy whenever you were down. Reminding him a lot of his dog, Mickey. So that’s probably why.

“Yeah, she’s leaving…”

As he stops at a red light, Hoseok peers over at you, watching more closely. You sniff, like you were trying to hold back tears. His frown deepens, about to take one of his hands of the wheel to grab yours as an offer of comfort, but then you open your mouth, “For the whole weekend. Camping with her other friends… That’s not me.”

He sighs with relief before chuckling and shaking his head at your ridiculous dramatics. “You know, for a second there, I thought she was actually leaving. Like going off to war or something, and never to return… But I should have known–”

“Well that’s what it seems like to me!” You interject, whining shrilly. You heave a heavy sigh, pout back on your lips. “I’m gonna be so lonely…”

“Oh, really?” Hoseok hums in question, the smirk creeping back on his face. “Want some company?”

“Hmmm…” You narrow your eyes at him, biting down on a piece of fry. “Perhaps…? What will we do?”

“I can think of a few things…” Hoseok answers slowly, gazing so intently at you that you swallow your food down with a loud and eager gulp, only turning away his blazing gaze once the lights turn green.

“D-daddy, stop! Please, it’s too much! I c-can’t cum ag—”

Obviously your protest wasn’t true when a long whining gasp leaves your lips, cutting yourself off as your head falls face down on the pillow in front of you as another orgasm washes over you. You were on your hand and knees on your bed, but it is getting harder to keep yourself up, the top half of your body giving out and slumping on the bed. Meanwhile, as you keep moaning, a hand of yours travels down to rub your swollen clit. That causes you to gush and squirt a final time, soaking your bed once more for the fifth time that night. Your bed is already so dirty and wet with your essence, but you didn’t even care that you’d have to spend your weekend washing your sheets because of how amazing you were feeling at the moment.

Finally, as your high starts to subside, you look over your shoulder to throw a satiated grin at the one who made you come so hard your head was still spinning and your thighs still shaking.

“Thank you, daddy,” you coo softly, flattering your eyelashes at the camera standing on the tripod in front of your bed.

Tonight, your “daddy” wasn’t just one person. It was 6454 people – wait, 6468 now in just a matter of second - watching from all over the world. Maybe that should be overwhelming and anxiety inducing knowing that so many people are watching you get yourself off - many perverts and weirdos included in that – but you have been doing this camgirl thing for over a year and a half now that you don’t even think about it anymore.

At that sweet yet sensual way you said your thanks, you hear a few dozen more clinking sounds coming from your laptop speakers, sounding a lot like coins being dropped into a piggy bank. Quickly, you pull out the pink OhMiBod vibrator that was pushed deep inside you so you would not get another onslaught of vibrations that was controlled by the donations of your viewers.

You sit up shakily and crawl over to the edge of the bed so you can read the comments from your laptop that is on a small table beside the tripod. You laugh as you scan what your viewers were saying. Most of them are thanking you for tonight mixed with various petnames, but a lot are sad that it’s over and expressing that they wanted you to cum one more time for them.

“You guys already made me cum like 20 times tonight!” You whine with an adorable pout. You find yourself still in your “camgirl” persona, meaning you were overtly cute and your voice is much high than normal. That always makes you cringe a bit once the camera is off, but your viewers seem to really like it so you have stuck with it. “My poor pussy can’t handle anymore…”

To show them what you mean, you sit back slightly and spread your thighs open, letting the camera catch an eyeful of your swollen and messy cunt.

Clink, clink,more donations come in.

“See?” You inquire, tone innocent yet you were anything but. Then you bite your lower lip as you continue to spread yourself open with two fingers, showing off the pink inside.

Clink, clink, clink, clink.

[KingKai] tipped 1500 tokens with the message: fuck, want to fuck your pretty pussy so bad babygirl

“Thank you, KingKai,” you moan softly as you start to grope your breast gently, still wearing a pale yellow and silky off-the-shoulder long-sleeved top but have it pulled down enough to show off your assets. Your viewers went crazy for that. As much as the they love seeing you fully nude, they also love it when you are half-dressed. Maybe they just love seeing you fall apart for them, naked or not.  

[winnerjwoo] tipped 600 tokens with the message: Tokens spent well. Such a beautiful girl!

“Stop making me blush, Winner,” you giggle, sitting straight again with your thighs pressed together. “And thank you for the donation!”

As you scroll through your Spotify to put on a nice and chill song to end your stream while also thanking the rest of the donators that you have missed earlier, a louder sound resounds in the room. A sound of multiple coins being dumped all at once.

[suga_d] tipped 10000 tokens with the message: you did so good tonight, sweetheart.

“Oh my god, Suga! Thank you so much! That’s so generous of you, like always!” You exclaim, heartrate speeding up from the huge donation of $500. But that wasn’t all he gave tonight, giving you a couple other donations throughout the stream, totaling of maybe $300. Suga_d is one of your most generous regular viewers, maybe he might even be your highest donator of all time if you think about it. His username surely makes sense to you, the D definitely stands for daddy. “You’re honestly so sweet! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” With each thank you, you send flying kisses his way.

[suga_d] commented: no problem at all, cherry. get a good night sleep, you deserve it.

You smile to yourself, letting out a soft giggle. In your mind, suga_d is this really good looking guy. Dark brown hair, strong and big jawed, really buff, really ruggedly handsome, would probably do good in a zombie apocalypse… Okay, fine! In your mind he looks like Jon Bernthal. It’s not your fault you were binge watching The Walking Dead the night before he first stumbled upon your streams.

Sometimes you do that, give faces to your viewers. Especially the regulars. Just pretending they’re actually hot and famous guys and gals makes you feel more at ease.

You spend a few more minutes casually chatting with your viewers, then you tell them that you are off for the night, too tired to stay on.

To bid your them goodnight, you sit up on your knees to dip two of your fingers inside your still sopping cunt. You let out a small noise from the overstimulation, only pulling your fingers out once it’s covered thoroughly. You put it your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue. With a wanton moan, you swirl the muscle around your digits as you keep your gaze on the camera.

You receive a couple hundred more dollars from that. Completely satisfied, you turn off your stream.

Freshly out of the shower, you walk back into your room feeling rejuvenated - sweat and cum free!

This is your favorite part after a show. Being able to finally chill out and rest while knowing that there are hella cash money being transferred to your bank account.

Tonight you made around $5k for three and half hours of your time. That’s pretty good if you do say so yourself!

Still wrapped in only a towel, you take a sit on the chair at your desk. You open your laptop, the screen still showing the profile of your Heart2Heart page once it comes back to life from sleeping.  You read through your notifications, answered a few messages and also made a list of the donators that bought an access to your private SnapChat before your start to really relax for the night. Once those small tasks were done, you sit a while just thinking about what you should do next.

After your shower, you don’t feel that sleepy anymore. So maybe… Watch a few episodes of a new Netflix series or maybe…

You click the logo of Heart2Heart at the top bar of the page, taking you to the homepage. It’s been a while since you’ve checked out other camshows and maybe it’s time to watch some. Your shows have been getting repetitive lately so maybe you can get some ideas for something new from another camgirl.

You look over the top row of the page, which were the cams at the moment with the most viewers (it was the row you had been a part of when you were live).

Miyaohyeah is at the first spot with 10.3k viewers, the preview of her camshow showing that she’s just talking, having only started her stream just a few minutes ago. Sunmi! You smile wildly when you saw her. She’s a friend you have made a few months after you first started. She is one of the top camgirls on the site and you couldn’t believe your eyes the day she sent you message saying how cute you are and asked for your Instagram. Now, she’s one of your closest friends even though she lives a million miles away. She’s always the first person you would ask advice from regarding problems and questions for this job.

Joining Sunmi on the top row are HyunaBabe, MissBaeIrene, and SananaBanana; all three girls that you’ve also became quite friendly with. As much as you love them, you skip their stream. It feels a bit weird watching them since you are close to them. So you focus your attention on the second row, and there is a face unfamiliar to you so she’s probably new. EunWeeWoo, her pink hair draws you in and the fact she seems to be in a public park in the preview intrigues you.

You were about to click on her stream when something else catches your eyes on the third row of live camshows.

Your jaw drops as your eyes settle on the first camboy that appears on the top watched list with 3282 viewers. But that’s the not the reason you were so shocked.

Because right there, in that tiny little preview box showing choppy pieces of the last 10 seconds ofJ-HOPE’s stream, is none other than Jung Fucking Hoseok sitting casually on his bed with his back against the headboard, still wearing the clothes you saw him in earlier that day. Or yesterday, you correct yourself. Whatever the fuck the time is right now, it is surely 3 or so hours way past midnight.

Though all those small details don’t really matter, not when right in front of your eyes is Jung Hoseok livestreaming on a camshow website. Maybe you are tired, hallucinating all this. But as you blink your eyes three times, the image on the screen doesn’t change and it is still Hoseok in the small video still of J-HOPE’s camshow.

Hoseok is a camboy?! Since when?!

Without thinking, you click on his username to go on the page of his profile. Once there, a black rectangle of where his camshow should appear starts to load with a white scrolling circle in the middle. While the video is still buffering, the chat already appears at the right side of the page and you see that it was almost as active as yours was – even with only half the viewers. Most of the usernames appear to be feminine, with a just a couple dozen that seem otherwise. But instead of the vulgar and extremely sexual comments you receive, J-HOPE’s chat is quite tame. They were laughing at something he had said and saying how cute and funny he is while also having a pleasant conversation about music with each other.

Your brows draw together in confusion. Once again, you think that maybe you are already asleep. Because what the actual fuck is this? Are you even on the Heart2Heart website anymore?

As you check the website link on the top of the page – finding that you are still indeed on the Heart2Heart website – the video finally loads. Your breath hitches once the audio blares through your speakers, hearing Hoseok’s cheerful laugh before seeing him on the screen. Swiftly, your eyes dart to the video, thinking to yourself that maybe you could still be wrong. But no, no you weren’t.

Fortunately for you, two hours and twenty-five minutes into his camshow, the only clothing article that Hoseok has taken off was his green hat and socks.

Hoseok runs his hand through his slight wavy hair, keeping it in there and his arm up coolly as he answers a question from the chat, “Yeah, I’ve been making a few beats on FL Studio. Nothing I’m super proud of yet though. But when I make something I actually really like, I’ll play it for you guys… By the way, thanks for recommending that program to me, ellybaby.” 

[ellybaby] commented: glad you like it! and thanks for checking out my stuff ♡

“Yo, don’t even mention it. You’re really talented! We play your music pretty much every day at work now!”

Wait…Ellybaby… As in LE?! The SoundCloud goddess whose music Hoseok introduced you to a couple weeks ago?! SHE WATCHES HIM?!

You literally got a girl crush on her after hearing her song Velvet and a song she produced for another SoundCloud singer, Hani, called Hello. Then your crush heightened after you found her Instagram because she was seriously so cool and beautiful.

And now you find out that the pleb that is named Jung Hoseok actually talks to her?! Life is so unfair!

“My good friend really loves your music! I actually think she has a crush on you!” Hoseok says, laughing. “And you should see the way she tries to dance all sensually to Velvet… It’s so fucking funny! She has no moves at all!”

Your mouth gapes open in disbelief.

THAT’S YOU! He’s talking about you!

How dare he! Your moves are perfectly fine!

You have half the mind to comment:hey asshole, i’m watching!! But you decide not to expose yourself yet. Or ever, actually. Hoseok doesn’t need to know you are watching him. 

[ellybaby] commented: if she’s cute, tell her to hit me up lol

“She is cute,” Hoseok says with a soft smile. “Really pretty, actually.”

Hearing that, your mouth clamps shut, anger dissipating as your stomach flips at how genuine he sounded.

He… really thinks that?

“Wow,” you mutter quietly, grinning to yourself. That’s really…

“Still, she’s a terrible dancer, kind of loud, and honestly evil,” Hoseok continues, remembering how you wouldn’t delete that picture of him earlier. He shrugs, clapping both his palms on each of his legs that were crossed together, “But I can hook it up, if you’re still interested after all that.”

RUDE! So, so, so rude!

Clink, clink, clink.  

[scoups] tipped 400 tokens with the message: hey J, listen to this!

“Scoups, thanks man!” Hoseok exclaims, leaning forward to reach the fingerpad on his laptop to open the link provided to him. “This better not be the ‘you’ve been gnomed’ video though.”

[scoups] commented: lmao dude, it’s not, i promise!

“Alright…” Hoseok sing-songs doubtfully. When the Youtube page loads and the music starts to play, he starts bopping his head to the familiar tune, a bright smile spreading on his face. Then when the singing should begin to the very iconic ‘Do you remember the 21st night of September?’ line, instead it veers to a completely different verse from another song although September’s backing track is still playing. “Hooooly shit, this is so dope!” Hoseok shouts, dancing a bit now. “I don’t usually like Post’s music but you can’t go wrong with a September remix.”

Were you… Were you seeing this right? He got$20– again,twenty dollars- to listen to an Earth Wind & Fire x Post Malone mashup?! What the… What the fuck?!

This is unheard of!

Most of the time, your viewers only start donating $20+ when you literally have your vagina fully exposed to them, but Hoseok gets it for doing absolutely nothing at all?! And he has been live for almost three hours but he hasn’t even stripped off at least his t-shirt - not that you want him to!

It just doesn’t make any sense…

Plus he’s not even trying to act sexual at all. All he is doing is waving his fingers around and dancing goofily to the song. So why are there almost 4k people watching him?!

The only reason you are watching is because you know him and this is truly blowing your mind! So what’s his other viewers’ excuse?

While rocking his body to the tune, Hoseok leans over to his right until the upper half of his body was cut off the shot for a few moments. When he comes back to the center, there was none other than Isley in his hands. He lights her up before inhaling deeply.

Wow, his viewers even knows Isley. A few of them commenting about her… Wait, why the fuck are you indulging Hoseok’s weirdness by actually calling his bong a girl!?

You shake your head to stop that just as another donation goes through.

[sinb] tipped 200 tokens with the message: puff, puff isley 😎

And another…

[min_hyuk] tipped 300 tokens with the message: smoke weed erryday

And another!!!  

[tiffanygg] tipped 1000 tokens with the message: that better be alaskan thunderfuck

$75… He got $75… because he smoked his bong…

HIS VIEWERS SURE ARE GENEROUS!You think bitterly to yourself.

What gets you even more is at the bottom of the video feed is the information for current live session. It says how long he has been live for, how many people are watching, and how much tokens has been donated to him already. The last information is what has your eyes widening as you blink in shock.

Almost 20k tokens has been given to Hoseok, meaning he got almost $1000 just by listening to music, chatting about nothing, and smoking weed…

“Is this allowed?!” You screech, hand motioning to your laptop screen. Looking around, to no one at all, you ask again, “Is this allowed?!”

Thankfully, you weren’t the only one with these burning questions. 

[roses_are_rosie] commented: hi, i’m new here… i was wondering… do you take your clothes off at all in your shows and masturbate? if this offends you, i’m sorry!

Hoseok doesn’t see the message, still dancing with his eyes closed and feeling the music. A few of his viewers answer for him though: 

[sooyaaa__] commented: lol if you want to see someone jerk off, this is the wrong camshow for you sweetie

[pinky] commented: just enjoy the music roses_are_rosie , cumshows are overrated now that J is live

[princessjoy] [moderator] commented: sorry, J doesn’t jerk off on cam anymore!

He doesn’t jerk off on cam anymore? What happened?

“Oh hey, roses! Welcome to the show!” Hoseok greets when he reads through the messages. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m not offended. But yeah, sorry, I don’t masturbate on cam anymore… I do still have past videos on my page when I used to, though. But it costs like 1000 tokens each and honestly not worth it,” He laughs a lot at his own opinion.

[princessjoy] [moderator] commented: also if you donate 500 tokens, he’ll flash his dick and asshole😊

“Right! Thanks Joy!” Hoseok says. Then he grins. “But again… Also not worth it.”

[roses_are_rosie] commented: ooh thanks!

Then a second later.

[roses_are_rosie] tipped 500 tokens with the message: just curious hehe

After a hard swallow, you consider that you and this roses_are_rosie person must have a linked mind somehow.

Shit, did you just really think that? 

[sooyaaa__] commented: girl, you are so welcome here now lol!! cmon J! show us the good-good!

Hoseok rolls his eyes playfully, sitting up on his knees. “Alright, but rosie… I’ve warned you. It wasn’t worth it.”

[baekhyuneee] commented: shut up J, it’s so worth it

[tiffanygg] commented: J!!! I tipped 1000, you have to show it for longer now!

“Shit, sorry, Tiff. Didn’t see that!” Then Hoseok thanks her and the two other donators he missed.

With that out of the way, he unbuttons the button on those hideous jeans you want to burn and pulls down the zipper slowly. With his sleepy eyes trained on the camera, you squirm in your seat, heart racing.

You should really close the window, like right now. You don’t need to see this!

But you are frozen when Hoseok starts to pull his pants down slowly along with his underwear, the dark hair on his nether region becoming visible to your wide and unblinking eyes.

He makes a show of it, the smug smirk on his face clearly letting everyone know that he is the one in charge.

At last, after a couple more seconds of teasing the viewers by how gradually he was pulling down his pants, his length is free from its confines.

Although he is completely soft and limp; the size and just the overall look of his cock makes your mouth hang open and water.

It was… undoubtedly… the nicest penis you have ever laid your eyes on.

You weren’t the only one thinking that as an influx of new comments floods his chat.

Hoseok grasps himself, stroking gently for the while, and yet it doesn’t get hard.

So instead, he moves on, shuffling on his bed to turn around. You bite your lip as the sight of his toned and perfect ass, clenching and unclenching for his viewers to go crazy for. He throws a cheeky smile over his shoulder and asks if they like what they see and of course the resounding answer was a loud yes! Then he parts his knees and bends forward to stick it out, one hand on the bed to catch himself and the other grabbing one of his cheeks to pull to side so everyone can witness his puckered hole.

It was a lot to take in, your face heating up as every second passes. You remain quiet and frozen for the next 15 minutes, even when Hoseok pulls up his pants and plops back down in cross-legged sitting position and jams out to like nothing had happened. He takes a few more hits out of Isley and talks about the results of the World Cup for a few minutes with his chat before he calls it a night with a lazy smile.

It’s only when Hoseok stops broadcasting that you snap out of your daze, realizing that there is an aching between your thighs. You shouldn’t be turned on right now! Usually your cam shows take such a toll on you that you wouldn’t even want to look at phallic object in over a week.

But,fuck… You hate to admit… But seeing Hoseok like that did something to you.

And if that was how arousing his little strip show is, you wonder how good his past shows were when he actually jerked off…

Oh my god… You should sleep, you really should. But instead, you scroll down Hoseok’s profile to dig a little more.

What you find out is that he actually joined the website a year before you did. So you guess he has been doing this a lot longer than you have.

Most of the information he put on his bio is actually true. Like his birthday, age, what country he lives in…

“Is he dumb?” You mumble to yourself. You’re supposed to lie about that! Honestly… What an amateur…

Then, as you read more, it starts to get interesting.

Like for Interested In, he put women (well, duh… You know he has had a girlfriend before) and men (which doesn’t really surprise you) but then he chose a third option:

Poly.

“Huh… So Hoseok is into that…” You say out loud to yourself, nodding as you thought about it. You wonder if it was something he had already experienced or just something he thinks he’ll be alright with. “Interesting…”

Moving on, the Kink section of the bio was next.  

A True Dom, but could switch sometimes. Making my partner(s) beg for me, overstimulating them, making them cum multiple times. Bondage, gags… And like RihRih, chains and whips excite me!

You hate it… But reading all that excites you too.

Haha, just messing around. My biggest kink is actually love and affection 💚😆 !

Chuckling, you roll your eyes…

Though tacked on at the end:

( No, but seriously, the first part is mostly true… Though I’d rather just show you then tell ;) )

You take a hard swallow again. Goddamnit Hoseok, why is he trying making you think abouthimlike that?!

You let out a frustrated huff.

With that, the bio section of his page is finished, and yet… Your curiosity has not been satiated.

Clearing your throat uneasily, you just had a terrible idea. It starts with clicking on his Videos page, showing you the thumbnails of all his past broadcasts. All were locked, and like he had said during his livestream, it costs 1000 tokens to access each one.

Being a pretty popular camgirl on the site, Heart2Heart has given you a credit of exactly 500 tokens every month ever since you passed 100k Followers ten months ago. As of right now, you have not used any, so you have accumulated 5000 tokens to spend.

But should you really spend it on Hoseok? Is your curiosity that burning that you are willing to give him $50 just to find a past video of him jerking off? A video that could change how you look at him forever? Is it worth?

The answer is yes. Yes, it was.

And so you scroll down, down, down to purchase a video from two months ago.

In the video still, you see it was indeed from two months ago, when Hoseok still had his hair dyed red. The setting was different. Kind of. Instead of sitting on his bed, he was at his desk. Wearing a leather jacket and a plain white tee.

Once the video was downloaded as an .MP4 file on your desktop, you open it up to quickly scroll through the video.

It starts off with a conversation about anime, how he’s rewatching Cowboy Bebop… Plays his bongo… Isley makes her first appearance 35 minutes in… Raves about how hot Tinashe is… Eats left over pizza at the one-hour mark… Isley makes a comeback after that… Quick dick shot at 1:50… Rants about Brooklyn Nine-Nine’s almost cancellation (which is understandable because at that point, the renewal wasn’t known yet)… Goodbyes.

Frowning, you close the video. Well,that was a waste.

Determined to find what you are so weirdly desperately looking for; you purchase another video. This time one from whole month back, a video from the middle of April.

Red hair still, on his bed again, wearing grey sweatpants and a black Supreme hoodie. More random music talk, Isley, bongos, shows off his new skateboard, quick dick and ass shot, talks about how cool the new guy at work is (Jin, but never said his name), Destiny’s Child Coachella reunion hype session, ends the camshow by dancing to Lose My Breath.

As entertaining as that was… Still a waste of your tokens!

Another purchase, another video. This time, one from the day after his birthday.

This one just frustrates you – not in a good way, either. Hoseok’s hair is blond in this, beige Stussy tee and those hideous jeans are back. In the video, he is just watching his favorite movie with his viewers, getting so many donations just because it’s his birthday. Again, for a camgirl like you, this type of MALE PRIVILEDGE is annoying as hell!

You were about to give up because of that… But then you notice something.

From November 3 of last year until January 13 of this year, there was a gap when Hoseok did not have a cam show at all.

Even in your sleep deprived state, your brain still manages to think quite clearly as to why that might be…

Didn’t Hoseok and Yuju break up in November?

So maybe that’s why he took a break…

Alexa, that’s so sad, play —

Instead of finishing your dumb thought, you just buy the November 3rdvideo.

His hair is dark brown in this one, wearing his rainbow Gucci sweater (one that you had thought was a knock off but now… knowing how much money he gets from his viewers… it’s probably real) and a pair of dark blue fitted jeans.

It started off like all the other videos you had just previously scrolled through. Music talk again, an anecdote about his classes and also work, Isley of course, and then… And then…

Oh my god… You finally found one… A video that Hoseok might…

You can’t even bring yourself to think it, your brain only able to function enough to focus closely on your screen as the atmosphere of the video changes when Hoseok growls lowly, “Can’t wait to feel how tight and wet you are for me, baby…” as he strips off his sweater, revealing his lean and toned body. It seems that 10 seconds before that comment, someone has donated 200 tokens for dirty talk, and oh, how he delivered it well.  

And he continues when a different viewer donates another 200 tokens, wanting to hear more. “But if you think you’re going to get my cock so easily, you’re mistaken, sweetheart. Finger yourself for me, show me how much your slutty pussy wants my fat cock. Go on, spread yourself open for me…” He smirks straight at the camera and you whimper. “And start with one finger… Don’t be naughty now.”

You rub your thighs together and it takes all your self-control to not just dip your hand under your towel and do exactly as he says.

As his amused eyes brighten while he scans the comments he was receiving, Hoseok begins to palm at the hard outline straining his jeans, the panty-dropping smirk still on his face. You wished the video provided a transcript of what the chat was saying, because whatever it was, Hoseok clearly enjoyed it.

“You need more?” He asks, brows rising slightly. He hisses as he grasps himself harder. “Your greedy little fuckhole really wants to be stretched out, huh? Don’t think you can handle me yet though, so add two more fingers…” Lowly, he warns, “But don’t you dare touch your clit. That’s mine to play with, you hear me?”

As you gasp, your hands clamp over your mouth. You keep them there so you won’t be able to put your hands anywhere else…

You can’t believe you are actually hearing Hoseok talk like this… And liking it.

“You should count yourself lucky I’m letting you touch yourself at all, sweetheart…” Hoseok snarls as he takes off his jeans. Now only in his tight back boxer briefs, he continues to rub his very hard clothed length.  “You’ve probably been letting other filthy hands and dirty cocks touch what is mine, haven’t you been? Huh, slut? Letting them cum deep in that pussy even though that’s my job?”

He takes another moment to read the comments, then replies, “You haven’t…? Are you sure…? Your pussy only wants my cock…? Better not be lying to me, sweetheart… Alright, I’ll take your word for… Just show me how desperate and needy you are for me, and I’ll give this to you,” before his underwear comes off too.

Earlier when you thought how perfect his cock looks while soft… Imagine what you are thinking of now that you have come face to face with it completely hard.

You suck in a hiss before groaning and covering your eyes instead of your mouth.

Oh my god, oh my god… It’s too much… It’s too good…

Without even needing to check, you know you are dripping wet. Luckily your towel was soaking it up instead of your chair.

But you think it is time to stop. Call it a day. Delete all the videos and pretend that none of this happened. Your curiosity has been fed –somewhat, a small voice in the back of your head whispers.

No, no, it has been fed!

What you’ve seen is more than enough, you chastise yourself.

If you go further… How the hell are you going to face Hoseok when you hang out with him later this evening? The two of you planned to watch a movie together at the theatre when he drove you home.

How can you possibly watch Ant-Man when all you will be thinking about is Hoseok’s big dick?! How can you order your usual movie theatre hotdog without fantasizing that it’s Hoseok BIG DICK going into your mouth?!

How?How?!

“Turn the video off, Y/N…” You hiss out loud, hands still covering your eyes. All you can hear the sounds of Hoseok low grunts and his breathing getting heavier, but you have an idea what he was doing that was causing that reaction. “Turn it off,now.”

Just as you say that, Hoseok moans gruffly and your ears perk up, fingers threatening to part so you can see what is happening on the screen.

“Fuck yeah… Just like that. Keeping pumping your fingers inside yourself. Making yourself so fucking wet just so my cock can fit easier… God, you’re going to feel so hot and tight taking my cock like the good slut you are…”

A whining hum slips from your tight lips, fingers spreading to peek through. You nearly choke on your own spit at what you see.

Hoseok burns you core with his gaze, which was dark and half-lidded. Mouth parted slightly and the bottom lip swollen red from when he had been biting it earlier. The muscles on his body are tense as he breathes shallowly, but the hand that was fisting his hardened length was even tenser, veins bulging by how tight his grip was.

As he strokes himself faster, Hoseok begins to rub his thumb against his leaking tip, groaning as he praises, “You look so good… Can’t wait you fuck you and feel you come around my cock, sweetheart… Oh? You’re going to going come…? Then do it, babe. C’mon, want to see you… Can you come for me?”

“Oh my god… Oh my god…” you mutter in astonishment, still only looking through your fingers. Why is Hoseok so hot?! Since when?! Why have you been blind to this for so long?!

Though you can’t take your eyes off him, you reprimand yourself for thinking all those thoughts and for still not closing the video, “Bitch, just turn it off! Turn it—“

“Fuck, I’m gonna come…” Hoseok grunts, eyes squeezing shut as his head tips back. His body starts to quiver slightly from how close he was, but he manages to open his eyes to look straight at the camera again. He is breathing heavily as he proposes tenderly, “Sweetheart… Come with me… Come on, baby, you can do it again… Gonna paint your body with my cum, show you how much I—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, instead he groans deeply as he shoots three streaks of white towards the camera. Your mouth parts with a soft sigh as your eyes flutter shut, fantasizing that it had landed on you, coating your face with his cum.

“Good girl… Look at you… So gorgeous with my cum all over you…” You hear Hoseok murmur, and you preen, smiling at his words.

It is in the midst of licking your lips - pretending you were tasting him - that the single most intruding and distressing thought crosses your mind:

You do know that he’s going to see how CherryBaby bought 4 of his video in the span of 15 minutes, click that profile, see that it is you - his perverted co-worker who just bought four of his video in the span of 15 minutes for a total of $200? But not only that, he’s also going to find out that you’re a bonafide camgirl, tits and vagina and gaping asshole out for the whole galaxy to see? You do know that… right, dumbass?

At that, your eyes snap open and wide, panicked beyond belief. That thought finally has you clicking the red x at the top corner of the QuickTime player and has you dragging all the files you had just downloaded into the trash bin. But you are weak, not being able to make it permanent as you hover away from the Empty Trash option on the dropdown menu.

You’re doomed.

You know that now as you stare blankly at the wall, knowing that it is inevitable now.

Hoseok is going to find out what you have done… And you have no way to stop it.

So with all that racing through your head, you did not get any sleep at all that morning. Twisting and turning restlessly on the living room couch that you’ve made your bed until you wash your own – until the sun rises.

Once the clock strikes at 8 in the morning, a respectable time when people should be waking up if they had actually slept last night, you send a text to Hoseok saying you can’t come to the movies with him that night before quickly throwing the phone to the foot of the couch, not wanting to see if he texts back.

After that, you pull your blanket up and over your head with another wailing groan, wishing for Monday to never come.

But Monday does come around, like it always does. And you were never one of those ‘I hate Mondays’ kind of people, but today, you definitely joined the club.

During your first and only lecture of the day, you spend most of it with your nose pressed against your phone, furiously typing away in the iMessage groupchat aptly named ‘the love club’ with Sunmi, Hyuna, Irene, and Sana (because the only thing the five of you do is scream about how much you all love each other). The girls continuously reassure you that you are freaking out over nothing – like they have been all weekend long when you first told them your predicament on Saturday morning.

Of course Sana was only joking. And by the time class ended, she and the other girls (plus Roa, who also knows about what happened) had you convinced that you have nothing to worry about.

So you left class with a little less weight on your shoulders. Not necessarily skipping in your steps, but there’s an evident perk in it unlike earlier that morning.

You were feeling good when you got a little snack at the corner store beside the cable streetcar stop you always wait at. Even better when you were eating that snack as you wait for the streetcar that will take you straight to work. But it is when you are sitting inside the cable streetcar - snack gone and all alone with only the voices in your head - that the dreadful thought of impending humiliation returns to you.

It only gets louder once you are only a stop away from work, and your hoping and praying that Hoseok calls in sick for work today. But you know that’s just wishful thinking because he never skips work. For someone who gives off such a lazy stoner vibe, Hoseok is actually quite hardworking.

Though that doesn’t mean you can’t call in sick for work…

Perfect! Great idea! You straighten up, taking out your phone from the front pocket of your backpack to text both Namjoon and Kim Taeyeon, your boss and the owner of the shop.

You were in the middle of making up some lame excuse when —

“Y/N!” You look up, wide eyed, and find Kim Seokjin grinning down at you. “Thought that was you!”

He plops down to take the seat beside you just as you start to erase the message you had half-way written. You internally groan because now your plan is out the window, but outwardly, you smile at him. “Jin! Hey! How was your weekend?”

“S’Okay,” he shrugs with his arms crossed. Then he glances at you with a worried frown. “What about you? Heard from Hoseok you weren’t feeling too good. You okay now?”

At the sound of his name, you stiffen. Although Jin catches that, you are luckily a quick thinker, hiding that strange reaction with a very real sounding fake sneeze. Not once, but twice.

“Could be better, but I’m fine,” you tell him as you rub your nose with the side of your forefinger.

“Well, chill out at work today, okay? We’ll take care of everything!” Jin says with a kind smile. You thank him when he hands you a brown paper napkin from Starbucks that he dug from his jean pocket.

As you wipe your nose just for the show of it, Jin leans across you to pull at the hanging cord, making a dinging noise resound throughout the streetcar. The next stop is the one near the juicery, and the turning in your stomach makes you feel that maybe you are actually really sick.

The store is quite busy when you and Jin got there. Which isn’t surprising because it is a pretty hot day in the city and the store has always been popular because of hype on Instagram for its rustic yet modern interior and cool packaging. Plus, the juices that you all make fresh every day is pretty amazing, if you do say so yourself.

Out of your three co-workers already working, you see Jungkook first. It seems the awkwardness from Friday night is completely forgotten as he smiles widely at you and Jin while wiping up one of the round marbled table near the front window that just freed up.

You both pass him by with a quick hello, making your way towards the back to officially punch in for your shifts. Behind the cashier and taking the orders is Doyeon, and she gives a wave before elbowing the person behind her in his back to let him know the two of you had arrived.

At that, Hoseok stops the blender he was using to look over his shoulder, fully turning around when his eyes lands on you. You don’t see the smile that spreads on his face because you had looked down, your face burning up as you remember everything you had seen in thestill not permanently deleted videos.

Hoseok’s smile falters but only for a second, it is back on his face when Jin gets behind the counter and pulls him into one of those bro hugs that all guys seems to know how to do. While they do that, Doyeon wraps her arms around your waist and gives you a tight squeeze, lifting you up slightly from the ground with a laugh.

Once you are back on the ground, you feel someone touch your shoulder.

“Hey, I hope you’re feeling better.”

You shiver under Hoseok’s touch, looking towards him but unable to fully meet his eyes as you answer stiltedly with a wavering smile, “Thank you for your concern, Hoseok. I am feeling much better.”

His brows furrow at your unusual answer, taking his hand off you to stuff both of his in his pockets instead. “Uh… Alright… That’s good to hear.”

“I told her to take it easy today though, and let us do all the work,” Jin says, glancing at you and then the others. Leaning in, his voice lowers so the customers won’t hear, “I think she still has a bit of a cold. She was sneezing a lot while we were on the streetcar.”

“A cold?” Hoseok repeats, clearly confused. But before he could ask anything further, there was a sound of a throat being cleared and you all turn to look towards the lady waiting at the side. Arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently, she glares with a look that says ‘I’m about to ask for a manager if I don’t get my drink this instant’.

Though the second Jin brightens her way and says, “Ma’am, I’m sorry for the wait. Your order will be done in moment,” and makes his way towards her to chat and calm her impatient ass down, she melt into jelly with a giggle.

Hoseok takes another look at you and frowns – because you are still acknowledging everything and everyone except him - before turning back around to finish the lady’s drink, knowing that Jin’s attention probably won’t keep her satisfied forever. Then, as another customer approaches the register, you leave Doyeon to do her job, heading to the backroom to put away your backpack.

When you find yourself all alone in there, you bury your face into your hands, groaning.

That was absolutely painful… It was hard not to act so weird when the last video you watched of his kept replaying in your head over and over again.

Can’t wait to feel how tight and wet you are for me, baby…

“Oh my goooooood!” You cry, hitting your forehead repeatedly to cease it from remembering the video. “Stop it! Stop!”

Angry at yourself, you stomp towards the sink to wash your hands so you can begin your first task of the day, cutting up more fresh fruits and vegetables. But as you cleanse your hands from its dirtiness, the same can’t be said about your mind.

You look so good… Can’t wait you fuck you and feel you come around my cock, sweetheart…

“Whatthefuck…whatthefuck… whatthefuck…” You mutter under your breath as your eyes close from frustration. Many different kinds of frustrations.

Good girl… Look at you… So gorgeous with my cum all over you…

You let out a small whimper just as you hear someone – a someone with the same voice as the one you are hearing in your head – call out your name. With a startled jump, you scream while also accidentally splashing water onto yourself.

Hoseok hurries over to turn off the tap as you look down at the big water mark on the front of your t-shirt in shock. You were stuck in a daze until Hoseok presses a bunch of paper towels into your hands for you to wipe yourself dry, tsk-ing before he says, “Jesus, Y/N… What’s up with you today?”

“N-nothing!” You stutter. You did not dare look up at him, instead focusing your attention at the way you pat the soaked material of your t-shirt. At least one thing went right today, you are wearing a black shirt so no embarrassing wardrobe malfunction can be added to the stack of things that are going wrong. “My migraine from this weekend is probably still messing me up…”

You hear him sigh deeply, like he is exhausted. From the edge of your vision, you see that he has leaned up against the counter, arms crossing. “Migraine…? You told me it was a stomach ache?”

Shit… He’s right. That is what you told him. With your eyes squeezing shut out of discomfort from him possibly realizing your lies, you tell him, “Right, that’s what I meant.”

“Yeah?” He says with a slight inflection of a question, but it sounds more like he was calling you out on your bullshit. “But you also told Jin it’s a cold… So which is it really, Y/N?”

Yup… Definitely calling you out on your bullshit.

“I-it was both!” You insist, gaining the courage to look up at him. But the moment your eyes meet his puzzled gaze, you quickly look down at your hands that were toying with the paper towel, biting your lip as heat travels to your face.

To deflect, you let out a puff of frustration and look off to the side while crossing your arms around yourself. “What’s with the 20 questions, Hoseok? I was sick… I’m sorry that I’m still feeling the after effects of it…”

“Sure… I get that…” Hoseok says slowly, keeping his eyes on you but yours were still refusing to meet his. He sighs again, shaking his head to himself before saying, “But I think we both know why you’re acting so weird around me… You saw my show didn’t you?”

Like a statue, you still completely.

“Y/N… Look, it’s—“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You finally look at him, shrugging your shoulders. It’s taking some much of you keep yourself straight-faced and standing there instead of running away to cry like you really wanted to. “Show? What show?”

“Y/N…” Hoseok straightens up now. “The faster we acknowledge it, the faster we can move past it.”

Shaking your head, you say with confidence, “I still have no idea what you’re talking—“ Then he takes a step towards you, and you automatically take one back, the nervousness creeping on your features as you finish uneasily, “a-about, Hoseok…”

“C’mon, Y/N… I’m not stupid… Friday–”

“Okay, fine!” You screech, throwing your palms out in front of you, defensively. Why were you even trying to play dumb anymore? It’s obvious he knows everything already! “Yes, I watched some of your videos over the weekend. I swear I skipped through them and didn’t see much—“

“Wait, wait, wait… You watched some of my videos?!” Hoseok questions in amusement and your mouth clamps shut. “As in plural?! Like more than one?”

Your mouth falls slightly…What?

“You… You didn’t know I —uh…” You clear your throat as your head shakes. “I mean…No…”

Hoseok is giggling a bit when another thought dawns on him, “Wait, wait! You thought I would know…” His head tilts to the side, a charmed yet questioning look befalls his face. “Y/N… Did you… perhaps… buy my videos?”

Voice small, you answer hesitantly, “N-no…”

“Ah… Okay,” He takes his phone out of his pocket. “So if I check my account, I wouldn’t see—“

“No!” You scream as you try to reach for his phone but he lifts it way above his head and out of your reach, though you still try to jump for it. You only stop once you were out of breath, huffing as you admit with a fiery glare, “Fine, you asshole! I bought four of your stupid videos! You happy now?! I thought we were supposed to move past this?!”

“There she is!” Hoseok grins, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. “And that was step one of us moving past it. Making you mad at me. Don’t worry, I wasn’t really going to check.”

“Ugh,” You roll your eyes, shrugging him off you. “How did you know I watched you if you didn’t know I bought the videos?”

He laughs at that. “Do you really think you’re the first of my friends to find out I’m a camboy?”

Well, he has a point. You were acting like how some of your friends from University reacted when they stumbled upon your camshow….

“I thought you would know how people usually react when they find out you do camshows…” Hoseok muses out loud, and you whip your head at him. What did he say?

“Hmm?” Hoseok hums in questions at the look you were giving. Then he lets out an ahhh, then shrugs. “Yeah, I know you’re a camgirl.”

“What… I don’t know wh–” He raises an eyebrow at you and shut your mouth. Groaning, you ask, “How did you know? Stop jerking me around! So you did see that I bought the videos, didn’t you?”

“No, I’m serious, I didn’t!” Hoseok swears, and you know him well enough that he’s telling the truth. “And how could I not know? You’re always on the top watched section every time I go on the website,” Hoseok says, so nonchalantly as if he was telling you he saw you on the top watched of Mixer the new gaming website, instead of you know, Heart2Heart the sex cam website.

“Hold up…” You say, pausing. The way he worded that… It sounds like he has known for a while… “How long have you known that I’m…” you look towards the door to make sure no one else is about to come in, then add in a whisper, “A camgirl?”

“Mmm…” With his mouth turned down in a way that his dimples show, Hoseok thinks about it for a few seconds. “Ssssssix months now?”

You blink at him in disbelief. Here you were, losing your mind about accidentally sort of invading his privacy… And this asshole has actually known about you for—“Six months?!”

“Maybe seven, I don’t know.”

Oh my god. “Hoseok, what the fuck?”

“Hey, don’t freak out!” Hoseok throws his hands up. “I only saw one of your shows for just a couple of minutes. And I can honestly say that you were fully clothed during those few minutes - speaking pretty fucking dirtily but fully clothed.”

If faces could look like a cartoon-ish tomato red from humiliation, yours would definitely look like one now.

“And we both don’t really have room to judge each other… Aren’t you the one who bought four of my videos?” Hoseok questions teasingly.

He’s never going to let that one go, is he?

“Okay, but can you blame me? I was curious because you get so much tips but all you do is get high on camera and do an occasional asshole or dick flash and then listen to shitty music… It’s so…” You thread your fingers through your hair in frustration. “UGH!”

“Don’t hate the player,” Hoseok says as he walks over to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of green juice from inside before he looks back as you with a wink, “Hate the game.”

He walks back to you, holding out the bottle and explains, “Here. I made this for your stomach ache but I’m assuming… That wasn’t true… But still, it’s good for you… It can get your energy up…” Then there’s a smirk that spreads across his face as he leans down closer towards you, the tip of his name just an inch away from yours, “Especially, if you, you know… cammed this weekend…”

Heating up, you swiftly grab it from him as you bite back a, “Shut up.”

Hoseok chuckles as he watches you take a sip and then make a face after tasting the juice. Coughing a bit at the strong taste of ginger yet knowing it’s good for you, you say to Hoseok hoarsely, “And thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” With a cheeky smile on his face, Hoseok places his hand on top of your head to mess your hair up a bit. When your eyes narrow at it him – mouth still pressed on the rim of the bottle – he grins. “Promise you’ll stop acting so weird around me? Let’s go back to normal… As normal as we could, alright?”

There is a slightly vulnerable and pleading look on Hoseok’s face that makes your chest tighten. As you lower the bottle and twist on the cap, you thought about how dumb it would be if you let this knowledge about him being a camboy change your relationship with him. It’s Hoseok you’re talking about here! The first friend you made when you started working at the juicery, the one who showed you ropes, the one who would always help you out when you were overwhelmed, the one who makes you laugh until you’re crying, the one you could talk to about all the dumb things that goes through your head because you know he won’t judge you…

Your friendship with Hoseok is worth a million times more than the slight awkwardness that you are feeling at the moment. That would eventually go away, just like how Roa’s weirdness about finding out you are a camgirl went away.

And yeah, just because you are sort of… maybe… kind of…attracted to him now, he is still the same Jung Hoseok you know.

So you nod at him with a small reassuring grin. “Okay… That sounds good to me.”

Spreading his arms wide, Hoseok proposes joyfully, “Hug it out?”

You may have sighed and rolled your eyes, but still, you close the space between the two of you and wrap your arms around his waist. “Fine…”

Hoseok smiles, letting his chin rest on the top of your head.

You breathe him in, smiling to yourself as well. Despite the copious amount of weed he smokes, Hoseok surprisingly smells really good.

Plus, he’s a really good hugger. Just the right amount of tightness and his chest feels nice against your own. Strong, warm, and comforting.

It felt nice. Really nice…

Until Hoseok decides to murmur, “But seriously, Y/N…Four videos?”

An annoyed grunt falls out your mouth as you push him away, snapping, “Get back to work, Jung.”