#believetosucceed

Part 1 | WC: 3.3k - Out August 26 -[here]

‘Play again?’

Part 2 | WC: 4.6k - Out September 2 - [here]

“I believe you can fight this and win. I want to help you.”

Part 3 | WC: 5.3k - Out September 9 - [here]

“I thought I was helping her, but I screwed her over, okay?”

Part 4 | WC: 5.1k - Out September 16 - [here]

“I’ve been on your side from the start. You know that, right?”

Part 5 | WC: 3.1k - Out September 23 - [here]

“How can I believe you?”

Part 6 | WC: 5.4k - Out September 30 - [here]

“I prefer working alone.”

Part 7 | WC: 9.7k - Out October 7 - [here]

“Sometimes I just wish things had been different.”

Part 8 | WC: 5.2k - Out October 14 - [here]

“So when will you show me that song?”

Part 9 | WC: 4.3k - Out October 21 - [here]

“He got what he wanted. Why would he call me again?”

Intermission - The Gala | WC: 2.2k - Out October 28 - [here]

You gripped your hair, messing it up—Fuck. Even when you thought you were getting better at dealing with shit, it turned out you were just a fool anyway.

Part 10 | WC: 10.3k - Out November 4 -[here]

“Don’t break her heart, Yoongs.”

Part 11 | WC: 3.1k - Out November 11 - [here]

“I handled it. I don't need you to show up on a white horse and fix it. I can handle my own problems!”

Part 12 | WC: 3.2k - Out November 18 - [here]

“I'm afraid that if I wait, it will be too late.”

Part 13 | WC: 13.4k - Out November 25 - [here]

Hoseok’s POV Current Day

Hoseok’s days blur into one another, a relentless cycle of rehearsals, meetings, and creative sessions that stretch far beyond the usual working hours. From dawn until late at night, he is consumed by choreography—perfecting every move, every beat, every expression. His passion for dance is undeniable, but the toll is evident in the exhaustion etched on his face and the rare moments he allows himself to breathe.

Being the lead choreographer at Proof, he pushes himself harder than ever to prove himself. His friends, the Kim brothers, created the company. Though they have known him since childhood, Hoseok feels an immense pressure to live up to their expectations and prove his worth. He can't shake the nagging fear that one misstep could cost him everything he has worked so hard to achieve.

As he stands in front of the mirror-lined practice room, sweat dripping down his face, Hoseok runs through the routine one more time. The music pulses through his body, each movement precise and powerful. But even as he nails every step, a voice in the back of his mind whispers that it isn't enough. It has to be perfect.

A knock at the door breaks his concentration. Namjoon, the eldest Kim brother and CEO of Proof, pokes his head in. "Hoseok-ah, it's past midnight. You should head home and rest."

Hoseok forces a smile, trying to hide his exhaustion. "I'm almost done. Just need to run through it a few more times."

Namjoon frowns, stepping fully into the room. "You've been saying that for hours now. Come on, have a driver take you home."

Hoseok hesitates, glancing back at his reflection in the mirror. The routine is good, but is it good enough? He can still see tiny imperfections, moments where his timing is just a fraction off. It needs to be perfect before he can train the most popular idol, Jeon Jungkook.

"Hoseok," Namjoon says softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're pushing yourself too hard. The showcase isn't for a few months. You have time."

"But it needs to be perfect," Hoseok insists, his voice cracking slightly. "I can't let you guys down. This is our biggest event yet, and if I mess it up—"

"You won't mess it up," Namjoon interrupts firmly. "Hoseok, look at me."

Reluctantly, Hoseok turns to face his friend and boss. Namjoon's eyes are filled with concern.

"You're one of the most talented choreographers I've ever seen. That's why we wanted you here from the start. We trust you completely."

Hoseok feels his throat tighten with emotion. "But what if the moves aren’t good enough? What if the international fans are let down?"

Namjoon sighs, guiding Hoseok to sit on the floor. He joins him, their backs against the mirrored wall.

"Do you remember when we were kids? How you’d spend hours teaching me and Jin your latest dance moves?"

A small smile tugs at Hoseok's lips. "You were both terrible." They laugh.

"Yeah, we are," Namjoon chuckles. "But you never give up on us. You have this incredible patience, even when we keep messing up the simplest moves."

Hoseok nods, remembering those carefree days. "I just want to share my love of dance with you guys."

"And that's exactly what you're doing now, on a much bigger scale," Namjoon says, his voice gentle but firm. "You're not just choreographing dances, Hoseok. You're inspiring people, showing them the beauty and power of movement."

"I just... I want it to be perfect. For you, for Jungkook, for all the idols in this company who trust me."

Namjoon squeezes his shoulder. "Perfection isn't the goal, Hoseok. It's about the passion you bring to every performance, every rehearsal. That's what makes your work so special."

Hoseok feels the tension in his shoulders begin to ease. He leans his head back against the mirror, closing his eyes for a moment. "I guess I've been so focused on getting everything right, I forget why I started dancing in the first place."

"It's easy to lose sight of that when you're under pressure," Namjoon agrees. "But that's why you have us. To remind you when you forget."

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. Finally, Hoseok takes a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet, offering a hand to help Namjoon up.

"Thanks," he says softly. "I needed that."

Namjoon smiles, pulling him into a quick hug. "That's what family is for. Now come on, let's get you home. You need sleep if you're going to keep creating masterpieces."

As they leave the practice room, Hoseok feels a weight lift from his shoulders. The pressure is still there, but it no longer feels crushing. He realizes that in his pursuit of perfection, he has forgotten the joy that dance brings him—and others.

Something you were really good at helping him with from the minute you met.

FLASHBACK

After just a few weeks of your undeniable connection, Hoseok invites you over for dinner. You both playfully drink cocktails while putting together a home-cooked Thai meal. You’re like pieces of a puzzle, blending together naturally in the kitchen.

The aroma of lemongrass and ginger fills the air as you stir the simmering curry. Hoseok stands beside you, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously juliennes the carrots—each slice identical, precise. He lines them up on the cutting board, double-checks the recipe on his phone, and measures the fish sauce to the exact milliliter.

You sneak a glance at his perfect pile of vegetables, then at your own haphazard heap. “Is there a carrot-cutting competition I don’t know about?” you tease, nudging him gently with your elbow.

He laughs, but there’s a hint of sheepishness in his smile. “I just… like things to be perfect,” he admits, arranging the carrots with almost surgical precision. “My mom always said the food tastes better when you put care into every detail.”

You grin, grabbing a handful of basil and tearing it over the curry, letting the leaves flutter down like confetti. “Sometimes the best flavors come from happy accidents,” you say, tossing in a pinch of salt with a flourish.

Hoseok watches, half-horrified, half-amused, as you splash in the coconut milk—maybe a little more than the recipe calls for. “Wait, aren’t you measuring that?” he protests, laughing.

You shake your head, winking. “Nope. I like to cook by feel. Besides, it’s more fun this way.”

He hesitates, then shrugs, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to loosen up a little.”

As you both move around the kitchen, Hoseok’s initial anxiety gives way to laughter. When you accidentally splash sauce on your shirt, he’s quick to help, but this time, he doesn’t scold—he just grins, dabbing at the stain with gentle hands. Your eyes meet, and for a moment, time seems to stand still.

The tension crackles between you like electricity. Hoseok's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, a question unspoken. Your heart races as you lean in closer, drawn by an irresistible pull. Just as your lips are about to touch, the timer on the rice cooker chimes loudly, startling you both.

You jump apart, cheeks flushed and breathless. Clearing his throat, Hoseok turns to tend to the rice, while you busy yourself with plating the curry. The moment passes, but the air remains charged with unspoken desire.

Settling into your seats, you both avoid eye contact at first, focusing intently on serving the food. But as you take your first bites, the delicious flavors seem to break the tension. Hoseok’s eyes light up as he savors the curry.

“Wow, this is really good,” he says, flashing you a heart-stopping smile. “Maybe you’re onto something with the whole ‘happy accident’ thing.”

You beam at him. “Told you. Cooking’s more fun when you let go a little.”

Hoseok surprises you by grabbing an extra handful of fresh herbs and tossing them over his curry—no measuring, just a carefree sprinkle. “For good luck,” he says, echoing your earlier words.

You can’t help but smile. He never minds your quirks—if anything, he seems to collect them, encouraging the parts of you no one else quite got. With Hoseok, even the ordinary things feel special—a reminder that joy can be found in the overlooked corners of everyday life.

Time passes too quickly over easy conversation and the delicious meal.

“That was amazing,” he says, his smile softening into something more tender. “We make a pretty good team in the kitchen.”

You nod, returning his smile. “We do, don’t we? Maybe we should cook together more often.”

Before you can dwell on it, he’s whisking the plates away to do the dishes, where you insist on helping. Standing side by side at the sink, the small kitchen suddenly feels too warm, too intimate. Hoseok’s arm presses against yours as he hands you a plate to dry, and you shyly smile at the contact.

“Should we…talk about earlier?” Hoseok turns to face you, his expression a mix of vulnerability and hope. 

You set down the dish towel, your heart pounding. You meet his gaze. “I’ve been feeling...something between us for a while now.”

Hoseok steps closer, his hand reaching out to cup your arm. “Me too,” he admits. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but tonight...I can’t anymore.”

His touch sends shivers down your spine. Your body leans into his hand, closing your eyes briefly. When you open them, Hoseok’s face is inches from yours.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, his breath warm against your lips.

Instead of answering, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a tender kiss. Hoseok responds immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. The kiss deepens, weeks of pent-up longing pouring into the embrace. Your fingers tangle in Hoseok’s soft hair as his hands roam your back, igniting sparks wherever they touch.

And as you melt into each other, you know: sometimes the best moments—like the best meals—are the ones you never planned.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless. Hoseok rests his forehead against yours, a smile playing on his lips.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmurs.

You nod, your heart still racing. "Me too."

He presses his body to yours, arms wrapped around your waist.

His warmth envelops you, and you melt into his embrace, feeling safe and cherished. Hoseok's lips find yours again, this time with more urgency. The kiss is deep and passionate, leaving you dizzy with desire.

Your hands roam over his broad shoulders and down his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt. Hoseok groans softly against your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips.

His hands grasp your ass, and a slight gasp escapes your lips as you melt into him. Hoseok then holds your wrist and guides your hand to his growing bulge. Your breath catches as you feel his hardness through his jeans. Emboldened, you palm him gently, eliciting a low moan from him.

"My room?" he murmurs as he presses himself more firmly into your hand.

"Yes," you reply, your voice husky with desire.

Hoseok's eyes darken as he looks at you and kisses you one more time before pulling you to his room. He gently guides you onto the bed. “Are you sure?”

You nod, understanding his sentiment but frustrated by the ache building within you. Hoseok seems to sense your thoughts and pulls you close again, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers, his hands sliding under your shirt. "We don't have to go all the way if you're not ready."

You shiver at his touch, desire coursing through you. "I want you, Hoseok. All of you."

He groans softly, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as his fingers trail along your sides, pushing your shirt up slowly. You lift your arms, allowing him to pull it off completely.

Hoseok's eyes roam over your newly exposed skin, filled with admiration and hunger. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone.

He finds your lips, kissing you deeply, and you let yourself fall back against the cool sheets, pulling him down with you. Your hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel his skin against yours. Sensing your impatience, Hoseok chuckles softly and helps you, quickly discarding the garment.

You run your fingers over his toned chest and abs, marveling at the feel of his warm skin beneath your touch. Hoseok shivers, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he captures your lips again in a deep, passionate kiss.

His hands roam down your sides to the waistband of your pants. He pulls back slightly, a question in his eyes. You nod, lifting your hips to help him as he slowly slides them off, leaving you in just your underwear.

Hoseok's gaze is reverent as he takes in the sight of you. "God, you're perfect," he breathes, trailing kisses down your neck and across your chest. His tongue flicks teasingly over a nipple, causing you to arch into him with a soft moan.

You reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness. Hoseok helps you, quickly shedding his remaining clothes until you're both bare before each other.

His eyes roam over your exposed form, filled with desire. You feel a flush of heat under his intense gaze. Hoseok leans down, trailing feather-light kisses down your chest. His hands caress your sides, fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin.

You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his mouth moves lower, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he looks up at you, seeking permission. You nod, breath catching in anticipation.

The first swipe of his tongue sends shockwaves through your body. Hoseok works skillfully, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your most sensitive areas. Your hips buck involuntarily as the pleasure builds, but he holds you steady with strong hands on your thighs. The sensations intensify as he slips a finger inside you, curling it in a way that makes you see stars.

"Hoseok," you gasp, teetering on the edge. He hums against you, the vibrations pushing you closer. With a few more expert strokes of his tongue, you come undone, waves of pleasure washing over you.

As you catch your breath, Hoseok kisses his way back up your body. His gaze is filled with longing as he hovers above you. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You pull him down for a passionate kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hand trails down his chest and wraps around his length, causing him to groan into your mouth. You stroke him slowly, relishing the way he trembles above you. Hoseok groans into your mouth, hips jerking at your touch.

He reaches over to the nightstand for protection. You watch with hooded eyes as he rolls it on, then positions himself between your legs. "Are you ready?"

You nod, spreading your legs wider in invitation. He positions himself at your entrance, eyes locked on yours as he slowly pushes in. You both gasp at the sensation of finally being joined. Hoseok stills for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size.

"You feel amazing," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your jaw.

You roll your hips experimentally, drawing a low moan from him. Taking that as encouragement, Hoseok begins to move, setting a steady rhythm. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure through your body. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The room fills with the sounds of your shared passion - soft moans, skin against skin, whispered endearments. Hoseok's movements become more urgent as you feel the tension building once again. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling your sensitive flesh in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation quickly pushes you toward the edge.

"Hoseok, I'm close," you pant, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Same," he groans, his rhythm faltering. "Come for me. I want to hear how good I make you feel."

His words send you over the edge. You cry out his name as waves of pleasure crash over you. Hoseok follows soon after, burying his face in your neck as he finds his release.

For a few moments, you both lie there, breathing heavily. Hoseok presses soft kisses to your shoulder before carefully withdrawing. He disposes of the condom and returns with a warm washcloth to clean you up.

Once you're both settled, Hoseok pulls you into his arms.

You snuggle into his warmth, feeling utterly content, and Hoseok's fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as you both bask in the afterglow.

"That was..." you trail off, searching for the right words.

"Amazing," Hoseok finishes, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You're amazing."

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the sound of your steady breathing. You can feel Hoseok's heartbeat gradually slowing beneath your palm.

"What are you thinking?" he asks softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

You look up at him, taking in his tousled hair and tender expression. "I'm thinking that I don't want this night to end," you admit.

Hoseok's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "It doesn't have to," he murmurs, leaning in to capture your lips in a sweet, languid kiss. You melt into him, savoring the gentle affection after the passionate intensity of earlier. When you break apart, Hoseok's eyes are soft with emotion. "Stay with me tonight?" he asks, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

"I'd love to," you reply, snuggling closer.

Hoseok pulls the blankets over you both, creating a cozy cocoon. His arms encircle you, holding you close against his chest. You feel safe, cherished, and utterly at peace.

As your eyelids grow heavy, Hoseok's fingers card gently through your hair. "Sweet dreams," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You drift off to sleep, wrapped in his warmth, excited for what the future might hold for you both.

After that unforgettable night together, you notice the toll that the late hours and endless rehearsals are taking on Hoseok. His text messages between practice sessions paint a picture of fatigue and hunger, filled with apologies for not being able to call until after midnight. He’s been skipping meals just to carve out extra time at the studio. 

One evening, after asking if he wants to have dinner together, his message stops you in your tracks.

“I’m dying for a real meal but can’t leave the dance room.” 

You decide it’s time to step in. Clutching containers of food from your hasty kitchen mission—bulgogi and kimchi fried rice—you weave through the gleaming, labyrinthine hallways until you reach the right practice room. You knew the way by heart now, each turn and glowing rehearsal room door more familiar with every visit. Through the window in the door, you spot Hoseok. He’s a blur of motion, completely absorbed in the rhythm, sweat glistening on his skin, his lips a thin, determined line.

You tap gently on the glass and wait as the track winds to a close. Hoseok glances up, startled, then his face breaks into a surprised yet weary grin. He waves you in, his voice escaping in breathless, warm tones, “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

You carefully set out the containers, chopsticks, and a neatly folded napkin. “You said you were starving. Let me feed you before you collapse on the dance floor.”

Hoseok sits cross-legged, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, gratitude shining in his eyes as you open the containers. The rich aroma fills the room, and he chuckles softly, “Did you use extra onion?” 

You give a playful shrug, “Maybe I cooked by accident again.”

He dives into the meal, sighing in contentment with each bite, the tension in his shoulders easing as he lets his guard down, allowing himself to be cared for. When he finally looks up, his eyes are bright with relief, and he murmurs, “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

For a while, you both eat in a soothing silence, interrupted only by the soft strains of music and the gentle clatter of chopsticks. As he visibly revives with every mouthful, you press a cool bottle of water into his hand and offer a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder. “Come back to life, please. The world needs you in one piece.”

He grins, tugging you gently down beside him, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m alive. Thanks to you.”

Hoseok’s POV Current Day

Hoseok arrives at the studio with renewed energy. As he watches the dancers warm up, he sees your crew. His eyes instinctively search for you among the dancers. When he doesn’t find you, a flicker of disappointment crosses his face before he masks it with a smile, a practiced move for months.

"Alright, everyone," he calls out, clapping his hands. "Let's try something different today. I want you to forget about getting every move perfect. Instead, I want you to focus on how the music makes you feel.

“Let's dance with our hearts today, not just our bodies."

The dancers exchange curious glances, but Hoseok could see the excitement building in their eyes. As the music starts, he feels a familiar thrill coursing through him. This was why he danced, why he choreographed—to create moments of pure, unbridled joy.  A joy he used to share with you so freely.

As the day progresses, Hoseok laughs more, encouraging the dancers to express themselves freely. The routine began to evolve, becoming something more organic and alive. It isn't perfect, but it’s authentic and powerful. He almost wishes you were there to witness it, a dangerous thought. 

He’d felt so caught up in you before that he felt it was jeopardizing his work. Every day, he wonders if he was wrong.

During a break, Jungkook pops his head into the studio, his eyes widening as he watches the dancers run through a section. "Wow, hyung," he says, turning to Hoseok with a grin. "This is...different. In a good way."

Hoseok feels a surge of pride. Each dancer interprets the choreography in their own way, infusing it with their personal style and emotion. While encouraging the dancers, Hoseok wonders what feedback you’d give, your insightful critiques always pushing him further, or how your laughter would fill the room, a sound he now realizes he misses more than he ever thought possible.

The final run-through is a blur of sweat and laughter. The dancers collapse in a heap, exhilarated. Hoseok’s gaze lingers on the empty spot by the mirror; a ghost of a smile touches his lips, quickly replaced by a pang of regret.

As the studio empties, he stands alone, the day’s energy fading into quiet resolve. The joy of the moment is tinged with a quiet longing, making him realize just how much your presence meant to him, how much he valued your opinion. A hollow ache settles in his chest. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be here. He knows it’s a foolish hope.

As Hoseok leaves the studio, the setting sun paints the sky in hues of orange and pink. The day's events replay in his mind, each moment tinged with a bittersweet edge due to your absence. He can't help but imagine how different it would have been with you there, your energy feeding into the room's atmosphere, your smile encouraging the other dancers. He finds himself smiling, lost in thought about your shared moments of laughter and understanding, a pang of loss echoing in his chest. 

He wonders if he’ll ever share that kind of connection with someone again.

With the sharp echoes of footsteps and the pounding beat of the music,  Hoseok stands at the front, eyes narrowed in concentration as Jungkook struggles to keep up with the demanding choreography.

“Again,” Hoseok commands, voice steady but firm. “This part—focus on your body control. You’re rushing through the moves, but the power isn’t there. It’s not just about speed; it’s about precision and feeling every beat.”

Jungkook wipes sweat from his brow, frustration flickering in his eyes. “I’m trying, hyung, but this sequence is really hard. The transitions are so fast, and I keep messing up the footwork.”

Hoseok’s jaw tightens. “That’s why you have to practice more. You can’t half-step this. If you want to improve, you need to push through the difficulty.”

Jungkook smirks, shaking his head. “Hyung, you seriously need to get laid or something. You’re way too tense all the time. Maybe if you relaxed a bit, you’d stop scaring me with those death stares.”

Hoseok’s eyes flash with a mix of surprise and irritation. “Is that so? Maybe you should focus on your dancing instead of my personal life.”

Jungkook laughs, but then his smile fades slightly. “I’m just saying, you push too hard. It’s okay to loosen up once in a while.”

Hoseok’s expression hardens. “I’m pushing because I care. If you don’t take this seriously, you’ll never get it right.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, tension rising. “Maybe I’m not you, hyung. Maybe I learn differently. You can’t expect me to be perfect right away.”

Hoseok’s voice grew sharper. “I’m not asking for perfection overnight. I’m asking for effort. You want to dance like the best, right? Then act like it.”

Jungkook wipes sweat from his brow, his breath still uneven from the last round of the routine. Hoseok’s words sting, not just because they’re harsh, but because they feel impersonal. Jungkook’s frustration spills over. “Sometimes it feels like you don’t see me at all! Like I’m just another dancer to fix! You know I'm giving it my all! You know how hard I work!" Jungkook's voice cracks slightly, betraying the emotion behind his words.

Hoseok’s eyes soften briefly, guilt flickering, but his resolve stays firm. "Jungkook-ah," Hoseok's voice softens, a hint of regret creeping in. "I see you. I see how hard you work. That's why I push you."

The younger man's shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. "I know, hyung. I just...sometimes it feels like nothing I do is good enough."

Hoseok steps closer, placing a hand on Jungkook's shoulder. "That's not true. You've improved so much. But this industry is ruthless. I push you because I know what you're capable of, and I don't want you to settle for less."

Jungkook nods, still avoiding eye contact. "I get it. I do. It's just...exhausting sometimes."

"I know," Hoseok sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, maybe we both need a break. Let's grab some water and cool down for a few minutes."

Jungkook looks up, surprise evident in his eyes. "Really? You're actually suggesting we take a break?"

Hoseok chuckles, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Don't look so shocked. I'm not completely heartless."

They move to the side of the practice room, Hoseok tossing Jungkook a water bottle. As they drink in silence, Hoseok studies the younger man, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands.

“We can call it a night and pick it back up tomorrow.”

Jungkook's eyes widen in surprise. "What? You're not going to make me run it again?"

Hoseok chuckles, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Not right now. Sometimes a change of scenery helps. We can come back with fresh eyes."

As they gather their things, Jungkook hesitates. "Hyung... I'm sorry about what I said earlier. About you needing to get laid. That was out of line."

Hoseok raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Apology accepted. Though, for the record, my personal life is none of your business."

Jungkook nods, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Fair enough. But you know, if you ever want to talk..."

"I'll keep it in mind," Hoseok says dryly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Now get out of here before I change my mind about that extra practice."

Arriving home, Hoseok imagines walking through the door, finding you curled up on the couch, dozing as you wait for his return. The thought of your sleepy smile, eyes blinking open as he approached, made him yearn for comfort only you could provide.

But instead, his heart aches when there is nothing but darkness. He drops his bag and plops on the couch, a dull ache of exhaustion seeping into his bones, anchoring him to the spot.

He could almost feel the warmth of your hands massaging his body. The image of your serene face brought a sense of calm that he craved after the relentless demands of the day. You were the only person who could untangle the knots of tension coiled within him.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone, his hand trembling slightly as his thumb hovers over your contact. He yearns to hear your voice, to close the distance between you. 

But the late hour steadies his hand. It’s too late, he reasons, it’s been a year already, and he hasn’t reached out once. Nor did he reply to any of your attempts to remain in contact. He had a whisper of doubt that suggested you might not want to hear from him anyway.

Suddenly, a memory flashes in his mind—a snatch of dialogue from the dance crew's lively chatter. They had extended an invitation to you for the upcoming annual charity event held by Proof. The realization hits him like a bolt of lightning. He recalls the guest list strategically placed in a subfolder with other coordinating emails for the event. With a sense of urgency, he scrolls through the list, his eyes darting over names until they freeze on yours, confirming your presence among the attendees.

Hoseok's heart pounds like a relentless drum as he sits in his dimly lit room, the glow from his phone illuminating his anxious expression. His mind churns with the possibilities and consequences. The prospect of seeing you at the Gala sends waves of excitement and dread through him. 

Memories of that night flood back—how he impulsively ended things with you and watched you walk away, leaving a hollow ache in his chest. Since then, he’s lacked the courage to call you, to bridge the gap created by his own actions. Now, as if destiny is weaving its intricate web, the chance to see you again looms before him.

With trembling fingers, he navigates to your contact name, the letters blurring slightly from his nervousness, and after a deep breath, he types out a message and hesitantly presses send.

The new dance studio you had joined was hosting a dinner tonight, and while the evening was lively and enjoyable, it stirred a sense of nostalgia for your old crew. The camaraderie you had forged over countless hours of sweat, tears, and aching muscles was not something that could be easily replicated. The new studio buzzed with energy, laughter echoing off the walls, yet there was a part of you that longed for the familiar rhythm of your former group.

Perhaps there was space in your life for both worlds now. Maybe embracing your future didn't have to mean completely letting go of your past. You could picture organizing a reunion with your old dance mates, envisioning a cozy cafe or a laid-back practice session where you could catch up and share stories. The thought of reconnecting brought warmth, like the comforting embrace of an old friend.

It’s been a year since you hastily exited Hoseok’s dance studio. The decision had been abrupt, but the weight of seeing Hoseok day after day had become unbearable. Every glance in his direction reminded you of the unspoken feelings that lingered just beneath the surface. The warmth of his laughter, the brightness in his eyes—it all tugged at the heartstrings of a love you couldn't confess. It was easier to walk away than to endure the silent ache of being near him without acknowledging the love you had for each other.

But beneath that longing was the sting Hoseok left behind—the words he never truly said. You remember the hollow ache the day he finally ended things, the way he stepped back as if your feelings were less important than his ambitions. No matter how hard you tried, you were always his second choice—the afterthought to his dreams, his commitment to Proof, and his friends who ran the company.

It was easier to walk away than to endure the silent ache of being near him without acknowledging the love you had for each other.

You slipped out quietly before anyone noticed. The thought of facing the crew, of explaining your sudden departure, weighed heavily on your mind. If they could have seen the turmoil churning inside you, they'd understand why you couldn't bring yourself to say goodbye.

As you punch in the code and push open the heavy glass door of your apartment building, the thought of an upcoming reunion dances in your mind, coaxing a smile across your lips. 

You make your way down the familiar hallway to the row of mailboxes, feeling the cool metal key in your fingers as you slide it into the lock and turn it with a satisfying click, revealing the contents inside.

An envelope sat with elegance– Heavy, black cardstock, smooth to the touch. Embossed along the edges was an intricate gold filigree pattern that shimmered subtly in the light. A deep purple wax seal stamped with an ornate monogram for Proof secured the flap, hinting at the exclusivity within.

You swallowed thickly, breaking the seal. Inside, the invitation itself was a masterpiece—printed on thick, ivory vellum with raised gold lettering that caught the eye with every tilt of your hand. The calligraphy was exquisite, inviting you to an evening of grandeur and sophistication.

The words spoke of a black-tie affair promising an unforgettable night of fine dining, live music, and sparkling conversation. As the invitation rests in your hand, you could only think of one person you would see there. Hoseok.

Your heart skips a beat at the thought of him.

You trace the gold lettering with your fingertips, imagining Hoseok in a tailored tuxedo, his radiant smile and eyes twinkling as he extends his hand for a dance. The lavish event seemed like the perfect setting for a reunion, a chance to rekindle old friendships.

As you climb the stairs to your apartment, your mind spirals—not around your own desires, but around the idea of making things easier for him. Choosing what to wear, how to style your hair—it’s all just armor, a way to hide the hollow ache he carved out of you. After a year of silence, after your messages sat unread and unanswered, you still find yourself hoping for his approval, still rehearsing what you’ll say if you see him.

The dread builds with every step, pressing against your ribs. His absence taught you to tuck your pain behind polite smiles. Anger simmers beneath the surface, sharp and bitter from all the times you convinced yourself his neglect was your fault. The invitation sits like a weight in your hands, a reminder that you care too much about whether or not he wants you there.

And yet, beneath it all, there’s a flicker of something softer that refuses to die. A fragile, stubborn hope that things could be different—that maybe this time, laughter won’t be forced and forgiveness might come easier than you expect. You cling to the memory of his warmth, the possibility of finding it again, wondering if there’s still space for something gentle to bloom between you, even after everything.

The bed feels like an empty ocean, the silence slices through the air, sharp and unrelenting. As the night deepens, the world beyond your window fades into a hushed stillness, leaving you restless and unable to find peace. 

Hours stretch endlessly between you and the elusive prospect of sleep. You tug the blanket closer, the soft fabric brushing against your skin, seeking solace in its warmth. Yet, it was a feeble stand-in for the familiar, comforting weight of Hoseok's arm draped over your shoulders.

Your mind, refusing to be tamed, drifts to the vivid memory of his gentle touch. The way his fingers would dance across your skin, tracing delicate, soothing patterns that calmed you. Now, the absence of his presence feels like a force pressing in on you with a relentless heaviness. 

A soft sigh escapes your lips, barely louder than the persistent hum of the refrigerator rumbling in the next room. You reach for your phone, the screen glowing brightly in the darkness, your thumb hovering uncertainly over his name. The temptation to send a message pulls at you, but you hesitate, seeing the countless unanswered messages you’d already sent. The ache of missing him settles into your chest, a bittersweet reminder of the profound significance his presence held in your life.

You loved him with your whole heart—no hesitation, just the way you dive into a new routine, full force and no regrets. You told yourself his world was just busier, that if you waited long enough, he’d meet you halfway. That’s what patience means, you thought. 

But love isn’t always about waiting. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when you’re the only one standing still.

The night it ended, there was no drama; it came quietly.

After nearly a year together, you sat on his couch one rainy evening, watching water bead on the windows while Hoseok recited rehearsal schedules like survival mantras. You had barely spoken all week. His eyes flicked over you, apologetic yet distant.

Proof’s reputation grew, and Hoseok’s responsibilities intensified. The stolen moments grew rarer, his exhaustion more profound. You understood his dedication as you watched him disappear further into his work.

Then came the inevitable conversation. He looked more worn than you’d ever seen him, with dark circles under his eyes, his usual vibrant energy dimmed. He sat next to you on his couch, where you had been waiting for him.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he said softly, not with malice, just weight. He didn’t look at you when he added, “I need to focus on Proof. Everything else…It’s too much.”

You wanted to ask why love counted as “too much.” But you didn’t. 

The irony wasn't lost on you. You had been giving him your time, your attention, your unwavering support, freely and without expectation of grand gestures in return. All you wanted was for him to see you, truly see you.

“So, what are you saying, Hoseok?” you ask softly, the weight of his words settling upon you.

“I think…I think we need to end this,” he finally said, the words hanging in the air like a death knell to the hope you had nurtured. “Maybe someday, when things are different… but right now, I just need to focus.”

You nod slowly, the pain a dull ache behind your eyes. You had poured so much of yourself into supporting him, hoping he would eventually see the love reflected in your actions. 

You fiddle with the string on your hoodie, searching for words. “I can wait,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I want to wait.”

He shakes his head, exhaustion etched deep. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You let the silence settle, not fighting it. You take a breath, steady and sure, and nod. “Okay, Hoseok,” your voice barely a mumble. You didn’t beg. You didn’t try to convince him. If he couldn’t see you now, perhaps he never would.

As you left his place that night, there was a heavy weight on your shoulders, the weight of unspoken love and a future that would never be. Hoseok was free to chase his dreams, unburdened by a relationship he felt he couldn’t maintain. But you were left with the quiet ache of knowing you had loved him deeply, supported him tirelessly, and in the end, it hadn’t been enough to make him truly see you.

You rolled onto your side, blinking away tears.

The darkness of your room seemed to press in closer, a physical manifestation of the emptiness you felt. You reach for your phone again, this time opening your photo gallery. Your thumb hovers over the folder labeled "Hoseok," a digital archive of happier times. With a deep breath, you tap it open.

Images flood your screen - candid shots of Hoseok mid-laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Selfies of the two of you, your faces pressed close together, his arm around your shoulders. Videos of him practicing dance routines, his movements fluid and powerful. Each swipe felt like reopening a wound, but you couldn't stop yourself from scrolling.

You paused on a particular photo, taken at the small cafe you both loved. Hoseok was looking at you instead of the camera, his expression soft and warm. You remember that day clearly - how he had surprised you with a spontaneous date, whisking you away from the studio. The way his eyes had sparkled when he saw your face light up at the gesture. It was moments like these that made you fall deeper, believing that what you had was special.

A notification suddenly lights up your screen, startling you from your reverie. Your heart leaps to your throat as you see Hoseok's name. With trembling fingers, you open the message.

"Hey. I hope this isn't too late. I just wanted to let you know that I saw your name on the guest list for the Gala. I'm looking forward to seeing you there."

You read his words again, feeling the weight of their simplicity and the year of silence they break. For a heartbeat, a delicate ember of yearning kindles quietly within you. But just as quickly, a bitter edge cuts through that warmth—the quiet frustration that, after all this time, after every unanswered message and every day he chose not to reach out, now this one text is supposed to change everything?

It’s maddening, how easily your heart still stirs for him despite everything. Maybe you’re foolish for letting it, or maybe it’s just how deeply you’ve been tethered to the possibility—however slim—of something more. But as much as you want to believe, part of you clenches against the truth: one random message doesn’t erase the year he was gone, the distance he kept, or the place you once held in his life.

You type out several responses, deleting each one before settling on a simple "Hi…it’s been a while. I'm looking forward to it too." Your finger hovers over the send button, hesitating. Part of you wants to say more, to ask all the questions that have been swirling in your mind for a year. But another part, the one still nursing the wound of your breakup, holds you back.

With a deep breath, you hit send before you can second-guess yourself. The message whooshes away, and you're left staring at the screen, heart pounding.

Minutes stretch on as you tuck your phone away, the silence pressing heavier with every passing second. You don't expect it to buzz again—at least, not tonight.

"I hope we can catch up."

You stare at the words, a mix of emotions swirling within you. Relief that he responded, disappointment at the brevity, hope for what this could mean. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard as you debate whether to continue the conversation. In the end, you decide against it, not wanting to seem too eager.

After everything—the hurt he caused, the long silence—you know you need time. Time to figure out what exactly you want. This sudden message, this unexpected reopening, feels overwhelming. It’s too much to process all at once, especially in the quiet of one night.

Setting your phone aside, you curl up under the covers, your mind replaying the brief exchange. Sleep still eludes you, but now your thoughts are filled with possibilities. What will it be like to see Hoseok again after all this time? Will there still be a spark between you, or has the distance extinguished whatever connection you once shared?

As dawn breaks, painting your room in soft hues, you finally drift off into a fitful sleep. Your dreams are a kaleidoscope of memories and hopes, Hoseok's face appearing and fading like a mirage. You dance together in your dreams, bodies moving in perfect synchronization, but each time you reach for him, he slips away.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of anticipation and anxiety. You throw yourself into work, pushing your body to its limits in an attempt to quiet your racing thoughts. But even as you perfect intricate routines, your mind keeps drifting back to the upcoming gala.

You spend days agonizing over what to wear, trying on dress after dress. Nothing seemed quite right - too casual, too formal, too revealing, too plain. Finally, you settle on a sleek black dress with rhinestones that hug your curves without being overly flashy. As you examine yourself in the mirror, you can't help but wonder if Hoseok will approve.

Despite the ache of everything that happened, you can’t forget the countless ways Hoseok made life less heavy. How he’d quietly check in after hard days, how your laughter with him felt like a secret only you two shared. His infectious smile that could brighten even your darkest moods, the way he'd leave silly notes to make you giggle, and how he always knew the right song to play when you needed cheering up. Even now, you can almost hear his voice, gentle and reassuring, telling you everything will be okay.

You sigh at the tangle of emotions. The pain is there, yes, but so is a deep, abiding fondness. You realize that even though things ended, the good parts weren't erased. They still matter. They still shaped you.

Walking into the Gala, you are immediately enveloped in a sumptuous atmosphere where drapes frame the grand entrance, and golden chandeliers cast a warm, radiant glow over the room. Deep purple accents—seen in floral arrangements and plush seating—add a regal richness that contrasts beautifully with the soft cream and shimmering gold details throughout the space. 

The polished marble floor reflects the twinkle of gold filigree patterns on table linens and the subtle sparkle of guests’ attire, creating an ambiance of refined luxury. As you glide forward, every step feels like a graceful dance in a world of elegance and exclusivity.

The entrance is lined with catering staff holding trays of champagne, you politely grab one and make your way to the seating chart. As you stand searching for your name, a former crew member, Mirae, says your name and nudges your side. 

“Oh my gosh! Where the hell have you been?!” Mirae opens her arms wide, and you nearly leap into them.

“Oh wow! You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much!” 

She gives you a once-over and grabs your hand, twirling you around. “This dress is fabulous!” You stare at each other as her bright smile fades a little. “Seriously, though, where did you go? We texted here and there, but you never gave an explanation.”

“Oh, I–um. I just joined a different studio. It was a little intense for me at Proof.”

“You were one of the best, what do you mean too intense? Or do you mean Hoseok was too hard to please?” Mirae whispers and giggles.

“No, no! I just wanted to dance where it was less competitive. You know, I’m too… sensitive for all that pressure." You laugh nervously, hoping to deflect further questions. 

Mirae raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying your explanation. "Well, whatever the reason, I'm just glad you're here tonight. We have so much catching up to do!"

As she speaks, you notice her gaze shift to something behind you. Her eyes widen slightly, and a mischievous smile plays at her lips. "Speaking of catching up, looks like someone else wants to do just that."

You turn, following her line of sight, and your breath catches in your throat. There, making his way through the crowd with purposeful strides, is Hoseok. He looks exactly as you remember—tall and striking in a plunging-neckline shirt that reveals a hint of his collarbone and chest. The shirt is tucked into sleek, tailored pants that accentuate his frame. A formal yet edgy look with his dark hair slightly tousled as if he had just run his fingers through it. 

"You’re at my table. I'll leave you two to it," Mirae whispers, giving your arm a squeeze before melting into the crowd. You're left standing alone, pulse quickening as Hoseok approaches. Your eyes meet, and for a moment, the world around you fades away.

Hoseok's gaze softens as he reaches you, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"You look beautiful," he says softly, his eyes taking you in.

"Thank you," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "You look amazing, too."

An awkward silence falls between you, heavy with unspoken words and shared history. Hoseok clears his throat, gesturing towards the bar. "Can I get you a drink?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to move and break the tension. As you make your way through the crowd, you're acutely aware of Hoseok's presence beside you, the warmth radiating from his body.

At the bar, he orders your favorite cocktail without hesitation, and the familiarity of the gesture makes your heart ache. As you wait for your drinks, Hoseok turns to face you fully.

"I'm really glad you came tonight," he says, his voice low and sincere. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now."

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Oh? What about?"

Hoseok opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the arrival of your drinks. He hands you yours, his fingers brushing against yours in the process. The brief contact sends a jolt through you.

"Maybe we could find somewhere a bit quieter?" he suggests, gesturing towards a secluded balcony.

You nod, following him through the crowd. The cool night air hits you as you step outside, a welcome respite from the stuffy ballroom. You lean against the railing, looking out over the twinkling city lights.

Hoseok joins you at the railing, his presence both comforting and nerve-wracking. For a passing moment, the chilly night air seems to ripple with memory, pulling you back to that first encounter outside the dance studio. You remember the way he leaned against a rooftop railing, phone in hand, looking every bit as worn out as he does now. You can still hear the low, surprised laugh he gave.

Now, standing side by side at the railing once more, you catch a glimpse of that old spark—the possibility that the world could be bigger than choreography and relentless ambition. For a breathless instant, time folds in on itself, and you wonder if two people can ever really untangle, or if some bonds simply hold, quietly, even after everything.

You take a sip of your drink, letting the alcohol warm you from within.

"I owe you an apology," Hoseok says quietly, breaking the silence. "The way things ended between us...It wasn't fair to you."

You turn to face him, your heart pounding. "Hoseok, you don't have to-"

"No, I do," he interrupts gently. "I was so caught up in my work, in trying to prove myself, that I lost sight of what really mattered. Of who really mattered."

His words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. You search his face, trying to read his expression in the dim light.

"I've missed you," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "More than I thought possible. Every day, I'd catch myself turning to share something with you, only to remember you weren't there. The studio felt emptier without your laughter, your energy."

His confession steals your breath away. You grip the railing tighter, steadying yourself against the rush of emotions.

"I missed you too," you admit softly. "But Hoseok, what's changed? You said you needed to focus on your career and then completely cut me off."

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I thought it’d be easier. I thought I needed to focus. But these past months, I've realized that success doesn't mean much if you don't have someone to share it with. Someone who understands you, challenges you, supports you."

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. "And you think that someone is me?"

Hoseok reaches out, his hand hovering near yours on the railing. "I know it is," he says softly. "If you'll give me another chance."

Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers gently intertwine with yours. The familiar warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine. You look up, meeting his gaze. His eyes are filled with hope and vulnerability, a stark contrast to the confident performer you're used to seeing.

"Hoseok, I..." you trail off, overwhelmed by the moment. Part of you wants to throw caution to the wind and fall back into his arms. But another part hesitates, remembering the pain of the past year.

"I understand if you need time," he says quickly. "I know I hurt you, and I don't expect you to forgive me right away. But I want you to know that I'm ready to put in the work. To show you that you're my priority."

You take a shaky breath, trying to organize your thoughts. "It's not that simple, Hoseok. You can't just waltz back into my life and expect everything to be okay."

His face falls slightly, but he nods in understanding. "I know. I'm not asking for everything to go back to how it was. I'm asking for a chance to start over, to do things right this time."

You look out at the city lights, considering his words. The rational part of your mind warns you to be cautious, to protect your heart. But you can't deny the pull you still feel towards him, the way your body instinctively leans closer to his.

"I can't make any promises," you say slowly, turning back to face him. "But...I'm willing to try. To see where this goes."

Relief washes over Hoseok's face, his eyes lighting up with hope. "That's all I'm asking for," he says softly.

You feel tears welling up in your eyes, a mix of hope and apprehension. Hoseok reaches out, gently wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. His touch is tender, reminiscent of countless intimate moments you've shared.

"Hey," he murmurs, "No pressure, okay? We'll take this slow."

You nod, leaning into his touch. The familiar scent of his cologne envelops you, bringing back a rush of memories.

"Maybe we could start with a dance?" Hoseok suggests, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He extends his hand, an invitation.

You can't help but laugh, the tension easing slightly. "Here? On the balcony?"

"Why not?" His eyes twinkle with mischief. "We've danced in stranger places."

Memories flash through your mind - impromptu performances in empty subway stations, late-night practice sessions in convenience store parking lots. Your body responds before your mind can catch up.

You place your hand in his, letting him pull you close. The faint strains of music from inside the ballroom drift out to the balcony as Hoseok begins to lead you in a slow dance. Your bodies fall into sync effortlessly, muscle memory taking over as you sway together.

"I've missed this," Hoseok murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. "Dancing with you always felt so natural."

You nod, unable to form words as emotions overwhelm you. The familiar planes of his body, the gentle pressure of his hand on your lower back - it all feels like coming home after a long journey. Yet there's a new tension, an awareness that things have changed between you.

As you move together, the world beyond the balcony fades away. There's only the music and the rhythm of your breaths–a rhythm reborn.

The dance ends, but neither of you pulls away. You remain in each other's arms, swaying gently to the faint music. Hoseok's fingers trace delicate patterns on your back, sending shivers down your spine.

"I forgot how perfectly we fit together," he murmurs, his voice low and intimate.

You look up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes takes your breath away. Slowly, hesitantly, Hoseok leans in. His lips brush against yours, soft and questioning. For a moment, you freeze, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions. Then, almost against your will, you find yourself responding, deepening the kiss.

It's familiar, yet new, charged with the weight of your history and the promise of a possible future. When you finally break apart, you're both breathless.

"I'm sorry," Hoseok says quickly. "I shouldn't have done that. I said we'd take things slow."

You take a shaky breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "It's okay," you whisper. "I...I wanted it too."

A moment of charged silence passes between you. The spell is broken by the sound of applause from inside, reminding you of the gala still in full swing.

"We should probably head back inside," you say reluctantly. “The performance is going to start.”

Hoseok nods, but doesn't move to leave. Instead, he takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Dance with me again?" he asks softly. "Inside this time. I want everyone to see how incredible you are."

Your heart swells at his words. Despite your reservations, you find yourself nodding. "Okay," you agree. "One more dance."

As you step hand-in-hand back into the softly lit ballroom, a ripple of delighted whispers passes through the crowd. Friends and familiar faces break into smiles, and you catch glimpses of genuine happiness shining in their eyes. The atmosphere shifts, warming with shared excitement and support. It’s as if, for this one moment, the whole room is rooting for you both—your happiness reflected in so many beaming faces around you.

Hoseok pulls you close, one hand clasping yours while the other rests on your waist. As you begin to move together, the rest of the world fades away once more. Your bodies fall into perfect synchronization, years of dancing together allowing you to anticipate each other's movements effortlessly.

You're vaguely aware of murmurs from the crowd, but your focus remains on Hoseok. His eyes never leave yours as he leads you through intricate steps, his touch both gentle and sure. There's an intimacy to your dance that goes beyond mere physical closeness - it's a conversation without words, an expression of everything left unsaid between you. As Hoseok guides you into a graceful spin, you catch a glimpse of Mirae watching from the sidelines, her eyes wide with delight.

The music swells, and Hoseok dips you low, his face inches from yours. For a breathless moment, you're suspended there, lost in each other's gaze. Then he slowly pulls you back up, your bodies pressed close together. As the final notes fade away, neither of you moves to break apart.

A hush falls over the ballroom as the last note lingers in the air. For a heartbeat, it feels as if time itself has paused—just you and Hoseok, still locked in each other’s arms, the world holding its breath.

Then, as if on cue, the crowd erupts into applause. You flush, suddenly aware of the dozens of eyes around you, but Hoseok only grins, his gaze never leaving yours. He leans in, his forehead touching yours, and you feel his breath—steady, grounding.

"You were incredible," he whispers. "Thank you for trusting me. For giving us another chance."

You smile, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes—not of sadness, but of hope. "Let’s not waste it this time," you reply softly.

He squeezes your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, a silent promise passing between you like a secret vow. As the applause fades and the next song begins, Hoseok leans in closer, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint that makes your heart race. 

“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the lingering melody as he gently tugs you away from the dance floor. Instead of weaving through the vibrant crowd toward the balcony, he maneuvers you past the glittering tables draped in crisp white linens and out a discreet side door, leaving the pulsing music and lively chatter behind.

You glance at him in surprise, your eyebrows arching in curiosity. “Where are we going?” you ask, your voice tinged with both excitement and apprehension.

He grins, breathless with excitement, his breath visible in the cool air. “Anywhere but here. I’m taking a page from your book, something spontaneous—just you and me,” he replies, his enthusiasm infectious.

The night air is cool against your skin as you step out onto the quiet, dimly lit street. The city lights spread out before you like a sea of twinkling stars, alive with endless possibilities. Hoseok raises an arm, hailing a cab with a confident wave, and you slide in beside him, laughter bubbling up as your formal attire suddenly feels delightfully out of place.

He turns to you, his eyes shining with determination and warmth. “Whatever happens next, let’s face it together. No more running away. No more playing it safe,” he declares, his voice steady and sincere.

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in months. The weight of past pain isn’t entirely gone, but it no longer feels insurmountable, no longer a mountain too steep to climb. With Hoseok by your side—willing to leap into the unknown—you realize you’re ready to hope again, to embrace whatever comes.

He’d been in his room, sketching or flipping through TV channels – he wasn’t sure which – but the sound of unfamiliar laughter had pulled him out into the hallway. Ten years old, quiet by nature, he peeked around the corner and saw you.

The girl they called Nari.

A twenty-year old that looked grown-up. Cool. Your hair was shiny and loose, dangly earrings catching the kitchen light. You wore a soft cardigan that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a birthmark he wouldn’t forget. You smiled so easily, like you weren't nervous about leaving at all.

Jungkook stared, breath held tight in his chest. You didn’t see him. He was sure of it.

But in his heart, something moved. A tiny decision, stitched into place like thread through cloth.

Someday, when he was older, taller, different – he’d talk to you. He’d make you his.

—

In the kitchen, you reached for a serving spoon and paused. A flicker of movement in the hallway.

You turned your head, just in time to catch a pair of wide brown eyes disappearing behind the wall.

“That her son?” you asked casually, glancing at your sister’s best friend.

“Jungkook,” the woman nodded fondly. “He’s shy, but sweet. Always drawing.”

“He’s adorable,” you said, tucking the thought away.

Just a glance. Nothing more. But the look in his eyes stayed with you longer than it should have.

Something soft. Something searching.

7 years ago

The top floor of Proof’s main building didn’t look like an entertainment company. No flashing lights or framed records. Just glass walls, quiet conversations, and the weight of ambition behind every closed door.

You adjusted the strap of your tote and followed the assistant down the hallway toward a sleek glass conference room. It had been years since you’d left Korea – enough time to earn degrees, corporate experience, and a reputation that could open doors on both continents. Your step-sister made the connection, but the job was yours based simply on merit.

You’d been hired as a Senior Artist Development Strategist – a role that demanded creative agility, marketing instinct, and long-term vision. And the first artist you’d be assigned to…

“Jeon Jeongguk” the onboarding director said. “Rising solo act. Huge potential. He’s still finding his identity – we want someone who can shape his brand and grow with him.”

You hadn’t asked questions. You were used to starting fresh, reinventing talent. However, what you weren't used to was the sudden silence that fell when the conference room door opened.

Jungkook entered casually, hands in the pockets of his black slacks, his white shirt crisp, sleeves rolled just enough to show the edge of a tattoo. His hair was longer now, shoulders broader, but the moment your eyes met, you knew – and so did he.

He hesitated for only a second, enough for someone watching closely to notice, but no one did.

“Jungkook, this is Nari,” Taehyung said from the head of the table, gesturing toward you. “She’s joining us in Artist Strategy. You’ll be working with her directly.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jungkook said, offering a small, neutral smile as if he’d never seen you before.

“Likewise,” You replied, your voice smooth and unreadable, hiding the thoughts that ran through your mind.

You sat beside him for the next forty minutes – taking notes, absorbing timelines, listening to conversations about styling, choreography, and overseas expansion – your focus never wavered.

But every now and then, from the corner of your eye, you caught him watching you. Not openly, of course, just a glance here, a flicker there. As if trying to place the version of her he remembered over the woman sitting beside him now.

When the meeting ended, you rose and tucked the tablet under your arm. Jungkook stepped aside to let you pass, his expression still unreadable.

“You’ll be handling my schedule?” he asked, tone even.

“Only the parts that make you famous,” you said with a faint smile, then walked past him before he could respond.

You didn’t look back.

But he did.

Present Day

The lights dim slowly, casting a soft blue hue over the ballroom. A hush ripples through the crowd as the host steps aside and the stage lights center. Proof’s annual gala is always extravagant, but this year feels heavier – more deliberate. The air buzzes with anticipation.

You sit at the left-center table, directly in front of the stage. A prime spot, assigned without fanfare, but significant nonetheless. Jungkook’s mother sits beside you, smiling warmly as she sips her champagne. Other family members are scattered nearby, mingling between tables. You make polite conversation, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

You haven’t seen him since rehearsals. His newest song has been released on streaming platforms, and the numbers have gone crazy, but this’ll be the first time he’s performing it live

When his name is announced, you look up instantly.

The room fills with applause as Jungkook walks onto the stage. Calm. Focused. The light catches the edge of his dark suit, the shimmer of a subtle earring. He doesn't scan the crowd – not yet.

The first track brings applause and energy – until he builds momentum for track two.

“This one’s called ‘Who,’” he announces into the mic. “It’s about the person you haven’t met…but feel like you’ve always known.”

Your heart tugs.

He begins:

“We never met, but she’s all I see at night Never met, but she’s always on my mind Wanna give her the world and so much more Who is my heart waiting for?” 

His voice isn’t soft – it’s alive with passion.

“If every day I think about her. 

Yeah every day of my life.Then tell me why I haven’t found her…” 

With every line, he leans into his gaze.

And you feel that weight – the unmistakable charge between you.

“I’ll take her places they ain’t found yet I’ll put it all on the line I’ll be that someone she can count on…” 

It’s more than just a performance. It’s a declaration.

“So many people to see, places to go…we still haven’t found hello…” 

When he bows, the audience erupts. He gracefully exits offstage, eyes never quite leaving yours.

You sit still, breath uneven, applause washing over you.

Drinks resume, conversations restart, but you’re still suspended in the afterglow of that moment.

He doesn’t return right away and your eyes continuously scan the room for what feels like an eternity, until you feel a warm hand on the small of your back.

“Nari,” he whispers gently against your ear, making the hairs on your neck stand. “What did you think about ‘Who’?”

You turn to face him, scanning the room for prying eyes, before running the tips of your fingers along the waistline of his pants.

“I’m still trying to figure out who that song could be dedicated to,” you tease. “But as soon as Jimin sent me the lyrics, I knew it was meant for you to sing…so? Who’s the song about?”

The corner of his mouth turns into a sly smile, his eyes become dark with lust as he leans down and whispers, “I’ll pick you up out back in fifteen minutes, then I’ll show you exactly who the song is dedicated to.”

You both know exactly what that song was about, but this game you’d been playing for the last few years had a grip on you. Rather than spend the night alone, you decide to take him up on his offer as you had many times before.

As you watch him leave, you begin to think about how this was supposed to end after that one night – but when he needs you – there’s no hesitation on your part.

Fifteen minutes later, his headlights flash twice from the alley behind the venue. You slip out the back exit, your heels echoing against the pavement, the hem of your dress caught in the breeze, the music still pouring out from the lively gala inside so you drunkenly spin to make him laugh.

His smile is brighter than the interior light when you open the door. He’s gotten better at attempting discretion, though everyone knows his car – driver’s seat reclined, window down, hoodie pulled over his head like a shadow. You open the passenger door and slide in silently. The ride is quiet, the air charged.

You give your address, even though he already knows it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t speak. Just drives.

After arriving at your apartment complex, he backs into your extra space in the underground parking and you walk to the elevator, still not saying a word.

When the elevator doors close behind you, your fingers find the inside of his wrist. It’s the first contact either of you has made since the gala, the doors open and your hand quickly drops to your side.

The short walk down the hall to your place feels like it’s taking forever. Inside your apartment, the moment stretches taut. You drop your keys in the dish by the door, slip off your heels, and turn to face him.

He’s already looking at you.

“You sang that song like you meant it,” you say.

“I did,” he replies softly.

“To me?”

His lips twitch, then part. “Is there anyone else I’d be looking at?”

And then he’s on you.

His hands slide up your back, pressing you into him, his mouth hot and desperate on yours. You stumble backward, bumping into the wall. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling it over his head. His shirt follows, your dress sliding off your shoulders in tandem.

Your bedroom becomes a blur of touch and breath and need. The facade for the public unravels in a matter of seconds. His voice is low, reverent, lips against your skin as he whispers your name – Nari – like it’s both lust and confession.

It’s not just sex.

It never is with him.

Afterward, you lie tangled on your sheets, his head tucked into your neck, your fingers drawing slow lines down his spine. You think maybe, just maybe, he might stay.

You wake to quiet.

The kind of silence that’s already familiar.

You stretch your arm across the bed instinctively – empty.

Again.

You exhale, more out of habit than disappointment, though the ache in your chest says otherwise.

You don’t know what you expected. It’s always like this.

Nights spent in hushed hotel rooms, across foreign time zones and borrowed hours. Only when you’re both away from Seoul – hidden behind press tours and packed schedules – do the walls fall.

And only in the dark.

It’s never regular. Never promised.

A handful of times a year. A few touches. A few words. Then silence.

You’ve told yourself not to mistake it for anything else. It’s not love or commitment, it’s only the space in between.

You slip out of bed, sliding a silk robe over your bare skin. You don’t check your phone right away. You don’t want to. In your mind, it’s always the ‘sorry I had to leave early’ text that makes your heart ache just a little bit more. Instead, you walk barefoot to the kitchen, fill the kettle, and set it on the stove.

You try to push the thoughts down – the consequences of being discovered, the chaos you’ve narrowly avoided all these years –  yet they still linger in your subconscious.

You remind yourself he has more to lose than you do.

And you? You’re the one who lets him go quietly every time, without any drama or hissy fits, just waiting until the day you’re able to have him to yourself again.

The kettle hasn’t even begun to hiss when your phone starts lighting up across the counter. A vibration first. Then another. Then several in rapid succession.

You flip it over.

[Proof HQ – Press & Ops 🔥]

📍 Yoongi: Nari are you awake? You need to be awake.📍 Jimin: Please tell me this isn’t real. Who is that woman?📍 Namjoon: Stay calm. No comments. Nari handle this immediately.

Your blood runs cold.

You tap the link attached to the last message.

[DISPATCH EXCLUSIVE] – WHO IS “WHO”?

Fans in chaos as Proof’s rising superstar Jeon Jungkook becomes the subject of relationship rumors. Dispatch releases a fan-made video from an anonymous source of what appears to be the top South Korean Idol, Jeon Jungkook’s luxury car, pulling into the alley behind the venue that held the annual Proof Gala, and an unknown woman sneaking out of the back exit and getting into the passenger side before they sped off into the night. The question is: Who is the mysterious woman?

You scroll through the article until you find the video. Who is you – the curve of your dress, the cute twirl you did before getting in the car – a sense of dread begins to flood through your veins.

The kettle begins to whistle, but it’s drowned out by the deafening sound of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

Your mind reels as you dial his number, panicking with every ring – voicemail.

You dial again, that incessant ringing, voicemail.

“It’s me,” you say. “Please call me back. Please, just…let me know you’re okay.”

You hang up and switch to KakaoTalk.

Please say something. I’m worried.

You wait for what feels like an eternity, but the message is never read.

Your blood goes cold.

Throwing on a hoodie, you hastily grab your keys and bag without even brushing your hair. Traffic is brutal, but your foot stays on the gas.

His building looms ahead – Familiar. Private. Gated.

You pull up, park in one of his reserved spaces, run to his building and punch in his entry code.

The lobby is eerily quiet. You ride the elevator up in silence, each floor dinging like a countdown, until you finally reach his floor.

As you arrive at his door, you hesitate, pressing your ear gently to the door - nothing.

You knock three times.

“Jungkook?”

No response.

“It’s me.”

You press your ear to the door again, still nothing.

You try again. A beat of silence.

You sigh and press your fingers to the keypad.

Beep. Beep. Click.

The door unlocks, and you slip inside.

His apartment is dark, like a foreshadowing of the storm looming ahead, but you don’t bother calling out again.

His room is as you expect it – curtains drawn, comforter twisted, and Jungkook curled into himself like the world has turned on him. The only light comes from his phone screen, casting a harsh blue glow on his face.

You don’t say anything, just quietly walk over and reach for his phone.

He doesn’t fight you and the screen is still open to X feed mid-scroll.

Trending: #JungkookScandal #WhoIsShe #ProofOfTheLie

“So that’s what ‘Who’ was about? I feel sick.” “He really fooled us all. Pretended to be perfect.” “I can’t believe I spent money on someone who was hiding this.” “So much for loving your fans…guess we weren’t enough.”

The quotes go on forever – screenshots, speculation, rage.

“Why are you reading this?” you ask softly, setting the phone on the nightstand.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. “Because I need to know how badly I’ve fucked up.”

His voice, filled with a hollow sadness, brings tears to your eyes.

“I told myself I’d never be the idol who betrayed his fans. Who lied. I swore I’d never cross that line.”

“You didn’t lie,” you say gently, sitting beside him. “You lived. You were young. It’s just one night…as far as they know.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to meet your eyes.

“One night they’ll never forget,” he whispers.

He pauses, then adds, “One of many nights I’ll never forget.”

You freeze and the air stills between you.

You search his face, trying to find the line between regret and truth, but his expression is unreadable. Did he mean it the way it sounded? All this time, has he felt the same as you? You know there’s no room for these thoughts, this conversation, but not now. Not when everything could begin burning down around you both.

You take a breath, pressing your palms to your knees. “I need to get to work on this. We have to get ahead of it before it spreads any further. I don’t think anyone at the company realizes it’s me in the video…the quality is so bad that we can deny it was you. Maybe a staff member can come forward, ‘admit’ it was them and that they were driving your car, and we can put this behind us.”

He says nothing, just nods once, barely.

His fingers curl around the edge of the comforter again, retreating.

I can’t leave him like this. He needs me right now, like he’s needed me before, but this time it’s different. Damage control can wait. You think while pulling off your hoodie and slipping into one of his t-shirts before sliding under the comforter next to him.

Barcelona (during the first world tour as his Artist Development Strategist)

The concert had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline hadn’t left either of your systems.

Jungkook was glowing – shirt damp from the show, hair tousled, laughter still lingering in his voice as the two of you exited through the staff corridor of the arena.

“Just one drink,” he said.

“One,” you repeated, already knowing better.

The club his manager recommended was lowkey, private, and rumored to be frequented by artists and celebrities looking to stay off the radar. The entrance was tucked behind a narrow alley, the bouncer speaking in hushed Spanish, checking names and not IDs.

Inside, the music was sultry, pulsing. Not packed, but full enough to disappear into. The perfect kind of anonymous.

One drink turned into three. Three turned into a shared bottle. He pulled you onto the dance floor just before midnight – playfully at first.

But then the bass kicked in, and his hands found your hips.

You didn’t stop him.

His touch was steady but reverent. A slow pull. A firm press. Your arms slipped around his neck as you began to move in rhythm. It didn’t feel like anything at first. Just tension. Release. Laughter.

But then the space between you disappeared.

His lips brushed your cheek. His breath warmed your ear.

And then he kissed you.

Not like someone who was testing the waters.

But like someone who had already fallen in.

The club around you didn’t exist anymore. You forgot who you were supposed to be. The invisible lines that weren’t supposed to be crossed.

When he whispered, “Come back to my room with me.” And you didn’t say no.

The next morning the Mediterranean sun filtered in through half-drawn curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the air.

Jungkook stirred beside you, arm slung over his eyes, shirtless, sheets tangled low on his waist.

You sat at the edge of the bed, already dressed, hair pulled back.

“We can’t do this again,” you said quietly.

His hand slid away from his face. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook. This can’t happen again.”

His eyes found yours – red-rimmed, but honest. “You’re right.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to spin it.

You nodded once and left his room, closing the door behind you, vowing to yourself to never cross that line again.

Present Day

He fell asleep sometime after you coaxed him to eat. His phone was set to airplane mode, face down on the nightstand.

You stayed.

You told yourself it was just to make sure he was okay.

But now, as the sky turns lavender through the blinds and his chest rises and falls in the dim light, you sit beside him on the bed, awake, watching him breathe.

You should’ve stuck to your word after that night in Barcelona.

You should’ve meant it when you said you couldn’t cross that line again.

But somehow, every time he reached for you, you let him.

And every time he pulled away…you pretended you didn't care.

This time, though, pretending might not be enough.

In Jungkook’s living room, you sit curled up on the sofa, laptop open on the coffee table, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear. The conference call with the PR team drones in one ear while pings of messages and email alerts fill the silence around you. Every team member has been assigned to a different outlet – each one responsible for getting takedown requests honored and headlines reframed, turning the “false narrative” into white noise.

You take the lead on the fire that started it all – the Dispatch article.

You call the reporter directly. Your tone is poised – sharp where needed, but still composed. He’s hesitant at first, evading your questions behind the veil of journalistic integrity. However, with a few carefully chosen words – and a pointed reminder of Dispatch’s own track record – he cracks.

He then informs you the article was triggered by a user on X. They’d submitted a dark, timestamped video, and a carefully worded caption meant to stir curiosity and scandal.

You jot the username down, already forming a strategy in your mind.

Still on the call, you text your assistant:

Any luck finding a staff member from who resembles JK?

Your phone sits silent for an agonizing beat, then another, but your gaze stays fixed on the screen, heart in your throat. You just need one person, a believable stand-in with a similar build, someone who could shift doubt just enough to end this chaos.

Finally, your phone lights up with a reply. She found someone. She's sending a photo and profile.

You tap to open the message, finally able to exhale deeply when the image appears. The resemblance isn’t perfect, but in a car with tinted windows and a hoodie on? It could work.

You lean back against the arm of the couch, relaxation begins to flow through you, limb-by-limb, until your body is ready to give in to it and rest. Stretching your legs out across the cushions, you let your head fall against the pillow behind you, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

The soft sound of slippers scraping against the marble flooring pulls you back.

“I thought you left,” Jungkook murmurs, voice still sleep-warm.

You open your eyes to see him padding into the room, his black joggers hanging low on his hips, bare chest rising and falling with each step. He walks over without hesitation and sits beside you, then gently lowers his head to your outstretched legs.

You stroke his hair instinctively, your fingers weaving through the soft strands in a soothing rhythm – until the weight of reality settles back over your chest and you stop and slide your legs out from beneath him, pulling your knees to your chest.

He looks up, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t do this anymore,” you say quietly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You can’t bear to look at him when you say it. You keep your eyes on your laptop screen, on anything else but him.

His voice softens. “Do what? You handled the article. Legal says they’ve got it from here. We just need to be more careful…we both agreed waiting until we left the country on tour was too long…it’s my fault, but are you really saying we should just stop?”

He scoots closer, trying to meet your eyes, trying to lighten the weight in the room.

You shake your head. “We both have too much to lose. You more than me.”

Before you can say anything else, his hand finds your cheek. His lips brush yours, tentative at first – arching. When you don't pull away, he kisses you fully.

And just like that, the line blurs again.

You give in. Not because you should – but because you always do.

The kiss deepens, slow and aching, and you melt into him like your body forgot what resistance feels like.

He pulls back first, catching his breath. Wordlessly he stands and offers you his hand. You take it without thinking, without debating or questioning, just giving in to him.

He leads you to his en suite bathroom and flicks on the shower. Steam rises around you as he undresses you gently, reverently – lifting your shirt, tugging your shorts down, helping you step free of them. He sheds his joggers in silence, then pulls you beneath the warm cascade of water.

He lathers a soft loofah, his hands exploring you with careful intent. He moves slowly, every touch full of worship, pausing to press soft kisses to your collarbone, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip. You return the favor – slowly running soap over his chest, shoulders, down his stomach – until your fingers stroke over his hardening length with the barest teasing pressure.

He gasps softly, his eyes turning dark as his hand catches your wrist, but he doesn’t push for more. Not yet.

When you’re both rinsed and dry, he leads you into his bedroom.

The fairy lights above his bed cast a low golden glow, the kind that softens the room into a dreamscape – gentle music hums from the corner speaker, filling the silence with something tender.

He turns down the comforter, and you sit on the edge of the bed without needing to be asked. He kneels in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs. You’re already trembling with nervous anticipation.

“Don’t tell me you can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your inner thigh. “Because I don’t think I can live without you.”

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Then his mouth is on you.

You gasp as your legs fall open around him, his hands grounding you as his tongue explores every soft, aching part of you. You lean back on your elbows, head tilting up toward the ceiling as your breath turns to moans, your body arching under his touch.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything all at once.

When he finally pulls away, you’re quivering –  spent, breathless, eyes glassy.

He climbs onto the bed beside you, coaxing you to lie back against the pillows. His hand trails down your stomach, then lower, circling your sensitive center again before easing two fingers inside you. You writhe beneath his touch, legs parting further on instinct.

When he feels you’re ready, he shifts behind you, drawing your body against his as he lifts your leg and slides into you from behind – slow, careful, grounding.

“You’re mine, Nari,” he breathes against your shoulder. “I refuse to lose you.”

Each stroke is deep, deliberate – more about emotion than urgency. You shiver in his arms as your climax builds again, coiling tighter and tighter until it bursts through you like a tidal wave.

“I can’t let you go,” he groans again, voice cracking. “Do you hear me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll break.

He pulls out and gently rolls you onto your back, then slides into you again with ease. Your gaze turns to the side, away from him – but his hand finds your chin, turning your face to his.

“Tell me you understand,” he pleads, his hips moving with a slow, aching rhythm.

“I-I understand,” you whisper, but your voice is barely there.

His thrusts grow deeper, fewer, harder. You feel the tremble in his arms before you realize – he’s crying.

Hot tears fall onto your chest as he whispers your name, over and over, until his movements stutter and he spills into you with a final, trembling moan.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close, holding him in your arms.

No more words – only warmth and the hush of shallow breaths as his body settles over yours.

Neither of you moves, suspended in the quiet moment, because despite everything you’ve told yourself…you’re not ready to let go either.

The bedroom is quiet now, save for his slowed, evened out breathing – his arm draped around your waist, body tucked into yours like he’ll never let go.

But this time feels different.

You lie still, staring up at the ceiling, counting the fairy bulbs that dangle across the room. You’ve traced them so many times before, memorized their lazy glow. But tonight, you don’t want to remember anything. Yet somehow…you want to remember everything.

Carefully, you shift out from under his arm, trying not to wake him. He stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. Just exhales deeply, as if even his subconscious doesn’t want to let you go.

You gather your clothes silently and dress in the dark. When you reach the doorway, you turn back one last time.

The lump in your throat rises before you can swallow it down.

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you whisper softly, a bittersweet tremble in your voice. “Goodbye…before everything changes.”

You quietly close the door behind you.

Your apartment is colder than you remember.

You toe off your shoes by the door and hang your coat, but everything feels muted. Empty. Even the faint scent of him clinging to your pillow doesn’t comfort you this time – it breaks you.

You press your fingertips to the fabric, breathing in that mix of cologne and shampoo, and the tears come hard and fast. You try to muffle them against your forearm, folding into the bed, the silence of the room crashing around you like waves.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it had to be.

You cry until you fall asleep fully clothed, curled into yourself.

The sun is far too bright when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. The screen reads:

Jungkook 🖤 Incoming call…

You stare at it until it stops ringing.

Another buzz.

Jungkook 🖤 SMS

“Did you see the article? The interview with the staff member? They cleared it up and no one’s questioning it anymore!”

You exhale slowly, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then you respond.

Yeah. I saw it.

A beat passes. Then another message comes through.

Can I see you later? Maybe dinner?

You swallow. Your thumbs tremble.

I have plans.

He responds quickly.

I’ll wait until you’re free.

You hesitate to send another message, but know you have to stand firm.

We can’t do this anymore. Not unless it’s work-related.

There’s no reply this time.

You press your phone to your chest and close your eyes, subconsciously believing it will keep your heart from breaking wide open. Truthfully, you know if you give in, even just once, you’ll never be able to walk away again.

You throw on your robe and shuffle into the kitchen, turning on the kettle and trying to pretend your heart isn’t splintering into a thousand sharp pieces.

You get lost in your phone, finding anything to think about other than him, wondering why he hasn’t messaged you back. Just as those worries begin to fade from your mind, the kettle whistles.

You feel slightly calmer as you remove the kettle from the heat – until the keypad on your door beeps.

You freeze.

A second later, it opens.

“Are you serious right now?” Jungkook’s voice cuts through the stillness as he steps inside.

You turn slowly to face him. “You can’t just let yourself in-”

“I had to.” He slams the door shut behind him. “You won’t answer your phone, your texts are cold as hell, and now you’re telling me we’re back to business only?”

You say nothing.

He walks toward you, eyes dark – not with anger, but with something more raw. “You said it yourself…we both have too much to lose. But don’t act like you don’t feel the same way I do. Last night wasn’t just sex. That was you and me, and you damn well know it.”

“Jungkook…” your voice cracks, but you steady it. “This isn’t about not feeling. It’s about doing what’s right. We can’t keep crossing that line. You’re too important. You have the world watching you.”

“And what about you, huh?” he fires back. “What do you get? Another lonely night? Another morning where you pretend none of this ever happened?”

You blink fast, holding back the tears. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“No,” he says bitterly. “No, I won’t because you’re not saving me…you’re just leaving me behind.”

You take a step back, but he follows. Not aggressively, but heartbreakingly close.

“I begged you not to end this,” he says, his voice hollow now. “But you want to go back to how things were? Fine.”

He straightens up, gaze now cold as ice.

“Strictly business. Got it.”

"It would be too risky," the detached male voice commented. "In such cases, it's best to be patient and deal with things quietly."

"It would be quiet," the other man argued, and Yoongi quickly glanced around the corridor, weirded out by what he was overhearing. "Think about it. We can splice it and use it to make sure she drops the lawsuit."

All the hair on Yoongi's neck stood on end as he listened attentively.

"It's risky to do such things now."

"Oh, come on," he insisted impatiently. "Even if she brings it to court, what will it do except humiliate her? She'd be done for either way, ruined. Problem solved."

Yoongi's fists closed at his sides as a phone ringing interrupted the two men momentarily. Whatever disgusting ideas they were debating, Yoongi was getting angrier by the second. It didn't matter what the situation was; those people were just nasty. He was never one to believe rumours, but he guessed the ones about Tune Factory weren't so out of left field.

"Proof execs have arrived; we have to meet them downstairs."

Yoongi jolted away from the door, opening the one across from it to hide inside. Luckily, it was an empty meeting room, and even the blinds were closed. He didn't dwell on his luck for long; instead, he made sure to keep the smallest door gap so he could overhear more of the conversation as the two men stepped outside the room and paced down the hallway.

"Just let the IT team deal with it properly," the calm, stoic man advised the other. Yoongi glued his ear to the door opening, but he couldn't hear anything anymore.

He waited as long as his nerves allowed him before getting out of that meeting room, checking there was nobody in the hallway, and swiftly slithering into the room the two men had just vacated.

His eyes searched frantically for anything that could be useful while he placed his laptop, coffee, and phone on the long conference table. His heart was racing; he couldn't believe those people would so casually debate over how to ruin someone's life for personal gain. Even the law couldn't do anything about such bastards, and it made Yoongi's blood boil. As if it wasn't already hard enough to succeed in such a brutal industry. He just couldn't stand by and not do anything after what he had heard.

The problem was: what were they talking about exactly? A recording, surely, but what type? The song? Could that be enough to ruin someone?

He neared the only thing in the room that could help him—the computer to which the screen belonged. There was nothing open that could give him a clue, but he searched for recent files, opening the last one, an MP4 file.

His eyes turned anxiously to the screen, anticipating seeing something horrible enough to ruin someone. Instead, he was speechless as he witnessed your soft fingers pressing the piano keys. Your touch was experienced and curious as you muttered to yourself and restarted countless times. There was a notebook in front of you where you scrabbled in as you went, and then suddenly, you started singing. Yoongi stared at the screen with bated breath as he saw you experimenting with multiple melodies. You had settled on the lyrics because you kept repeating what he could guess could easily become a chorus, trying to find the right composition for the song. Your long hair moved over your shoulders as you leaned forward, covering you like a veil as you wrote something down, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from you.

He assumed the men were talking about you, but he was momentarily confused. What was there to that video that could ruin someone's life? If anything, it could only boost your career. You were talented, going on more than just instinct, and he was mesmerized. He walked into that room with the anxiety of someone who wanted to save the world from collapsing, only to find himself comfortable and intrigued, easily stopping and staring just to watch you work.

He forgot there was even a problem and enjoyed living that creative experience with you.

"Try higher. Come on..." He even muttered under his breath.

Your voice easily reached an A-sharp, but he could see you weren't happy with it. At that moment, he wished he were in the room with you. More than being there alone or meeting a bunch of executives, he wanted to be in that room, sitting next to you, helping you transform your song into a hit that you would make top the Billboard charts.

He couldn't look away from your trial-and-error process; he could see why someone would get bored watching you try again and again, but not him. He knew that process, lived it daily to the point his fingers could have been calloused if he were in any other profession. So he just watched and waited with a small smile, wondering where you'd get with your efforts.

Against his expectations, you made his lips part in awe as you tried once more, and this time was different. Your voice hit a smooth D-sharp as you sang, "Who is my heart waiting for?"

And he knew he had to have you. That song, your talent, your voice, your fingers, and your mind. If that were the type of music Tune Factory had to sell to Proof, then Yoongi would advise the executives just to absorb the whole label. They could root out whoever was nasty and keep exceptional talent like yours.

He was certain of it as he heard you repeat the song with your newfound progress, proud of the beautiful piano melody accompanied by your soft, feminine voice bringing everything to life. By that point, he was convinced that video could only be used for good, so he decided to search the computer some more. Maybe he was watching the wrong—

He looked up at the screen again when the music ended, right before his finger hit escape, and froze. You had finished the songwriting session with a smile, gotten up from the piano stool, and turned to face the camera's view without acknowledging the camera itself. His eyes widened, taking a look at your face for the first time before taking in more of you as you leisurely stretched and walked out of frame. And just like that, Yoongi's stomach dropped as his blood rushed to his cheeks. What the hell?!

How did—? Who—? Did you know—? Were you filmed without—? What the hell?!

The vibration of his phone on the wooden desktop made him snap out of it. Breathing, moving, or grabbing his phone didn't really register. But then he read Jin's message.

[Arrived at Tune Factory, going up with the CEO. Meet us in the room directly.]

Yoongi's eyes snapped back to the screen, his heart racing deafeningly in his ears. The black window mocked him, asking simply, 'Play again?', and he had difficulty swallowing the bile down. That's what they meant by splicing, doing it quietly, and ruining you. They'd blackmail you into silence with surveillance footage of you in an intimate, private moment. You probably didn't even know your studio was set up with cameras. Yoongi's stomach twisted as he recalled the conversation he overheard—no fucking way he'd let them do that to you. Over his dead body.

He started deleting things. Videos, folders, documents, everything related to the footage that just played, including the recycling bin and the hard drive. He was thorough; his stomach stayed in a knot both from the pressure to be quick and the need to be careful. And then, it was done.

His fingers trembled as he moved away from the keyboard, forcing himself to calm down. It was all deleted. Gone. It was done.

That certainty only offered him a few seconds of relief before he sprang from the chair. They'd be there soon.

He grabbed his laptop and phone and got out of that meeting room. His heart was still racing, and his head was spinning. Rushing down the corridor, all he could think about was your smile. You likely had no idea that—

"Yoongi!"

Yoongi spun on his heels to face the opposite end of the corridor, swallowing the coffee climbing up his esophagus. Jin was waving at him, surrounded by other executives from both Proof and Tune Factory. Yoongi swallowed dryly, unable to move, as the group neared him with every step. Jin had a professional, reserved expression on his perfectly sculpted features as he listened to the man next to him. Jin's subtle eyebrow raise was enough for Yoongi to run his hand through his hair and heave a deep breath. What the hell was he doing?

"He's already here, so we can begin," Jin stated a bit louder, giving Yoongi an imperceptible nod for him to join them in the room the producer had just escaped from.

When those men entered the meeting room ahead, instead of having an urge to bolt, Yoongi's fists closed as he held his laptop and phone. He didn't trust anyone from Tune Factory now. Jin didn't know how rotten they were. And what if they had more videos on other people? On you?

Yoongi was inside the room before he could stop himself. Jin had saved a spot to his right, letting the other executives and producers from Proof sit on one side of the conference table while Tune Factory sat on the other.

Introductions were swiftly made, with Tune Factory's Head CEO, Jeong Junho, expressing his wish to meet the prestigious Producer Min before boasting about the catalog of music they were about to show. What the man likely thought was an impressive speech only managed to get the hair on Yoongi's neck standing on end. The guy insisting on ruining someone's life was right there in front of them, acting like he was another victim of the economic recession with no fault in anything whatsoever. The more he spoke, the more Yoongi wanted to get up and leave, but he stayed put. He needed to know what that ass still had or if there was anything else Yoongi could do.

An assistant started playing tracks, and Yoongi's stomach kept twisting. She was using the same computer that Yoongi had tampered with before, and although only music tracks had been shown so far, he kept dreading the moment when videos would appear.

He thought he would pass out from the nerves; his face turned all colors while the music barely roused his spirit, at least until Jin asked, "What about the hit song?"

Jeong Junho laughed. "We save the best for last."

He waved at his assistant to play a track, and after three keys, Yoongi knew. His eyes darted to the screen, but, as until now, only audio tracks were shown; no footage was displayed. Moreover, he recognised by the pitch of your voice what version this was — the last one on the video, but now recorded with better quality.

"How old is this track?" Yoongi spoke for the first time once the music ended.

Jeong Junho scratched his chin. "About six months."

"Who owns it?" he continued, and the Head CEO laughed.

"Who else? Otherwise, I wouldn't be showing it to you."

"Who else?" Yoongi insisted, trying to get to the bottom of it. His interest wasn't even your identity, but first and foremost, who else knew that video existed?

Tune Factory's producers came to their Head CEO's aid, explaining that the company owned the full rights to the track, which made Yoongi skeptical. Not because they were lying; lawyers were present, and a lot of money would be involved. No, it was because songwriters, lyricists, and producers should have some sort of cut somewhere along the line. Royalties, publishing rights—something. Nobody just handed over a whole song forever unless they'd been pressured into a bad deal.

Jin didn't have to ask Yoongi what he thought at all. So far, that was the only song that made his old friend pay any attention to the meeting. And that was good enough for the Senior CEO.

Jin turned to Jeong Junho. "Interesting. Is this the one you're having legal disputes about?" Jin was unaffected by Yoongi's expression or the way the other side of the table bristled. Instead, he continued casually, "Disclosures are required at the negotiation table."

Jeong Junho stuttered, "Well— I didn't know we were negotiating already—"

"Why else would we be here?" someone asked ironically from Proof's side, to Jin's left, but he didn't bother turning to see who.

"So let's hear it," he said, as poised as if he had asked for a coffee at his favorite cafe, like he did every morning.

Jeong Junho didn't look so happy, but he raised his hand, stopping his lawyer so he could explain himself, "We are currently disputing the rights of songs with one songwriter, and it includes this song. As per her contract, everything created and produced under our roof belongs to the label."

"Shouldn't you only sell the rights to those songs after the court deliberates on who owns them?" Proof's lawyer asked, and Yoongi was not surprised by the answer.

"She has no proof she wrote the songs by herself." Jeong Junho scoffed with a smile. Yoongi's hands balled into fists under the table. "About this one, she claims there's this video that no one can find," he continued mockingly, turning to get support from his label, while Yoongi turned red with fury bubbling up his neck. "So after the court realizes that she's just stalling, everything she ever worked on will be owned by us, as per her contract."

Yoongi stiffened, and Jin threw him a look, wondering for a second if the ever-soft-spoken and quiet Min Yoongi would jump across the table to strangle the unscrupulous Head CEO. He knew how Yoongi could be when it came to rights and working conditions in the music industry.

"Have you searched for this video?" Yoongi asked, his voice close to a hiss.

He knew the answer, knew the bastard knew of it, and his fury knew no bounds when the Head CEO replied, "Sure! But it doesn't exist!"

Yoongi saw red. The Head CEO explained how, in a few weeks, the case would be dismissed, and they were looking to sell as soon as possible. Meanwhile, all Yoongi could feel was dread and cold sweat down his spine. He had deleted the video. He knew the CEO was lying, but he himself had deleted any evidence that it existed. He'd deleted the proof you needed in court. Yoongi had done that to you.

"This will be a huge hit! Whoever gets their hands on it will be sitting on a gold mine!"

"Who actually wrote that song?" Yoongi asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.

"We did, of course," some producer replied, and Yoongi didn't even spare them a glance.

His eyes were fixed on the Head CEO. "Who wrote it?"

Jin suppressed a sigh as he watched the room remain quiet but grow increasingly tense. Of course, no one from Tune Factory could say the name; they'd risk having it used against them in court. He understood Yoongi's beef with them, but he wondered if it was worth Proof's energy. After all, they already had so many hit songs in the pipeline that—

Jin's eyebrow raised with curiosity. The conversation stalled between the two fronts, both sides staring and whispering among themselves, as Jin noticed a familiar disposable coffee cup abandoned on the conference table. It was on Proof's side of the table, but he hadn't seen anyone walk in with it, and it wasn't within anyone's reach. How odd. Yet its logo was familiar — Brewed for the Seoul. He knew only one other person in that room who grabbed their coffee there with almost as much frequency as he did himself.

In a matter of seconds, Jin's perspective changed completely. Yoongi wasn't just passionate about the music industry; he was passionate about this song. This songwriter.

Jin raised his voice, "Who is singing in the track?"

The room quieted and turned to him, and his expression turned stone-serious. He wouldn't repeat himself. Glancing at Yoongi, Jin knew he had picked the right question — not a liability in court, and one they had to answer if they wanted any chances at getting money from Proof.

Jeong Junho swallowed dryly but answered with a name after his lawyer nodded his head. "She's not an artist, just one of our songwriters. Her artist name is JIDA."

Yoongi visibly registered that information, and Jin got up, making the whole table tremble as everyone raced to mimic him.

"We'll be in touch."

Yoongi didn't bother opening his mouth—Jin was the best, and his time was incredibly valuable. If anything, the producer was thankful to at least have gotten your name. With it, he could ask his assistant and contacts to somehow get a hold of you and—

"Invite her over."

Yoongi blinked, turning to Jin, dazed. No words had been exchanged until they were in the car, along with Jin's assistant and the driver. Jin's words made little sense until Yoongi blinked.

"Invite her over?"

Jin nodded, reading emails on his phone. "You wanted her name; she must have potential."

Yoongi nodded slowly. "She does. She's so talented, and they're taking advantage of her."

"Seems like it," Jin agreed, then briefly put his phone down when he noticed Yoongi's contrite features as he gazed out of the window. "Is that why you're so worried about her?"

Yoongi's lips pursed as his eyes remained focused outside, watching the city life without really seeing anything. He couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. Even with the best intentions, what he had done was unforgivable. He'd just stopped a nefarious act by committing a heinous one. He couldn't even bring himself to confess he'd done it; all he could feel was the sticky sweat in his hands as his mouth dried.

He didn't know what to do with himself or how to fix this, but he had to.

So he simply whispered, "I want to help her."

👔👔👔

“Good morning,” you say to Seokjin as you pass by his office on your way to your desk. He’s busy, typing away at his computer, so he only gives you a cursory glance and a slight nod.

A cheerful voice catches your attention from across the hall. “Good morning, Sunshine!”

“Taehyung, hi. Good morning.”

The youngest Kim brother, and the most lax of the three CEOs of Proof, offers you a handsome smile. There is this charming, fox-like quality that lurks behind his eyes, like he has a secret and is having a hard time keeping it to himself.

You purse your lips, your trek down the hall stopping outside of Taehyung’s office. His smile slowly grows, and a second later, he jumps up from his desk and skirts around the large oak ‘L’.

Sunlight cascades through the windows of Taehyung’s office, giving him a glowing halo effect as he approaches the open doorway. Catching the top of the frame with his hands, he leans playfully into the hall. “Want to take a guess on what mood Namjoon is in this morning?”

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. Just thought you’d want a heads up. Yoongi is in with him now, which means I’m fairly certain he started his morning off with a tumbler of whiskey. Which is the perfect appetizer for our eight o’clock meeting, don’t you think?” Taehyung chuckles before catching himself, pressing his lips tightly together. “Good luck.”

It wouldn’t be the first time in the last several months that Namjoon started his day off with whiskey instead of his usual morning coffee. There has been a noticeable increase in his stress levels, the cause being something he’s, so far, been very adamant about keeping from you, toting that it’s ‘personal’.

Four years as his personal assistant gets you a front-row seat to a lot, just not whatever is going on with him recently, apparently. At least, that’s what you think until you step through the open double doors that lead to your office space, which is connected directly to Namjoon’s, and you’re met with an immediate summons.

“You’re here! Finally. Come in.” You pause beside your desk, your eyes shifting to the left and through the open door to Namjoon’s office. You quirk an eyebrow, your eyes meeting his disgruntled stare. “Please,” he adds with an out-of-character exasperated sigh. You bet if you peeked back down the hallway, there would be a cheeky grin on Taehyung’s face.

Shrugging your bag off your shoulder, you set it beside your desk and absently smooth your hands over the swell of your hips, fingers gliding over the smooth material of your wide-legged charcoal grey trousers. The matching blazer hits you just above the hip, your blue-green blouse complemented by the tiny turquoise inlaid buckles on your shoes, which were a gift from Namjoon when you hit your one-year mark with Proof.

“What’s going on?” you ask, walking into his office. “Oh, hi, Yoongi,” you add as if you didn’t already know he would be in there.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Yoongi mutters, saluting you with his tumbler of whiskey before downing the remainder in the glass.

“Lovely choice of breakfast.” The comment has perhaps a bit more sass in it than you intend, but there’s no taking it back now. “What’s going on?” you ask again, directing your attention away from Yoongi and towards your boss.

Namjoon looks…well, he looks like he needs a refill. He’s pacing by the large floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the Seoul skyline. The sun is vibrant this morning, a sign that spring is finally taking hold. Despite the crease between Namjoon’s brows and the empty whiskey glass clasped by the tips of his fingers by his side, he looks surprisingly put together.

Well, that’s actually not so surprising. From the first day you met Namjoon, during your final interview, you’ve never once seen him so much as loosen his tie or crack a mild-mannered joke. He’s as strait-laced as they come and as rigid and colorless as a giant rock—purely immovable, sadly monochromatic…ultimately, boring.

“Would you date me?”

The question gives you whiplash. You look to Yoongi, desperate to see if he’s as confused as you are, but instead, you’re met with a blank stare. Yoongi has always been fairly unreadable, but now you might as well be staring at a statue for all the emotion he’s conveying. Looks like you’re on your own in this.

“Excuse me?”

“Not like…I don’t mean would you date me…just—” Namjoon lets out another one of those uncharacteristic sighs, “—am I dateable…at all?”

“Namjoon, what is this about? I thought things were going well with—”

“I lied.” Your boss stops his pacing, turning to look at you fully. There are dark circles under his eyes, ones you hadn’t noticed because of his erratic back and forth. He looks absolutely exhausted now that you see him head-on. “In fact, I’ve been lying to you for months. I’ve been on no less than twenty-two dates with sixteen different women, and not a single one has gone in my favor. Sure, a few agreed to second dates, but never beyond that. Clearly, I’m…defective,” he states with a somber finality.

Truth be told, you had grown suspicious of Namjoon’s weekly night activities. As the person who does his scheduling, you’re intimately aware of his every move, including the date nights he has had scheduled for every Thursday over the last six months.

He led you to believe all of the dates were with the same woman, an Italian model whom he was extremely tight-lipped about. You didn’t pry, because you’re well aware of how close to the chest guys like Namjoon have to keep their personal lives. One wrong move and the media would eat him alive and move on to the next unfortunate soul with his bone fragments still in their teeth.

The silence that follows is only somewhat awkward, but is made more so with the heat of Yoongi’s stare on the back of your head. You feel put on the spot, as if this is some kind of test where you’re being forced to toe the line between professionalism and empathetic pleasing.

Is Namjoon seeking some sort of pragmatic wisdom, or perhaps he just needs to hear that you find him attractive and would, in fact, consider dating him? “Um, Namjoon, I’m not sure I’m the right person to be asking this.”

“No, you’re exactly who I should be asking. You’re the only woman in my life who I feel at least somewhat knows me without a lifelong preconceived perspective already in place. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, where do I start?”

“I-I don’t think there is anywhere to necessarily start. It seems like you just haven’t found the right person for you. There are some dating apps I’ve read about—”

“No, no. I’ve tried the apps, I’ve tried the gurus, matchmakers, and even allowed my parents to influence my choices. I won’t be able to find the right person for me if I’m not the right person to begin with. All I’m asking is that you help me loosen up…help me stop being so, so…boring.”

Feeling mildly helpless, you spread your hands in front of you, your shoulders hunching up a fraction. “Are you sure you want to cross this line, Namjoon?”

“Please. I’m at a loss, you’ve got to help me.”

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Yoongi murmurs. The sounds of him standing up and leaving itch at your back, and you have to suppress the desire to turn and call him a coward. This is exactly the kind of conversation he should be having with Namjoon, not you.

“Why me?” You don’t necessarily mean to assume a defensive stance, but crossing your arms over your chest feels natural as you try to navigate this conversation further. Maybe you can be both professional and empathetic.

Namjoon shrugs, his broad shoulders pulling the seams of his suit jacket tight with the movement. “You…are a woman. And I need help with women. I know it’s not exactly professional of me to ask something like this of you, but you have to know I see you as more than just my assistant. You’re my friend, and so…I’m coming to you not as your boss, but as a friend.” It’s not that the words catch you off guard, it’s more so the vulnerability in which Namjoon says them that has an odd—albeit not unpleasant—feeling fluttering in your belly. “Every woman I’ve seen has told me the same thing, just with different words. Apparently, I’m an uptight, rigid square that needs to relax. I don’t know how to do that…no idea where to even begin. I’m not sure how much longer I can endure this. I feel like I’m spiraling and there is no end in sight.”

It can’t hurt, right? He did say he’s asking as a friend and not as your boss. Besides, it’s not like he’s actually asking you to date him…just make him more dateable. That’s easy…simple. Right?

“Just to be clear, you’ve been unsuccessfully trying to date over the last six months and are now seeking my help in order to become more dateable in the hopes that you can find someone long-term?”

Namjoon discards his empty whiskey glass onto the corner of his desk. “For the sake of my sanity, and because there is no way to finess my way through this conversation…yes. I’m asking you to help me loosen up and be more approachable and less awkward around women. I trust you…Will you help me, please?”

“Help you as a friend?” you clarify.

He nods. “As a friend.”

“Then let’s talk more during friend hours. You have a meeting with Seokjin and Taehyung to finalize the itinerary for the Spring Gala,” you pause, glancing at the clock on the wall to your left, “that started two minutes ago.”

You leave Namjoon to his meeting. Despite the three Kim brothers all having offices within twenty feet of each other, they choose to do video conferences for their daily morning meetings as it allows them more freedom to multitask or attend to any immediate issues that might arise during the discussion.

Of all the things you thought you’d be doing as Namjoon’s assistant, this definitely wasn’t one of them. How exactly are you supposed to approach his request? He seems so sure that you can help him find all the answers. You, however, are less than confident.

“You okay?”

The question catches you off guard, startling you. Yoongi is sitting at your desk, elbows resting on his knees and head cocked to the side as he stares up at you. His shaggy black hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it, a few pieces sticking up in the back and mussed around his forehead.

“What?”

“You seem frazzled,” Yoongi explains, gesturing loosely at your face. “You have a look that says ‘I’m in over my head and don’t know what to do’.”

You look back over your shoulder, just to ensure the door to Namjoon’s office is truly closed. “I want to help Namjoon. I just don’t know if he’s ready to hear what I might have to say.”

“Well, let me hear it.” Yoongi shrugs, easing back in your chair and assuming a nonchalant manner. “Let me hear what you’re thinking, and I’ll see what I can do to help you help him.”

“I—well, I’m not sure yet.” And that’s the truth. Though, perhaps… “You’ve been friends with him longer than I have. What advice would you give him?”

The sardonic smile Yoongi offers you is less than hopeful. “What makes you think I know any better than he does? You know both of us, tap into your inner well of femininity, and tell me what I’m doing wrong. Come on, pretend I’m Namjoon and let me have it, where do I begin?”

Yoongi has been a part of Proof for longer than you, so he was here when you were first hired. Over the years, you’ve grown to enjoy the company of the quiet and broody, albeit very-sweet-when-he-wants-to-be, music producer. He’s typically not one to beat around the bush or mince words, but he’s acting awfully cagey about this right now—and you can’t help but think it might have something to do with a certain situation he found himself in with the new songwriter recently.

Your brows pinch down, suspicion leeching like tension into the space between your shoulders. “Why does this feel like you’re actually asking for yourself?” You pitch your voice low, whispering the last part, “Is it about the video? If there is something going on with JIDA that you—”

“No,” he grouses, interrupting your questioning. The look on his face can only be described as afronted, as if he’s wounded by your assumption. “Of course not. I—I...This has nothing to do with…her…or the video for that matter. Don’t use me as an excuse to avoid my question.”

“Right. Well, you know that if there was something going on, I’d help…yeah?” You wait for Yoongi to show any sign of acceptance, just a small drop of his chin. You close the distance between where you’re standing and your desk, drawing yourself into Yoongi’s personal bubble to perch on the edge of your desk. This feels like a conversation you should be having in close quarters and not across the expanse of your office—especially when the subject of said conversation is just one room away. “As for Namjoon…well, I think he’s far too rigid. It’s like he’s constipated by work and nursing a chronic stomach ulcer.”

After a pregnant pause where you can tell Yoongi is struggling not to laugh, he says, “Sounds about right, and I agree. Namjoon worries too much about what other people expect—want—of him. He’s always been driven by a sense of obligation, even when it was in the opposite direction of his own true desires…all because he’s been told that’s what he has to do, that he’s on some pre-destined path of duty.”

“Yes, exactly. But that’s just Namjoon, right? I’m sure he can find someone who will accept him for who he is.” “I don’t think that’s the point.” “Right…Namjoon wants to change, so it’s different…I just—” you sigh, shaking your head and the rest of that thought away. “Anyway, since you’re closer to him than I am, I have to ask…is Namjoon actually the problem, or is it the women he’s picking?”

That makes Yoongi frown. “I will admit, some of the women he’s been out with have been less than stellar options, making them definitely a problem, but not the problem. No, unfortunately, I’m fairly certain Namjoon is the problematic common denominator. I mean, you’ve met him…does he come off as ideal husband material to you?”

That is not a fair question. Not at all. Because, sure, Namjoon was a bit of a stick in the mud when you first met him. But, now he’s…well, he’s less stick and more flexible pipe cleaner. Thinking of it like that, you realize that isn’t much better.

Shrugging, you say half-heartedly, “I think Namjoon is perfectly fine. However, I get what you’re saying. And I’m still going to help him because it’s what he’s asked me to do. Just know that not everyone needs to change, sometimes people just need to open up a little for everyone to see what’s beneath their masks.”

Yoongi holds up his hands; the look on his face softens, and his smile seems more genuine and heartfelt than you’re sure you’ve ever seen it. “Firstly, I think we’re saying the same thing, just with different words. After all, sometimes the hardest advice to take is our own.” He pushes back the chair and stands up, skirting around your knees until he’s on the other side of your desk. “He needs someone to help him take off the mask to expose what’s beneath, just as you said…just as you’re trying to insinuate I need help doing.”

“Yoongi, I—”

“Don’t sweat it, Sunshine. I do wear masks…but mine are different. I’m not hiding behind something for the sake of duty like Namjoon. Sometimes masks can double as shields.” He shrugs, giving you another soft smile that appears awfully hopeless and makes your heart squeeze for your friend. “Anyway, thanks for the chat, I've got some work to do. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

You watch Yoongi walk out of your office and feel, perhaps, less conflicted than before, but still no less in over your head. Shoving the negative attitude down—because who has time for that?—you click into your first of dozens of unread emails for the morning and then open a blank notes doc on the side.

The email is from Jungkook with a list of potential dates and information he’d like to review with Namjoon concerning the upcoming timeline for his new album. You go on autopilot, scheduling meetings and filling Namjoon’s calendar as you typically would.

But it’s during those in-between moments, when you catch a break from the cascade of work, that you find yourself compiling a list in the doc.

Add some color

Lose the tie

When was the last time you danced?

With each new line, your unease leeches away and is replaced with excitement—you find yourself actually looking forward to this venture with your boss.

As the day draws to a close, the sun sinking below the city skyline, your list is complete with dozens of bullets, and Namjoon has just hung up from his last meeting of the day. Grabbing the freshly hot list from your printer, you clutch it against your belly as the door connecting your office to Namjoon’s opens and he beckons you to come in.

“Ready for our first lesson?” he asks, clearly filled with as much trepidation as you are excitement.

👔👔👔

Namjoon

This was a mistake.

When Namjoon’s first assistant, Chunhwa, wanted to retire, he dreaded the prospect of having to hire someone to replace the grey-haired, kind woman. But he didn’t have much of a choice. Or, rather, he supposes that he could have gone without a personal assistant, but it wasn’t within his best interest to do so—for the sake of his sanity, mostly. Already, he’s swamped with work; he can’t imagine navigating his schedule and all the other responsibilities that his assistant has as well.

And while it isn’t so much a mistake that he has sought help with his predicament, it’s who he asked that’s the problem. Namjoon is and will forever be grateful for the things you provide for him as his assistant; but he is also highly aware of how inappropriate it might be for you to be doing this. Especially with the way you’re sizing him up right now, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, like he’s a meal you’re about to wholeheartedly devour.

His father has hammered into him the importance of never hiring someone you find attractive, as it could lead to unwanted complications and potential conflicts of interest. It was at the insistence of Yoongi that he not listen to his father for once and hire whoever he felt was ‘right’ for the position, not just someone whom he’d never find himself appreciating the sight of.

And that’s the problem. Namjoon has been battling his secret schoolboy crush on you for nearly a year now. It’s what prompted him to begin this exhaustive dating dance in the hopes he would find someone else—someone far more acceptable and appropriate, someone that his parents would be proud of him for finding—to occupy his thoughts.

“Where—uh—where would you like to begin?”

A teasing smile curls your lips, causing the bottom one to pop from where it was caught between your teeth. “I made a list.”

“A list, what? Really?” Leave it to you to come prepared, as if you’re about to sit with him in a board meeting. Now is exactly the wrong time to think about how attractive he finds that trait in you.

You shrug, the action casual and somehow pulls Namjoon back down a notch on the ladder of anxiety he’s been climbing since broaching the subject with you this morning. “Yeah, a list. If I’m going to help you, we’re going to do this the right way. Or, at least, the most effective and organized way. Less room for error.”

Namjoon isn’t sure what kind of error there might be in this endeavor, but he doesn’t push the question further, instead allowing himself to lean into your confidence and the trust you deserve.

“Well, okay. Let’s see this list.”

It’s quite the list. There are at least two dozen bullet points down the page with small blurbs and notes beside each one. He should expect nothing less than for you to have made his request a full-on business-venture-level project. This is something that looks good enough to present at the next board meeting. If the meeting were about how to break out of one’s shell, that is.

“I—well, I know it’s a lot. But we can always just start with the basics. The first few items are what I would consider the most important,” you explain, pointing a well-manicured nail at the first set of bullet points.

“The most important, huh? Okay.” Namjoon reads the first point: Add some color. “What do you mean by this exactly? Do I need to dye my hair or something? I’m not sure that would—”

Your laughter cuts Namjoon off, the sound tender and full of amusement. “Oh, goodness, no. Well, I guess you could if you wanted to. But, no. I meant it more as…okay, look, how many suits like this do you have?” you ask, changing tact with effortless ease, your index finger moving from the list to the lapel of Namjoon’s suit jacket.

He looks down at your finger before letting his eyes trace the crisp lines of the Armani suit jacket. It’s a good jacket, tailored to fit, and the fabric is nice and breathable. In fact, it’s so nice that Namjoon had a dozen just like it made. Namjoon frowns. “It’s a good suit.”

“Good, yes. But, great? Also, maybe yes, but that’s not the point. You have no less than a dozen of the exact same suits. Sleek, black, perfectly tailored…but also boring as hell. Which, I’m sorry for saying that, but you asked for my help and I can’t very well offer it without at least a little bit of tough love.”

It’s true. That remark stung a bit. Namjoon isn’t certain he’s ever had someone actually call him boring—his own self-admission doesn’t count. And, sure, people have inferred it (case in point, the six months of failed dating)…but no one has ever done so in such a blatant way, never actually using the word boring. Hearing it now grates. Though he supposes that’s the point. He came to you because he knows he is, even if it hurts to hear it directly.

Heat seeps into Namjoon’s cheeks, a surprising wave of embarrassment coursing down his spine. How could he have been this clueless about something so utterly simple? Color…clearly, he needs color.

“Okay…color. Got it. I’ll email my tailor in the morning and request some alternative—”

“Actually,” you cut him off. “I hope you don’t mind, but I already took the initiative of setting up an appointment for you.”

“Oh? You spoke with Rocco already?”

It’s not often that Namjoon has the pleasure of seeing you nervous, but the half giggle you let out in response to his question has his eyebrows rising. “Well, I know how much you love Rocco’s work. And I’m sure he would do a wonderful job…it’s just, there is this little boutique that just opened up down the street. I walk by there nearly every day, and they have some really nice display pieces in their window. I thought maybe we could go there…together…right now.”

Namjoon glances out the floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall of his office. The city of Seoul lights up the night sky. It’s well past normal business hours. “Right now? Surely it’s not open at this hour.”

“Aha,” you say, holding a finger up in the air. “That is why I called ahead earlier. The shop owner agreed to stay late, allowing us to come in for a private fitting after hours whenever we would like.”

You never cease to amaze Namjoon. Clearly, you’ve thought of everything and have left little room for Namjoon to try and argue his way out of this. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely! Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll start with this, and we can check off numbers one and two.”

Namjoon glances back down at the list he’d nearly forgotten he was holding. Number two: Lose the tie.

Well, this should be interesting. Subconsciously, Namjoon brings his other hand up to touch the black half-windsor knot at his throat. He’s always found a tie to be the perfect complementing accessory to a good suit; at least, that’s what he was told by his father, who is the embodiment of a proper businessman if Namjoon’s ever known one. Only now does the tie suddenly feel less like an accessory and more like a noose.

The silk easily pulls loose, just half an inch, allowing Namjoon to take what feels like his first deep breath in years. Maybe this isn’t truly a mistake after all. You look at him with hope-filled eyes, awaiting his response.

“Sure,” he finally says. “Let’s go.”

👔👔👔

What you told Namjoon isn’t exactly a lie. The boutique is located right down the street, and the owner had agreed to stay open late for a private session. However, what you might have left out is the fact that the owner is a really good friend of yours who owes you a favor.

About six months ago, you helped her land the boutique spot, using not much more than the business finesse and etiquette that you’ve acquired since being hired at Proof. With as much time as you spend with Namjoon, being his proverbial shadow, and being privy to all his business ventures, you’ve learned a thing or two.

You text Eunji earlier on your lunch break, calling in the favor, which you unsurprisingly received little pushback on. Considering it was so last minute, you thought she might have asked if you could plan it a little further in advance, but she told you any time, any night; including tonight.

Namjoon waits while you grab your bag from your desk. He’s quiet. There’s an odd, introspective look on his face. One that you’re not as familiar with seeing him wear. It’s like he’s lost in his thoughts, yet isn’t sure what those thoughts are. You suppose that’s to be expected. This is uncharted territory for you both, after all.

The silence is amicable as you and Namjoon make the short walk to the shop. A small green CLOSED sign is hung up on the door, but no sooner have you stepped up to it that you see Eunji through the glass pane, jogging out from the back of the shop.

“Hi! Welcome, please come on in.” Eunji smiles and ushers you both inside.

“Namjoon, this is Eunji, the owner of the shop. Eunji, this is Namjoon, my boss,” you provide as an introduction.

“Yes, one of the famous faces of Proof,” Eunji says, her smile growing wider. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. Please, feel free to browse anything in the shop. If you need anything at all, I will be right over there.”

Namjoon nods politely, his own smile one you’ve seen him give many times over the years. It’s warm, but not too inviting, just deep enough to be professional without room for any misconceived notions. “Thank you, Eunji.”

You watch Eunji’s petite frame slide behind the checkout counter. She brings out a tablet and begins tapping away at it, leaving you and Namjoon to your own devices. You’re familiar with the boutique, having been here several times when Eunji was setting up for her opening.

“Shall we?” you ask, gesturing towards where the racks of men’s suits are displayed.

Namjoon gives you an amused smile, his eyes cutting down at you as he walks by your side. “The two of you are friends, aren’t you?”

You shrug, pressing your lips between your teeth to keep from smiling. “Maybe we are.”

“Uh huh.” Namjoon chuckles softly, confirming his amusement. “All things aside, thank you for doing this for me. Whatever…this—” he waves a hand loosely in the air “—is, exactly.”

“Well, this is exactly what it seems like. We’re playing dress up. Action item number five,” you say teasingly, quoting the list, “Give yourself permission to have fun.”

“Dress up, huh? Does that include you? There are some beautiful dresses in here.” Namjoon asks, and you can tell he immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. I meant—er, just…how about this one?” he quickly changes the subject, snatching an emerald green and beige tweed suit from a nearby rack.

You let the comment pass, fixing your eyes on the suit in Namjoon’s hand and hoping the heat in your cheeks passes quickly. “Only one way to find out. Take it, and these,” you tell him, adding a few more to his hand. “The dressing room is right back there. Go on.”

As Namjoon heads toward the dressing room, you glance back at the front of the shop and catch Eunji’s eye. She waggles her brows at you, mouthing something that looks an awful lot like ‘damn girl, get it’.

She’s terribly mistaken. Clearly, nothing is going on between you and Namjoon. Not in your wildest dreams—well, actually, maybe in your dreams, but certainly not in his. Absolutely not. Namjoon does not see you like that.

You shake your head, dispelling the thoughts, and force yourself to get back on track. You’re here for a reason. Namjoon specifically asked you for help with dating. More specifically, help with dating people who are not you.

“Umm, so,” Namjoon’s voice comes muted from beyond the thick, velvet purple curtain of the dressing room. “Are these pants supposed to be hard to put on?”

“What? No.” You move closer to the dressing room. “Are you having issues?”

There’s some shuffling followed by a soft thud, a frustrated growl from Namjoon, and a heavier, more alarming thud. You’re slipping around the curtain before you can think better of it.

“Are you okay?!” You pause, mid-step, and slap a hand over your gaping mouth. It does nothing to stop the laugh from bubbling up, though. “Oh!”

Namjoon is sprawled out on the floor, his feet tangled in the green and beige trousers. Buckles and straps dangle from the waistband, creating a webbing of rich brown leather and bronze across Namjoon’s knees. You can see where some of the crossing straps twine between his legs, clearly the cause of his frustration and fall.

“These pants are boobytrapped. They have all these fancy buckles and straps. I didn’t notice them at first because the blazer covered them on the hanger. And well,” he explains with a helpless sigh, “it didn’t seem like that big of a deal…until, yeah. Are you just going to stand there?”

You laugh, unable to contain it any longer, earning yourself a scowl from Namjoon. Waving a hand in the air, you close the distance across the small space to crouch beside him. “I know you’re a bit clumsy sometimes, but falling over while putting on pants is a new one.”

“Ah! That’s not even funny. These pants are…they’re complicated. I mean, just look!” he exclaims, gesturing to his thighs.

It’s hard not to look when someone actively tells you to. Add in the directive hand gestures and, well, of course you look. His thighs are thick, well-muscled from hours in the gym—hours you know he spends there because you pencil them into his schedule every week.

Slivers of red peek out from the tops of his thighs, the bottoms of his boxer-briefs fitting snugly against his skin. “Wow.” The word slips out as a whisper, but it might as well be a shout with as loud as it sounds in the silence of the dressing room. Heat blooms across your face and down your neck. Your lips move before you can swallow your words, the jest rolling off your tongue with no shame, “I didn’t take you for a red underwear kind of guy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Namjoon asks, gawping at you, while simultaneously trying to pull down the end of his dress shirt to cover his crotch and thighs.

Perhaps your brain needs a rewire because you seldom find yourself at a loss for words. But, try as you might, all that comes out is an awkward squawk of laughter. You choke back the noise, clearing your throat as you ignore Namjoon’s gaze and go to work pulling the trousers down his legs to begin untangling the belts. This might be the first time you’ve seen your boss in his underwear, but you’re still his assistant and can’t help going into automatic fixer-mode. Besides, he did ask if you were just going to stand there, which was an obvious cry for help…at least, you think.

Finally finding the gumption to speak again, you cast your eyes at him from beneath your lashes, not being coy but simply unable to meet his stare head-on. “For a guy who wears the same black suit every single day, I’m just surprised to see you have some color in your wardrobe…much less it being your underwear, that’s all.”

Namjoon snorts a laugh, immediately putting you even more at ease. The tension leeches away with every degree his smile grows. “Well, I’ll have you know I have them in navy as well.”

You feign surprise, your eyes going comically wide. “And you say you need my help! Seems you’re already two steps ahead of me.”

The two of you melt into soft laughter once again, a companionable silence falling in the dressing room as you finish helping Namjoon untangle his legs. It’s hard to say if he notices the occasional flick of your eyes to his thighs. The Armani suits might be tailored to fit him, but apparently they also hide his physique quite well, because damn…double-damn, I’m-in-deep-trouble-damn.

“Thanks,” Namjoon murmurs once he’s back on his feet with the offending trousers draped over his arm. “I think I’m going to pass on these. Unless you want to come over every morning and help me get dressed.”

You know he’s simply teasing, trying to keep the mood light. His humor usually has less tact and more blunder, but color you delightedly surprised tonight with how well he’s doing.

“Far above my pay grade, I’d think,” you jest in turn. “So, no to the brown and green. How about you give this one a try next?” You snag a light, stone-colored set and a vibrant dress shirt with blocks of complementary patterns, ranging from floral to geometric, and offer it to him.

Namjoon gives you a skeptical look but obliges. You can still feel his eyes on you as you slip back through the curtain and finally put a barrier back between the two of you.

You sag in relief, your back thudding softly against the wall beside the dressing room. How disappointed would Namjoon be if you backed out now after only having just gotten started? The tension in the dressing room was palpable. Is it possible Namjoon could tell how fast your heart was racing, or how utterly lacking in any coherent thought you were?

For fucks sake, it’s not like you’ve never seen a man in his underwear before. 

“Everything okay?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide as saucers and heart galloping in your chest.

“Eunji. You scared me,” you gasp, willing your soul back into your body as you step away from the wall and close the distance to where she’s peeking around one of the displays.

She gives you a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I heard a commotion earlier, but you disappeared into the dressing room before I could ask what was happening. By the time I got over here, it sounded like you had things well under control.” One slender brow arches, a playful tease dancing in her brown eyes.

It’s a childish action, sticking your tongue out at her, but it earns you the reaction you knew it would. Eunji’s peal of tinkling laughter suits her small frame. You share a warm smile with your friend before dropping your voice low and saying, “Thanks again for letting me do this.”

Eunji waves a dismissive hand in the air, her other hand absently straightening the midi dress hanging on the closest t-stand. “Just be sure to tag me in any marketing where he’s wearing my clothes, yeah?”

“I think we have a winner!” announces Namjoon before you can respond to Eunji. You both look back towards the dressing room in time to see Namjoon slide back the curtain and step out.

He looks absolutely adorable, like a kid who’s been given permission to play dress up in his father’s closet. A huge grin cuts across his face, showing off the dimples you’ve become so fond of over the years.

“Winner winner,” whispers Eunji appreciatively, the low words meant only for your ears.

You have to resist the urge to elbow her in the ribs, choosing to hand off the discarded suit in your hand instead. “Great!” you tell Namjoon, stepping away from Eunji but not before throwing her a pleading look over your shoulder, in the hopes she takes the hint. “But, more importantly, how does it make you feel?”

Namjoon stands outside the dressing room, admiring himself in the full-length mirrors hanging on the wall. He gives a slow turn, his head swiveling with the motion, trying to catch it from all angles.

“Honestly? It doesn’t feel like me. But, I think that’s the point,” he explains, the last part coming out half question, half statement. “It’s actually a very comfortable suit, with only the need for a few tailoring adjustments. I—uh—I think I like it. Truly. What do you think?”

“I think,” you say slowly, choosing your words carefully as you give him a full once-over, “that I’ll contact Rocco first thing Monday morning for a tailoring session, but we can officially check off the first action item on the list.”

To say you went the whole weekend without once thinking about how your Friday night at Eunji’s boutique with Namjoon went would be a plain and simple lie. You actually had fun. Maybe too much fun.

All the work you’ve done over the years of suppressing your seemingly harmless little crush on your boss? Completely undone in one moment. It’s like being in a small, enclosed space with Namjoon left no room for practical thinking—no need to mention seeing him in his underwear. The hugging stretch of red cotton over swollen muscle is seared like a brand onto your hippocampus.

Clearing your throat, you try to refocus on the screen in front of you. The event coordinator for the spring gala has sent over the finalized plans, and you should be reviewing them right now, but you seem to be having trouble keeping your focus.

The phone call you made this morning to Rocco went just as you expected it might. He was not happy to hear that Namjoon had acquired some suits without his approval, but was no less insistent that he be the one to do the fitting, regardless.

Trying to find time in Namjoon’s schedule to fit in a last-minute session with Rocco was easier than you thought it might be. With the gala planning fully underway and most of the logistics already planned and in motion, it has freed up a marginal amount of time for the ever-churning leading cogs of Proof.

Though the schedule for everyone else seems to be compounding, no matter how much you try to finesse it. Jungkook’s busy preparing for his album, Yoongi and Jimin are in the process of establishing JIDA as an official Proof songwriter, and Hoseok has his hands full working on the choreography for Jungkook’s performance at the gala.

Needless to say, even though you are Namjoon’s assistant, you have your hands in more cookie jars than out at this point. You don’t mind it; you love your job and enjoy the challenges it presents. The only time you relinquish responsibilities is if you’re sick and, well, even then, you’re happy to work from home.

Just as your thoughts seem to start drifting away from the task at hand again, an imminent reminder exits the elevator down the hall. Peach is as sweet as her namesake. She graces the admin hall just like she does every Monday morning. You like the event coordinator; she’s reliable and a breath of fresh air, especially after being surrounded by the Kim brothers on a daily basis. Having grown up with the Kims, you’re certain Peach is a saint if you’ve ever met one.

Your eyes stray from the computer screen each time she reappears in the hall, having passed off her like-clockwork-on-Monday morning coffees to Seokjin and Taehyung.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” Peach chirps happily, offering you one of her classic, radiant smiles. “You look a bit frazzled. Everything okay?”

“Nothing a nice cup of tea can’t remedy.” You sigh happily, gratefully accepting the large paper cup from Brewed for the Seoul with your latest obsession: hot black tea with coconut and almond bark cream. Already, the warm, sugary notes of the coconut and almond bark permeate from the opening in the lid. A small sip and the world somehow feels more right. “That hits the spot. Thank you, Peach, you’re the best.”

“Is that the menu?” Peach asks, nodding at your computer screen. “I don’t mean to be nosy, just saw the BSA logo.”

“Yep,” you say, pursing your lips as you swivel back to the screen where the cute peach tree logo sits at the top of the page you have up. “I told Namjoon I would have it ready for the CEOs by the end of the day.”

Peach gives you another one of those charming smiles. “I fear the Kim brothers would be lost without you, Sunshine,” she offers with a laugh. Being complimented always feels nice, but it’s even more so coming from someone like Peach, considering her background with the Kims. She makes you feel like you’re part of the family, too. Not that no one else does that. Your friendship with Yoongi is a testament to that already, but it still feels special nonetheless. “Should I leave this with you or…?” Peach trails off, hoisting up Namjoon’s usual iced Americano as her eyes drift to his closed office door.

“He’s reviewing the final proposal Jin had the legal team work up for JIDA,” you offer as a means of explanation to Namjoon’s closed door. You glance at the clock in the bottom corner of your screen. “He’ll probably be another twenty minutes at least. You can leave it here and I’ll make sure he gets it before the ice melts.”

Peach laughs softly, setting the drink off onto your desk. “Thanks. I’ll catch you later, okay? Got more caffeine to deliver!” she beams, giving the drink carrier in her other hand a gentle bounce.

👔👔👔

Namjoon

“I mean, really, fratello, are you sure this is what you want?” Rocco asks in his thick Italian accent. Namjoon bought five new suits last Friday night and brought them into the office this morning per your request.

True to your word, you called in Rocco for a private tailoring session. Like the superhuman you are, somewhere between Namjoon’s lunch and an afternoon meeting, you managed to squeeze an hour in for the tailor.

“Do you not like them?” Namjoon asks, gesturing to the cream and stone-colored suit on his person and the others hanging over the back of his office chair.

Rocco grunts in response. “I am woeful to admit…they are nice. But, they just are not you, no?”

Namjoon shrugs, earning a baleful glance from Rocco as the motion tugs a pinned needle loose from his shoulder. Rocco’s slight frame folds easily as he bends to retrieve the pin, blond hair staying artfully tossed thanks to the copious amounts of pomade Namjoon is certain he uses. “Sometimes we just need to change things up a bit, don’t you think?”

“It’s that bubbly assistant of yours, isn’t it? As soon as she called me this morning, I knew she had put you up to no good…”

Rocco rambles on, but Namjoon knows his snippy words are completely harmless. In the half a dozen years that Namjoon has known Rocco, he’s come to learn his quirks and mannerisms—a highly opinionated man, quick with words and even quicker with his Singer; unfailingly talented, worth every second spent listening to the innocuous tittering.

While Rocco works, Namjoon lets his mind wander. Not much else to do when you’re trussed up with pins. He learned that the hard way after earning several needle pricks while trying to respond to emails once upon a time.

The empty Brewed for the Seoul coffee cup you brought in earlier is still sitting on his desk. He had just finished reviewing the proposal for JIDA when you brought it in. Namjoon knows the coffee was from Peach, but something in him couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that you were the one to deliver it to him.

You’re wearing a sleek dress today. Red. He can’t stop himself from thinking back to Friday night and the red he wore—the red you saw. Is this your way of trying to remind him? A private joke, maybe. Namjoon closes his eyes, trying to recall the exact shade of red your dress is and how the fabric cuts in a way that accents the curve of your hips and the swell of your—

Bzz bzz

The buzzing of Namjoon’s phone breaks him from his internal musings, his eyes snapping open, mouth suddenly dry because what the fuck was he thinking about?!

Bzz bzz

The sound comes again. A phone call. He can see the photo of his father lit up on the screen where the device sits on his desk. “Um, sorry, Rocco, I need to get that.”

“Namjoon! How are you doing, son?”

“Fine. What’s going on? I’m in the middle of a fitting with Rocco right now.”

“Oh, tell him I have a few of those new Brioni suits that need tending.” Before Namjoon can relay the message, his father barrels on, “I think I’ve found a winner. She’s perfect, Namjoon. Niece to a respectable friend of mine. Owns her own billion-dollar cosmetics company. Tell me you’ll meet with her this week.”

Namjoon swallows the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. Another one? So soon? “Of course, Father. I’d be honored.”

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to story masterlist

No matter what Namjoon does, he can’t seem to give Charlotte the attention he knows she deserves because his mind is wholly occupied by someone else.

You.

And how dare you consume his thoughts like this?! It’s not fair.

Why did you have to go and say that? 

“I don’t regret it, either. It was actually kind of…nice.”

You, with your inquisitive gaze and body deserving of worship.

You, with your charm and wit that keeps him on his toes.

You, with your—

“Have you even heard a word I said?”

“What?” Namjoon blinks. He shoves the glasses on his nose up to sit in his hair before bringing his fingers back down to rub at his eyes. He was listening…wasn’t he? “No,” he finally admits softly. “I was lost in…it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Charlotte’s lips poke out slightly, pursing in a red-tinted pout. She tousles her mane of dark curls, her long, slender fingers combing back a few stray pieces out of her face. She shifts her weight on the couch beside Namjoon, clearly making him wait as punishment for his inattention.

The red full-body jumpsuit she’s wearing today irks him as his eyes sweep her form. Red isn’t her color. It doesn’t belong on anyone other than—Charlotte clears her throat, drawing Namjoon’s attention away from the red-covered bend of her knee back to her face. She reaches up and smooths a thumb between his brows. “You’re going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

It takes every ounce of strength in Namjoon’s core to not flinch away from her touch. But, why? For fucks sake. Namjoon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before intentionally leaning into her touch and forcing his mouth into a smile.

“You have my full attention now,” he assures her.

Charlotte smiles, dropping her hand into his lap where she threads her fingers through his. “So, the fall line is…”

Namjoon tries so hard to keep his word about her having his attention…he’s not sure if he succeeds.

4 Days Before The Gala

The building is quiet, evoking the same hushed atmosphere as Proof did in its early days—just a small thing, barely big enough for a few desks and some recording equipment. Namjoon thinks fondly of those times, fresh out of college with a dream far bigger than his pockets could allow. Seokjin and Taehyung were just as eager, filling notebooks with endless ideas and plans for how to make it big—for how to make Father proud.

Now, even with a corner office on the top floor of one of Seoul’s most exclusive high-rises, Namjoon still seeks the solitude of those early days. Which is how he finds himself slowly treading along the empty executive hall, glancing through darkened windows into the office spaces beyond. Seokjin and Taehyung’s offices are tidy, perfect reflections of their personalities.

There is a sense of pride in knowing they built this from the ground up. Just as their father did with his own ventures. That was the whole point: to build something that their family would be proud of. It’s not lost on Namjoon that success, especially of this magnitude, comes with expectations. Specifically, when it comes to the future.

Namjoon stops in the open space where the elevators are. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the expanse of the wall across from them, framing a sparkling swath of the city. The glittering buildings seem infinite against the inky sky.

A glance down at his watch lets Namjoon know it’s far past the time he should have gone home. Only, he doesn’t quite feel like returning to his empty apartment just yet. Charlotte offered to come by with a late dinner, but he refused, excusing himself with gala preparations.

It’s a small lie, but a lie nonetheless. There are no more preparations to make. You’ve made sure of that, keeping all the stress well enough off of Namjoon’s plate. But, he refused her all the same.

The tension between you and Namjoon is nonexistent, at least on the surface. If he’s being candid with himself, he hasn’t had a single night of restful sleep since you dropped that little tidbit of information on him the other day. Even with Charlotte, who is wonderful and—

“Burning the midnight oil?”

Namjoon starts, jerking his head around to the elevators. The silver doors slide closed behind the man Namjoon considers to be his best friend. Yoongi has his arms crossed over his chest, his black shirt and jeans echoed in the dark circles under his eyes.

“What are you still doing here?” Namjoon asks.

“If you have to know, I was on my way out, but saw your car still in the parking garage. Now, I could ask you the same thing. Only, I’m pretty sure I have an idea why you’re still here.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Namjoon mumbles, turning back to the windows.

“No?” Yoongi asks, stepping up beside Namjoon.

Silence stretches between them, Namjoon holding off for as long as possible before it grows uncomfortable. Finally, he breaks, admitting, “I was just thinking about how things used to be and where we are now. Do you remember back at university when we first met?”

Yoongi hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t like you at first.”

“Can’t possibly see why,” Namjoon jests.

“Your notebooks…the songs, poems. It wasn’t until then that I realized you actually had a good head on your shoulders.”

“I never would have made a good producer. Not like you, at least. I wanted to, um, thank you…for working so hard. I know things haven’t exactly been easy with bringing JIDA on, but it’s because of you that we now have even more talent on our roster.”

An unreadable look swings Namjoon’s way, his friend tensing slightly at his side. “I’m just doing what I have to do,” Yoongi finally says before turning back to look out at the city. “But, I know Proof’s not all you’ve been thinking about.”

One of Namjoon’s eyebrows twitches as he tries to school his face. “What are you going on about?”

“Charlotte DuPont. Really, Namjoon?”

Now it’s Namjoon’s turn to shrug. “She’s nice. I…like her.”

“Really?” Yoongi sounds unconvinced.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Namjoon quips, “Well enough. But, what’s with the third degree, Yoongi?”

Yoongi turns from the window, arms still crossed over his chest. “You’re a real jackass, you know that?” he says softly.

“What?”

“Sunshine.”

Namjoon takes an involuntary step backwards at the force with which Yoongi utters the nickname he gave you so many years ago. Feigning confusion, Namjoon asks, “What about her?”

“Stop fucking around with her, that’s what.”

“Now, listen, I don’t know what you think you know, but—”

Yoongi holds up a hand, stopping Namjoon’s attempt at refuting the very apparent truth. “No, you listen. You can save that bumbling excuse bullshit for someone who doesn’t actually know you. But, I do. And I’ve been paying attention these last few weeks, and I have to say, man, you’re fucking this up royally.”

Yoongi’s words might have been spoken at an even pitch, but Namjoon can feel them echoing like a shout in his soul. He never should have tried to fool his friend. Not after all these years. The only person he’s closer to than his brothers, and maybe you, is Yoongi. So, needless to say, his friend has put the pieces together. Namjoon is confident his brothers would have, too, if they weren’t so busy preparing for the gala.

“I’m not trying to fuck anything up,” Namjoon finally cedes. “That’s the whole point. I can’t ruin what I have with her.”

“And what is it exactly that you think you have with her?”

His shoulders kick up before he can find words. “I don’t…know. Friendship?”

Yoongi’s raptor gaze slices through Namjoon like a hot knife through butter. “And is that all you want with her?”

“Yoongi, even if I wanted more. That’s not…it’s not appropriate.” The admission provides little relief.

“Says who? It’s not as if she’s a brand-new hire. She’s been here for years, she’s as synonymous with the name Kim Namjoon, CEO of Proof, as you are. If anything, you’re doing her a disservice by keeping her locked in a friendship bubble when it’s clear you want more than that, and anyone can see it.”

“Father wouldn’t—”

“To hell with your father!” Namjoon reels back as if slapped, but Yoongi barrels on. “Sorry, but I won’t take it back. You’ve lived your entire life aiming to please and scrape by in order to gain his favor. But the truth is, Namjoon, your father doesn’t care about those things as much as you think he does. And before you start to try to tell me otherwise, look at how things went with your parents, arranged marriage or not, you can’t tell me he cared that your mother came from nothing. And even when he remarried, he still didn’t choose based on social standing. Your dad didn’t care what the world thought of his choice in partners…why would he care about yours?”

“I just thought—” Namjoon tries to get in a word, edgewise, but Yoongi cuts him off once more.

“That’s the problem! You thought, have you even asked your father what he thinks? Not that it really matters. Fuck, man, you begged Sunshine for her help, she gave it, and somewhere in the process, she succeeded because there’s something different about you lately. Something good, Namjoon…the something I think you’ve been looking for. And it was because of her. It’s not about the new clothes or private dances in your office. It’s about her. You allowed yourself to enjoy her. She’s the key to it all.” By the end of it, Yoongi’s chest is heaving, and the veins in the backs of his hands stand out where he’s clenching them on his own biceps.

Namjoon stands there, struck by the raw vulnerability in Yoongi’s words. He cares about Sunshine; that’s evident. Which, oddly—or maybe not so oddly—doesn’t evoke any jealousy in Namjoon’s heart because he knows the producer sees her as more like a sister than anything.

“Yoongi, I…thank you,” Namjoon says, letting out a long, slow breath. “I think I’ve been so caught up in what I think is expected of me that I haven’t stopped to think if it’s real or just something I’ve made up and projected onto myself. I just, all these years…I’ve only ever wanted to make my family proud.”

“And you’re doing that. Just look around,” Yoongi exclaims, throwing his hands wide to indicate the empty halls to either side. “You and your brothers have built an empire here, and it’s a good one. Don’t let your own misconstrued ideologies make you think otherwise.”

“You’re right,” Namjoon agrees, finally letting himself absorb the revelation. “But, I think I’ve already messed things up…”

“Nonsense. You just have to get out of your own way and see if she’s willing to take a chance…to forgive you for being so damned obstinate and foolish.”

Namjoon can’t help but laugh at that, earning a rueful smile from his friend. It seems so simple. Namjoon knows it will be anything but; however, that won’t keep him from trying.

👔👔👔

3 Days Before The Gala

Anyone who claims that things can return to normal between friends after making out is a liar. It’s like people staying friends after a bad breakup—nearly impossible. So, in the days following your little talk with Namjoon, you can tell he’s intentionally keeping himself away from you. Which is all well and good except for the fact that it rankles every single time you notice the distance.

Thankfully, you’ve had precious little time to actually focus on it much. With the gala in just a few days, you’re busier than ever. Staring down at the envelope with the wax seal stamped with the Proof logo, you allow yourself a small smile. It’s only a formality, you receiving an invitation, because of course you’re going to be there.

But as you finger the wax seal, finally slipping your nail under it to pop it, you can’t help but think about who else is going to be there. Specifically, who will be Namjoon’s plus one; your smile drops. As one of the primary communicators regarding the gala, you’ve read the guest list over several times for one reason or another. Checking spelling errors, removing names or titles, and, well, adding names as well. So when Charlotte’s name popped up on the final list, it’s a wonder you didn’t rip your hair out in the process of the silent fit you threw.

It would have been petty, but a part of you wanted to forward the list to Peach, and oopsie, having accidentally deleted guest number 158. However, once again, you’re trying to be the bigger person here. Sans your little comment to Namjoon the other day, you’d consider yourself having handled the whole situation well so far. Besides, what goes on in your head, what you might want to do…doesn’t necessarily mean it’s what you are going to do.

“Excuse me.” The soft, unfamiliar feminine voice breaks through your mental spiral. “Is Namjoon available?”

A cold slither of jealousy shoots down your spine before you can steel yourself against the shiver it brings with it. You blink up into gorgeous, rounded toffee-colored eyes, framed by a lush swoop of bouncy, dark cherry curls. A sprinkle of freckles covers the bridge of her nose, complementing the deep olive tone of her skin. Skin that you would be a liar if you said you’d never admired.

Charlotte DuPont stands before you in a smart creme-colored suit that hugs the curves of her long frame. A pair of designer sunglasses sits nestled in her hair, an oversized brown leather bag on her shoulder, and a paper takeaway bag held in her other hand.

“Who?” You hate yourself.

Charlotte purses her lips, a look of confusion glossing over her face. “Oh, is this not his—”

“No. Er, sorry. I mean, yes. Of course you mean CEO Kim Namjoon…this is his—he’s here. Just one moment.” Your fingers feel thick, frozen by the pseudo ice still snaking its way through your body, as you punch in his office extension on the phone on your desk. The line beeps once, alerting Namjoon that you’re trying to reach him.

“What is it? I’m not late for a meeting, am I?” Namjoon’s voice only sounds mildly tinny coming through the line.

“Not at all, sir. You have a…a visitor.” Your voice softens at the end of your statement, eyes flicking back to Charlotte with palpable envy. If she can read you at this very vulnerable moment, she doesn’t let on, simply giving you a polite smile before turning to look at the door to Namjoon’s office expectantly.

Is she just stopping by without letting him know? Or did he know and just forget to mention it to you—is that even something he would tell you? No, no. He absolutely would have told you. If there’s anything you’ve learned about Namjoon in all these years, it’s that he hates anything that might interfere with his work schedule. It’s why he’s so adamant about having everything mapped out, even down to his out-of-work activities, such as date nights, gym sessions, and doctor’s appointments. 

Namjoon’s voice carries through before he’s completely opened the door, “I wasn’t expecting anyone today. I can only imagine it’s Fath—oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me, silly! Surprise! I couldn’t wait until tonight,” Charlotte gushes, throwing her arms around a rigid Namjoon.

The look he throws at you over her shoulder can only be described as one thing: panic, pure unadulterated panic. He’s stiff as she continues to hug him, a hug he’s not returning. Perhaps when he sees you noticing, it breaks him out of his shellshock. His hands snap to her waist, and your heart gives a little jump at the reminder of what his hands felt like on your waist.

Namjoon clears his throat. “Charlotte. This is a surprise indeed. Um, I’m not sure how much time I have…” he trails off, giving you another glance.

“It’s your lunch break,” you supply. “Your next meeting isn’t for another thirty minutes.” The words come out bland as you fight to keep your voice from warbling.

They look so good together that it hurts. Her slender frame pressed against his defined chest, their light-colored suits nearly matching; by your design, you hazard to remind yourself. If it weren’t for you, he’d be polarizing in a black suit instead of looking like he’s the perfect addition to one of those love-sick Instagram couples who wear matching clothes.

“Perfect!” chirps Charlotte. “Hope you haven’t eaten yet. I brought vegan sandwiches from that new delicatessen I was telling you about!”

There’s a moment, as Namjoon is gently extracting himself from Charlotte’s embrace, that his eyes meet yours, and there is so much there that you have a hard time taking it all in. “I…don’t know, Charlotte. I—there’s…” Namjoon trails off before taking a deep breath and continuing, “Actually, that sounds lovely. Thank you. Come on into my office.” Charlotte allows Namjoon to usher her through the doorway. You just catch the soft words he says to her as he closes the door, “I’m glad you came by, there’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” 

Jamming your finger against the power button on your computer screen, you shove away from your desk and blindly barrel down the executive hall, making a beeline for the elevators. You’re on the production floor before you even realize what you’re doing, index finger poised over the keypad to Yoongi’s studio.

It’s just him in the room, making the look of surprise on his face be mirrored in your own. “You’re alone,” you pant, the words half-question and half-statement.

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Last I checked, this was my studio…”

“Well, yeah, I just expected…where’s JIDA? She also wasn’t here last time I busted in. Which, I realize, is probably making me out to be a terrible friend...for abusing your trust in giving me the key code to your studio. So, I’m sorry about that. But, no…no, no,” you ramble, waving a hand in the air to dispel your errant thoughts. “Where is she? Grabbing lunch for you guys?”

“She’s probably working.” He shrugs his indifference, but his eyes say otherwise.

“Probably working? Yoongi, what’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing is going on. Now, your problem first,” Yoongi insists. Which, to you, might as well be a giant green check mark confirming that something is going on between Yoongi and JIDA. “What has you ‘abusing my keycode’?”

“How about no? I ignored this last time I was here, but you won’t avoid my questioning this time. What’s going on with you and JIDA?”

Yoongi lets out a frustrated growl. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. Finally, he drops his hand, his dark eyes flicking to yours. “Nothing is going on. I’ve just been slammed with work trying to get things ready for Jungkook’s performance at the gala. Why is everyone giving me such a hard fucking time about it?”

You hold up your hands in surrender. “You can’t blame anyone for asking about the two of you. Not when you spent so much time practically glued at the hip, and now she’s nowhere to be seen in your vicinity. It’s just a little odd, especially considering she’s down as your plus one for the gala.”

“What? No, she’s not.”

You raise a brow, crossing your arms over your chest as you return the deadpan look on Yoongi’s face. “Yes, she is. Did you not read the email I sent out a few days ago that had the confirmed, finalized guest list for Peach? It had her name right there beside yours.”

“Why—that’s…fuck.” Yoongi sighs, a look of defeat washing over him. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay? I’ll handle the plus one situation and once the gala is behind us…things will go back to normal.” Whatever normal is. Yoongi doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it all the same in his tone.

“Fine,” you concede.

“Now, out with it.” Yoongi rolls a hand in the air, gesturing for you to spill.

You slump onto the edge of the couch in his studio. “The last time I was in here, you and Jimin gave me some advice.” Yoongi nods, letting you know he remembers. “And I took it. Namjoon and I had a moment to talk, and I was honest with him about my feelings.”

Yoongi gives you a mild look of knowing, like he’s already aware of this. “And have you talked since then?”

“Not at all. Granted, we haven’t really had time. But, he’s also made it abundantly clear that he’d rather not talk about it and would have things go back to how it was before. Only…damnit, Yoongi, I don’t know if I can do that with him anymore.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

You give Yoongi a sad look. “Because what I feel isn’t normal. I can’t just act like nothing happened; not like he is.”

“Maybe he just needs some time…” Yoongi trails off, and you’re already shaking your head no. “What?”

Shrugging, you pick at a fold in the fabric of your pants along the side of your knee. “Clearly, things aren’t going to magically fix themselves between me and him. It’s evident he’s made up his mind, considering Charlotte DuPont is upstairs having lunch with him right now and she’s going as his plus one to the gala.”

“Ah,” Yoongi hums, wincing. “I kind of thought that…hmm, never mind, it’s not important what I thought. Actions speak louder than words, after all. Look, Sunshine, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with Namjoon. But, just try to give him some time, okay? At least until after the stressors of the gala pass by.”

You shrug again. “I can try. I just…I’m trying to stay professional…only I’m not sure how to do that when I have these,” you pause, pressing a hand to your chest, “...feelings.”

“I get that. Feelings can be tricky,” mutters Yoongi, glancing down at where his hands are folded in his lap, the words seeming directed more towards himself than you. It’s a non-answer, and you’re okay to not push for more. Clearly, there is nothing else to say on the matter for now—purely an unknown.

“Am I an idiot?” you ask softly.

Yoongi’s response is just as soft, whispered into the dark confines of Genius Lab. “No more than I am.”

Silence falls in the room after that. Not an uncomfortable tension, just an easy balm between friends. After a few beats, Yoongi turns back to his computer, and the soft clicking of his mouse settles you further into his couch. You sit there, content with absorbing as much of the quiet companionship as Yoongi will allow before braving the executive floor once more.

👔👔👔

Namjoon

The tofu, hummus, and falafel sandwich Charlotte brought Namjoon sits untouched on his desk. He couldn’t eat it even if he wanted to. Not with the leaden stones churning in his stomach from how she stormed out of here. Thankfully, no one was around, not even his brothers, who he assumes are also taking their lunch hours.

That didn’t exactly go how Namjoon thought it would. It’s only been a few weeks—a handful of successful dates where Namjoon may have seen himself being happy, content…eventually. But the fact that Namjoon hasn’t been able to go more than a few hours without thinking about you isn’t fair. Even when Charlotte would be right in front of him, her fingers intertwined with his and her lips brushing his ear before planting themselves on his mouth.

Everything between Namjoon and Charlotte has been okay. But that’s just it. Fine, okay. Only okay. No mindblowing revelations, no sparks, nothing that even remotely compares to the inferno that was his kiss with you. She’s not even a bad kisser…she’s just not you. She hasn’t been a constant light in his life for years. She doesn’t make his heart beat a little faster with just a smile. She’s not this forbidden enigmatic ambrosia that calls to him like a siren to a lost sailor. And that’s precisely what Namjoon feels like, a lost sailor—marooned by his own heart, his ship utterly destroyed against the rocky shore that everyone calls Sunshine.

Telling Charlotte that he wouldn’t be taking her to the gala snowballed into him telling her that he doesn’t think things are going to work out between them. And even though he knew exactly why, he couldn’t find the words to actually tell her. So, he’s certain he looks like an asshole now, and more than likely, his father is going to hear about it. That’s another conversation he’s not looking forward to having.

It was the look on your face earlier that did it for him. The way your eyes shimmered with hurt, and your shoulders subconsciously curled in on themselves. Your confession to him that other afternoon in his office ultimately set things in motion. He’s been reeling ever since. You enjoyed the kiss. So he hadn’t read the situation wrong; he hadn’t misunderstood your desires for one too many shots of soju.

Well, of course, he already knew that. But what he also knew was that he couldn’t possibly indulge in what either of you wanted. It’s just not right. People would talk…they would—does that really matter? Namjoon has never cared so much as an iota what people think of him; his father being the only exception, if he’s being honest with himself. Then Yoongi had to go and blow the entire box wide open last night with his fireballs of truth, now Namjoon is left picking up the pieces.

So, why does it matter? Why can’t the heart have what the heart wants? There’s an adage there somewhere, one for the soul, surely. That was the whole point of Namjoon seeking your help to begin with, wasn’t it? To help him be his true self. Like Yoongi so eloquently put it, it wasn’t the clothes or the other items on your list—it was you. You are helping him become the person he wants to be. And what if the person he wants to be…just so happens to want you?

Yoongi’s right…you’re the key to it all.

The Day Of The Gala

Of course Namjoon wouldn’t have time to have a proper conversation with you before the evening of the gala. Saturday rolls around, and he’s sliding on the latest addition to his wardrobe. Your encouragement to add more color to his wardrobe inspired him to commission a custom-made suit for the occasion. It’s traditional in being black, but the deep violet accents in the shirt, pocket square, and socks are where he added some flourish.

With any luck, he can get a moment alone with you sometime during the procession. The car he booked for the evening, the one that would have been heading to Charlotte’s right now, maneuvers through the traffic surrounding the hotel where the gala is being held with ease. The chilled bottle of champagne he forgot to tell the driver not to bother with sits untouched, emphasizing the emptiness of the spacious backseat. Namjoon drums his fingers on his knee, refusing to let his eyes drift to the vacant seat beside him; the seat he wishes you were in.

A nervous tick feathers along Namjoon’s jaw. Tonight is no different than any other big-ticket event Proof hosts or attends each year. But, for some reason, he can’t shake the tremulous fluttering in his stomach. Namjoon’s been meaning to talk to you for days now, there just hasn’t been a good time with you being so busy working with Peach to ensure the Proof gala goes off without a hitch. Which the lack of communication between the two of you has made his anxiety ramp up tremendously—he’s not even certain you’re aware that he’s not bringing Charlotte tonight.

A large group of photographers crowd the steps leading up to the entrance as the car pulls to a stop in front of the building. Strong-armed security guards keep them at bay as the back door swings open and Namjoon steps out.

Mostly ignoring the questions being volleyed his way, Namjoon politely nods, offering small waves and a plastered-on smile. It feels like it takes forever to make it up the stairs and through the doors into the main lobby of the hotel. Velvet ropes cordon off the entrance into the ballroom that BSA secured for the evening, leading Namjoon right into the mostly empty space.

It’s still very early in the evening. As the opening speaker and one of the prominent faces of Proof, Namjoon knew he had to arrive well ahead of the primary attendee crowd. A few of the catering staff give him nods, others afford him a wide berth, scurrying on with their respective prep jobs.

Namjoon spots Peach amid the black and gold-embellished tables that have royal purple nestled in the decor like splashes of paint. She’s really outdone herself this time; everything looks absolutely perfect. Gretchen, Peach’s assistant, directs some of the staff nearby. Peach gives Gretchen a fond smile before turning in another direction, the soft silvery blue of her dress shimmering in the light from the golden chandeliers overhead.

There are only a few tables between Namjoon and Peach, as he’s slowly picking his way across the room, when he finally spots what drew Peach’s attention from watching the smooth machinations of her staff. You come into view from the other side of the curtain that’s framing the DJ booth, and Namjoon stops dead in his tracks.

Peach gathers you into an embrace, her large smile mirroring the one on your face. Your hair is gathered away from your face, little diamond gemstones scattered among the strands like teardrops. The deep amaranth of your dress is just as Namjoon remembers. It’s not his fault you had the garment hanging behind your desk last week, and he just so happened to take a peek into the bag while you had stepped away. And it’s doubly not his fault that he just so happened to request the accents of his suit to match, either.

His eyes sweep you from head to toe, tracing the curving lines of your form. The dress gathers in a ruche at your waist, mimicking the draping lines he’s seen on Greek statues. That’s what you remind him of, with the neckline of your dress sweeping down from one shoulder and a waterfall of silk that goes all the way to the floor, where there’s a peak of your open-toed sandals from beneath the fabric.

You’re Aphrodite from legend, come to draw him into your thrall. All Namjoon can wonder is where your altar is and how long do you need him to kneel before you? It only lasts a moment, him watching you and Peach exchange words he can not hear, but it’s enough time for the world to come crashing back down as a throat is cleared beside him.

“You know, I received a very unpleasant phone call yesterday.”

“Father, I—” Namjoon startles, glancing at him and biting his tongue before he can even begin to make an excuse. By the time he turns back to look in your direction, you and Peach have already moved out of sight. He glances back at his father. “Will you join me for a drink before the evening begins? There is something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

👔👔👔

“You know, if you weren’t wearing that white shirt, you would absolutely be the latest Dispatch highlight,” you tease, taking in the full effect of Jimin’s ensemble. The lacy peek-a-boo panels down the front of the jacket are minimal compared to the back, which has a full floral lace window. If he weren’t wearing a crisp white undershirt, there would be a whole lot of skin showing through the black lace.

Jimin’s laugh is bright and tinkling. “Namjoon would have a field day scolding me if I let that happen. The last thing anyone needs right now is a scandal on one of our biggest nights of the year.” Jimin gives you a once-over, his eyes lingering on the skirt of your dress. “I love that color. It’s cute that you and Namjoon match. Was that intentional or by accident?”

“What?” you rasp out, suddenly feeling a surge of outrage.

Surprised by your reaction, Jimin’s brows climb his forehead. “Okay, so not intentional, got it.”

“When did you last see him?” you ask as you turn to scan the crowd. You don’t wait for Jimin to respond, having caught sight of Namjoon talking with his father near the bar set up across from the erected stage intended for Jungkook’s performance tonight. “I’ll catch you later, okay?”

Again, not waiting for Jimin to respond, you begin to pick your way across the expansive ballroom. You’re pretty certain Jimin calls something out to you, but all you can hear right now is the pounding of blood in your ears.

You. Are. So. Mad. Because, how dare he?! You saw him peeking at your dress the other week and had assumed he was verifying the color so as to not match you. It would have been mildly embarrassing for him and Charlotte to show up in colors matching your own.

You don’t see Charlotte anywhere near Namjoon. Maybe she’s in the powder room or chatting with someone else out of sight. Either way, if Namjoon wanted to wear the royal purple with Charlotte, he should have warned you. And if he decided to do it regardless, fuck him for doing that to her…and you. Doesn’t he realize all the tabloids and news outlets are here? It might be inconsequential enough for people to wear the same colors, but all it takes is one person to assume, and rumors about some silly, sordid love affair will spark like wildfire. Namjoon knows better.

“Thank you for understanding, Father,” Namjoon is saying as you draw closer. His eyes flick from the formidable figure that his father cuts, to you, surprise raising his brows. “If you’ll excuse me…I need to, uh, review my opening speech.”

Namjoon’s father turns, following the line of Namjoon’s gaze. His dark eyes meet yours, and there is something there, something you can’t quite read. Suddenly, his face splits, a smile spreading wide across his angular jaw. He tilts his chin, giving you a warm nod before turning and signalling the bartender for a refill.

There is a breath of silence as Namjoon stands with just a foot between the two of you. You can tell he’s thinking, he might as well have giant cogs churning on his forehead with as obvious as it is. Though, is that because it’s obvious or simply because you know him that well? You hmph softly, internally rolling your eyes at yourself and the notion.

You came over here with all the intent to chastise Namjoon, ranting at him for his choice of accent color for his suit. Only, now that you’re staring at him, drinking in the subtle touches of royal purple popping in his shirt, pocket square, and even in the amethyst inlaid in the tungsten ring fitted on his left thumb, the fiery wind disappears from your sails.

In place of the biting words you desperately wanted to lob at him, you ask, “Are you ready for your speech? Gretchen wants things to kick off exactly at six so we can do contributions for the full hour before dinner.”

Namjoon glances down at his watch. “I’ll be ready,” he assures, looking back up at you.

Silence falls between the two of you once more. Inside, you’re screaming at yourself to say something, push him, slap him, do something other than stand there and stare. There is a tenderness in Namjoon’s eyes, letting you know whatever he’s thinking is soft and pleasant. A wild contrast to the acidic thoughts broiling in your head—in your heart—just moments ago.

How could you be mad at him? It’s not like either of you asked for this. In fact, much the opposite. He asked for the opposite of this palpable dizziness that refuses to dissipate in the very air you’re both breathing.

Licking your lips, you shove down the sour words once more and instead choose to follow your head instead of your heart. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“She’s no—”

“Namjoon! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but the sound team is ready for you.”

As if to emphasize Gretchen’s words, the overhead lights dim and the stage lights up, a beacon calling forth for Namjoon’s welcome speech.

“You'd better go,” you murmur.

Namjoon frowns but nods. “Find me after, will you?”

You agree to do that, even if your heart is saying no. But the events of the evening seem to have other plans, no matter how you feel about Namjoon’s request.

There was every intention of finding Namjoon once his welcome speech was over, but you ended up being pulled in several different directions, fielding questions about donations and shaking more hands than you can remember the faces to.

By the time you had a moment to breathe, it was time to take your seat for the first dinner course. From your seat beside Hajun, Yoongi’s assistant, you have a view of only half the room. It’s taking everything in your power to focus on your food instead of turning to look at the Kim family table.

A procession of delicious courses follows, until finally the table is cleared for the final time, and dessert is presented to you. Hajun makes a pleased sound at the glass coupe with the intricate dessert topped with an edible 24-karat gold leaf. It’s a soft burst of flavor on your tongue as you have a small taste, so delicate and melt-in-the-mouth.

There are several bites left when a low voice whispers in your ear from behind, “I need your help.” You start with a slight jolt, your spoon dropping back to the bottom of the coupe glass. Bringing your napkin up to dab at your lips, you smoothly gain your feet and turn to look at the owner of the voice.

Yoongi guides you a few steps away before lowly filling you in on his dilemma. JIDA, the newest Proof lyricist and the woman who has been troubling Yoongi so deeply lately, is nowhere to be found, and he wants her to be there when Jungkook performs her song for the first time in front of a crowd.

You’re mentally going over the map of the venue and the seating chart when your eyes drift over Yoongi’s shoulder, and you pause, mid-sentence, in delegating your plan to find her. “Alright, let’s—”

Namjoon is not sitting where he was placed on the seating chart you had finalized with Peach. More so, neither of the chairs to either side of him hold a beautiful French beauty-guru entrepreneur either.

“What is it?” Yoongi asks.

“He’s not where he should be,” you mutter.

“What?”

“The seating chart of your table is different from what I last confirmed with Peach.” Yoongi hums but doesn’t say anything if he knows something, just meets your gaze expectantly. Right, he needs help. “Come on, follow me.”

Some twenty minutes later, and you’ve confirmed with the others seated at the lyricist table that JIDA texted from a cab on her way to the venue, but that they haven’t actually seen her. 

Gretchen is a little more helpful, able to confirm that JIDA’s invitation was noted as being used to access through security. So, she did arrive.

You’re turning away from Gretchen, intent on finding one of the security guards to inquire further, when a voice catches you off guard. “There you are.” Namjoon sighs as he comes into your line of sight. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to talk,” he says, having to raise his voice slightly to be heard over Taehyung on stage, announcing the information about Jungkook’s performance tonight.

“I’m sorry, Namjoon, the night has been busy. Can we talk after, maybe?”

Namjoon frowns, looking wounded for a moment before his face clears and he glances at Yoongi over your shoulder. “Is something going on?”

“Nothing that you need to worry yourself with. I’m just helping Yoongi find JIDA, that’s all,” you tell him.

“She’s missing? I saw her…well, earlier. Much earlier now that I think about it.”

“You saw her? Do you remember where? When?”

His shoulders lift a fraction. “It was at the beginning of the night, right before my welcome speech. She had just walked in.”

Feeling frustrated, you purse your lips but nod. “Okay, thanks.”

“Hey, let me help you guys—”

“No. It’s okay. Your face is far more valuable to be seen than mine, or Yoongi’s, for that matter. Get back out there and support your brother during his performance and make sure the end of the evening goes smoothly—make sure the donors want to come back for next year.” You try to put on a smile, giving Namjoon a playful wink that you hope eases the worry that’s pinching the smooth skin between his brows.

“Sunshine, we’re running out of time,” Yoongi pleads softly as the first notes of Jungkook’s performance resonate over the speaker system. It’s clear the producer is feeling some type of way about the lyricist. He gives Namjoon an apologetic look before turning and staring at the stage, a haunted look entering his eyes.

Namjoon stares at you for a moment longer, entrancing you with his espresso-colored gaze. It’s on the tip of your tongue to call to Yoongi, to tell him that JIDA is a big girl, and if she wanted Yoongi to know where she was, she’d tell him. But, Namjoon is already turning away, offering you a slight nod in acquiescence, and moving back towards the central ballroom area to support Jungkook.

You take that moment to flag down a passing staff member and air-drop a picture of JIDA to them so they can share it among the rest of the event workers. Your hand on Yoongi’s arm draws him out of his daze. “The staff are going to look for her. I gave them her photo.”

“I couldn’t find her,” Yoongi whispers as the first notes of Who begin to fill the air.

You’re about to try to comfort him further when the first few lines of Who reach you. The song instantly resonates with you, and you stand there glued to the spot.

The lyrics echo through your heart. Wanna give her the world and so much more. There is a reason you chose the songs you did that night in Namjoon’s office when you wanted him to break down his walls and dance with you. Lyrics can be so powerful and speak where the words from your own mouth fail to. Is she someone that I see every day? Part of you had felt guilty for choosing the songs you did, but in the end, you wouldn’t take it back.

It’s in this moment, as Jungkook croons out the last lines of the song, that you make up your mind. Namjoon asked for things to go back to how they were, to essentially erase what happened between the two of you, because it would be too messy otherwise. But you can’t do that. You won’t do that. 

Tonight, you’re going to be honest with Namjoon. And if he can’t accept that, then maybe it’s time for you to move on to…What do they call them, greener pastures? You would be devastated to have to do that, but know it would be for the better in the end. It would be hard enough watching Namjoon with Charlotte, but even harder to do so while also trying to suppress the ache of wanting in your chest. No, you refuse to continue to try.

A quiet hush falls over the ballroom as the song trails off before being replaced by raucous applause and even a few whistles. It’s no less than you expect following a performance like that. Jungkook has always been a crowd favorite.

You want to say something to Yoongi, to assure him that, regardless of the performance being over, you still plan to help him find JIDA, but a hand on your shoulder draws your attention away. It’s the staff member you flagged down at the start of Jungkook’s performance. They let you know that one of the front door security guards might have some helpful information about JIDA.

Yoongi is making his way back towards the lyricist's table by the time you turn back to him. You’ll just have to see what the security guard has to say and then find Yoongi if it’s something worthwhile.

Unfortunately, the information is helpful…but also very alarming, which is the unfortunate part. The security guard distinctly recalls seeing JIDA with tears in her eyes in the lobby. He asked her if she was alright, and she simply bowed and then ran outside. That was hours ago, right before the opening speech.

Seokjin’s voice cuts through the clapping, bringing the noise level back down to a murmur. He’s giving closing remarks, thanking everyone for their contributions once again. The people around you start to give their hushed goodbyes, having every intention of making their ways home soon. How can the evening already be almost over? Desperation makes your feet move quickly until you finally find yourself beside Yoongi once more. He’s at the Kim family table, his words to Jimin and Peach too low for you to catch over Seokjin’s speech.

“She left,” you shout above the noise, though being careful not to be too loud and disrupt Seokjin’s voice. “A security guard recognised her. She left a long time ago.”

The sounds of shuffling and hushed words feed through the speakers, but the only thing you can see is the back of Seokjin’s head as he stands just off stage. It sounds like someone is trying to take the mic from him. But who?

There is no one else scheduled to speak. Seokjin was supposed to be the last of the night, the conclusion after Jungkook’s performance. You glance down at the dainty opal-faced silver watch on your wrist, noting that Seokjin was right on time with his remarks. Who the fuck is—

“Excuse me, everyone, I’d like to make an important announcement.” Taehyung’s words are slightly slurred. The realization that he’s drunk sends a cold sheet of dread down your spine. You swear to all that is good in this world, if your conversation with Jimin earlier about scandals completely blows up in your face…well, you don’t want to think about that.

“No. No, no, no. This can’t be good,” you mumble to yourself as you desperately try to skirt through the crowd. 

The next words out of Taehyung’s mouth have the entire ballroom going eerily silent. There is a fool's grin spread wide on his face, like he just laid out the perfect picnic and now expects everyone to lap up the reality of it.

“What?” you whisper to yourself, eyes automatically snapping behind you to where you just left Peach sitting beside Jimin at the Kim family table. 

She’s sitting there, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, her fingers twisted around her napkin. Sudden movement beside her draws your eyes. Jimin lurches up from his seat, nearly toppling the chair over. In a flash, he’s flicked a pair of dark sunglasses from his inner coat pocket and secures them onto the bridge of his nose. 

Even from this distance, you can see there is some unspoken exchange between him and Peach. You had thought maybe—the two of them are close, dare you to think even intimate at times, especially considering how close you saw them on the dance floor earlier. Yet, Taehyung just…

You have every intention of making your way back over to Peach to help in any way you can. Jimin storms off, and you can tell the action takes Peach’s breath with it, but your view is suddenly filled with black lapels, an amaranth silk pocket square, and shiny black buttons.

“Did you know he was going to do this?” Namjoon asks. The look on his face is one of hurt and confusion. “Please tell me you didn’t know he was going to do this.”

You’re shaking your head before the words are even out. “No, of course not.”

“I have to do something,” Namjoon insists, making a beeline for the stage. The crowd is surging, quickly putting bodies between the two of you as you try to follow behind him. You’re about to call out in frustration when strong fingers thread through yours and Namjoon pulls you bodily around the gaggle of people trying to surround the Kim family table.

You catch glimpses of Peach through the throng of people attempting to either ask her questions or offer congratulations, you’re not sure which, honestly. Jimin has disappeared completely. Part of you wants to pull your hand free from Namjoon and go as you had intended to Peach’s rescue, but a second later, Yoongi is popping up beside her, and you know he’ll make sure she’s okay.

By the time Namjoon is pulling you to the side steps of the stage, Taehyung has handed off the mic, and neither he nor Seokjin are anywhere to be seen.

“What are you going to do?”

Namjoon shakes his head, snatching the mic from the poor stagehand standing there holding it like it’s a live snake about to strike if he so much as twitches.

“Go around the backside of the stage, it’s the quickest way to make it to the bar. Tell them I want as many bottles of Dom Pérignon as they can open; they can put it on my personal tab if they have to. Now, please. Go. Hurry.”

Sprinting in a floor-length silk gown is not exactly how you thought you’d be spending part of your evening. But, as it is, you’re panting soft puffs of breath by the time you make it to the employee entrance side of the bar. Just in time, too, as Namjoon’s words fill the ballroom space.

“Wow. What a pleasant surprise!”

“Dom Pérignon, per Mr. Kim. Open as many bottles as you have to, no matter the additional cost.” The bartender doesn’t even hesitate, grabbing four bottles from below the counter. He sets to working the corks immediately while barking orders at the other bar staff to pull the rest of the stock from the back.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” Namjoon continues after quiet applause. “Please, everyone, if you would find your way to the bar to enjoy a glass of celebratory champagne.”

That gets the crowd moving, hopefully giving your friends some much-needed breathing room to get things sorted. You leave the staff to their jobs, making your getaway from the bar before you get trapped by the crowd coming for their champagne.

“Where did Taehyung go?” you ask Namjoon once you finally make it back to the stage.

He shakes his head. “No clue. No one is answering their phones, either.”

👔👔👔

Namjoon

All things considered, Taehyung’s announcement is far more acceptable than some other things that could have happened. Still, it would have been nice if Taehyung had mentioned it to the family. Or if he still wanted it to be a surprise, chosen somewhere far more family-friendly and intimate to let everyone know. The annual charity gala isn’t exactly the best place to be fielding such knowledge.

But Namjoon digresses and is doing his best. He caught his mother's eye sometime in the aftermath. She had a smug look on her face when he asked her if she knew this was going to happen. Her hand on his arm was affectionate enough as she told him that it was about time it happened, regardless, and that they’d have plenty of time to talk about it over family dinner the following week.

That was the last member of his family he spoke to before the gala concluded. He had already sent his brothers messages, imploring them to hold off on answering any questions until they could have their Monday-morning meeting in two days' time. Namjoon can see they’ve read his message, but his phone still sits idle with no replies.

Namjoon glances at his phone one last time before slipping it into his right pant pocket. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone what feels like hours ago now. He needed to loosen the hold his shirt had on his throat. Despite not wearing a tie this evening, the closed top hole of his shirt acted enough like a noose itself. He’d have shucked his jacket and shirt altogether if he knew that wouldn’t cause another wave of chaos.

Thankfully, all the news and media reporters have since left the venue. All that’s left are a handful of BSA staff handling the dismantling of the stage and DJ booth under the guidance of Gretchen, and some of the hotel wait staff clearing dishes from the tables. Oh, and you. You’re still here, too.

He watches you move across the ballroom, something clasped in your hands. There is a slight frown on your face, and Namjoon wishes more than anything that he could read your thoughts right now. What’s got you looking so down like that?

He decides there’s only one thing to do now. The thing he’s been trying to do all night to no avail. Namjoon squares his shoulders and makes his feet move before he can change his mind.

“Hey,” he says, waving a hand to catch your attention.

You pause, and Namjoon finally notices that you have a nearly empty coupe glass in your hands. “Do you need something?” you ask.

“What’s that?” He nods at the glass. Is that…dessert?

You snort a half laugh. “I didn’t get to finish it,” you mumble as you hold up a glass. It is indeed a half-eaten dessert. The cream has long since turned to milky liquid in the bottom, and the gold leaf has completely broken apart as the berries macerated in their own juices. “I thought maybe I could still…Well, it doesn’t matter.” You set the glass off on the closest table with a soft look of longing in your eyes. “Not very appetizing after it’s sat for so long.”

“Hm, yeah,” Namjoon agrees softly, feeling a wash of guilt at any part he may have played in that.

“Looks like we have time now. To talk, that is. If you wanted to.”

Namjoon looks around, taking in the soft bustle of the workers moving through the ballroom like well-oiled machine parts. “Right, yeah.”

“Unless you’d rather wait until work on Monday. I think I could squeeze in some time after your lunch hour.”

It’s hard to tell if you’re teasing. There is a guarded look in your eyes, like you’re uncertain how to hold a conversation with him. Which is fair, considering the last week and how it’s gone between the two of you. He’s not made this easy for you. Probably made worse by the acknowledgment that he wanted to talk, but not about what.

Shaking his head, Namjoon says, “No, no. Now is better…I don’t think I could stand waiting until Monday.” He has to clear his throat before finding his voice once more. “I wanted to apologize. For everything. And I also wanted you to know that I ended things with Charlotte.”

“Why? It seemed like things were going well. Is the list not working? I can revie—”

Namjoon holds up a hand, halting your ever need to try and fix things for him. “It’s not that. The list, well, according to Yoongi, is actually working. But, with Charlotte…it wasn’t working. Me, I mean, with me. She isn’t right for me. Not when I couldn’t stop thinking about someone else every time I was with her.”

“What are you saying?” Your words are soft and so full of what Namjoon can only describe as hope that it makes his heart lurch. He never should have denied whatever this is between the two of you. 

“What I’m saying is that I was a fool. I thought if I inundated myself with someone else, I could…I don’t know—forget about you, somehow. But, no matter what I do, I can’t. And…it wasn’t until recently that I realized that I didn’t want to forget about you.”

“Really?” you ask in a whisper. It’s in that one word that Namjoon can hear the hope from before turn into uncertainty. And he can’t blame you. Considering the last time he attempted to talk to you about this, he all but shunned the idea of being with you.

Namjoon watches as your eyes drop from his, your brows lightly pinching together like you’re trying to read between the nonexistent lines in the words he said. Your eyes catch on the ruined dessert you abandoned on the table, your lips further pulling down into a frown.

An idea sparks in Namjoon’s mind. He’s not sure how much good words are doing, so maybe he can show you some semblance of how much he cares for you. A sly curve catches at the corner of his mouth and he takes a leap of faith. “Come with me?” He offers you one of his hands. “Trust me,” he adds when you raise a questioning brow at him.

A hint of a smile creeps onto your face for the first time in hours, and it makes Namjoon’s heart swell. You’ve been run ragged tonight by a multitude of happenstances, from people employing your help to you ensuring the night's events ran smoothly. The meal procession was probably the only time you truly had a moment to relax, and you didn’t even get to finish your dessert. 

Namjoon is going to change that.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you slip your hand into Namjoon’s.

“You’ll see.” He can’t help grinning, leaning into the thrill of surprising you.

The feel of your palm pressed to his fills him with something he can only describe as peace. Your hand fits perfectly into his, something it seems he’s not the only one who notices with the way you flex your fingers against his. Namjoon can see it in your eyes; it feels perfect to you, too.

There is an industrial kitchen accessible through the ballroom's employee entrance. The service door leads to a long hallway, and the kitchen is not far down it. No one else is in the hallway, which is promising.

Namjoon leads you to the swinging doors of the kitchen. With one more meeting of his eyes to yours, he pushes through the doors and pulls you along.

Just as he hoped, the kitchen is also empty. The staff is still out in the ballroom, clearing away the dishes from the last course of dinner—the one you didn’t get to finish—and the last-minute round of champagne.

“The kitchen?”

“More specifically,” Namjoon explains, leading you further into the space until you’re standing in front of a giant industrial stainless-steel appliance, “the fridge.”

With his free hand, Namjoon pulls open one side of the fridge so you can both peer inside. Another score with luck. Arrayed in a smattering of prep containers are just the things Namjoon is looking for.

“What on earth are you doing?” You giggle as Namjoon reluctantly releases your hand so he can use both of his to start pulling the containers out.

He smiles, locking his gaze with yours. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, quickly washing his hands at the nearby sink before grabbing a pair of tongs and a small ramekin from a clean stack of serving dishes. He begins to fill the dish with the various prepped fruits.

“Namjoon, stop, you can’t!” you protest, giggling softly again. You gently cuff your hand around his bicep, giving it a not-very-hearty tug. “The workers…”

“...Are being paid very handsomely for their hard work tonight,” he fills in. “Besides, I’ll be sure to leave behind a generous donation for the additional dishes and food.”

There is a sparkle in your eyes, one that Namjoon hasn’t seen in so long. You press your lips together, dropping your eyes down to where your fingers are still wrapped around his arm. “Are you sure?” you ask, your eyes slowly drifting back up under your lashes.

It takes every ounce of his self-control not to throw the half-made dessert aside and put you on a serving platter instead. “Absolutely.” The response comes out soft as a whisper; unintentionally sultry.

You suck in a silted breath. “Okay,” you finally concede. The feeling of your fingers wrapped around his arm turns into a phantom burn as you drop your hand to your side.

“Hop up,” Namjoon requests as he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over an empty space on the prep bench he’d been using as a makeshift assembly table. “Right here.” He pats the jacket in invitation.

“Why?” you ask, even as you do as he’s asked before he gives you an answer.

Moving aside the tongs and small bowls of ingredients, Namjoon looks down at his creation. It’s nowhere near as elegant as the ones served earlier. In fact, it looks like quite a mess. But maybe it’ll at least taste okay.

His reply comes out throaty, a rasp that belies the sordid thoughts churning through his brain as he thinks about what he’s going to do next. “Better access.”

It would probably be best to scrounge around and find a fork or spoon, but the humming in Namjoon’s brain tells him there are other perfectly good utensils at his disposal.

The diced berries and cream compote are cold against the tips of his fingers. Your eyes are locked on the cream-covered strawberry chunk pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he brings it up to your lips.

“Namjoon, I…”

He’s not sure what you were about to say. Maybe it was a protest, or a question about his intentions, but whatever it was is lost as your lips wrap around the strawberry and your tongue brushes the cream from the tip of his thumb.

Namjoon swallows thickly, hesitating only a moment before bringing his fingers to his own mouth and licking away the rest of the compote and berry juice. The sweet taste comes alive on his tongue, making saliva pool in his mouth. He has to swallow once more before he can speak.

“I’ve missed seeing you smile,” he says into the silence that follows as you continue to chew slowly. You pause, swallow, and open your mouth to speak, but he continues before you can. “Yoongi’s right, you’re the key to it all.”

“Yoongi said—what? What do you mean?”

Your eyes search his, flicking back and forth, looking for answers. Namjoon keeps his gaze firmly on your face as he fishes another strawberry from the ramekin and brings it to your lips.

The tip of your tongue peeks out before you relent and open for him once more. This time, he slips the fruit in and places it on your tongue, luxuriating in the silken feel of your lips brushing his fingers.

Molten heat flashes in your eyes, your lips closing around his fingers as you give a generous suck to the cream clinging there. Namjoon knows the action is deliberate, and you’re patiently waiting for his response when his fingers slip from your mouth.

Namjoon leans in, closing the distance between your face and his. He can feel the weight of his own breath rolling off your lips as he says, “He said you were the key to it all along. You. You…this. This is what I mean. The answer was always right in front of me. It was never about new clothes or not wearing a tie. It wasn’t about dancing or finding the small things to enjoy. It’s always been about you. You…this incredible, amazing, gorgeous woman who was always the answer, but I was too much of a coward to accept. But, not anymore. Not as long as you’ll let me make it up to you—please, let me make it up to you.”

👔👔👔

You can hear the edge of desperation in Namjoon’s voice. It slices through the last few shreds of your hesitance. As Jungkook sang Who earlier, you made a resolution to be honest with Namjoon, damn the consequences. And here he is, giving you the perfect in you need for just that.

“Can I be honest with you?”

“Please,” Namjoon encourages. He sets the ramekin on the bench beside you, giving you his full, undivided attention.

With his hands now empty, you take them into your own. It’s not lost on you, the spark that his touch elicits. Just like earlier, you can’t help noticing how perfectly you fit together.

“It hurt,” you admit. “More than I actually thought it might. I’ve liked you for a while, Namjoon. Well, maybe more than a while.” Heat creeps into your cheeks, but you press on. “Even though, sure, you could be uptight at times, I also saw other sides of you. I saw the Namjoon who always listened intently to what anyone had to say. I saw the Namjoon who would drop everything for someone he cares about. I got to see how you smile whenever you talk about your friends, family, and even Proof. You have always had so much passion, and I got to see that.”

Namjoon shrugs. “Those things are small…”

“And it’s the small things that make up a big thing. And I’m not saying that helping you break out of your shell was a bad thing or that I regret it because I thought you were just fine as you were. What I’m saying is that it hurt me to know that someone else was getting to see those small things…and maybe even more than I was. Knowing you were with Charlotte, that she got to see not just the Namjoon I knew, but the Namjoon you were slowly becoming—I was jealous.”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon implores once more. “Thank you for hearing me out, and I’ll understand if you can’t forgive my being an idiot or if you need time or something. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not going to look for anyone else. I’ll wait as long as you need me to or accept my fate however you see it.”

“Of course I forgive you, Namjoon,” you soothe with a smile. “I already know what I want. And I’m fully prepared to let you make it all up to me.”

“Yeah?” Namjoon mirrors your smile. “Tell me where to start.”

Slipping your hands from his, you slowly bring them up to rest on his chest, watching his eyes for any adverse reaction. When all you see is adoration and anticipation, you slide your hands up until your fingers catch the open collar of his shirt.

“How about we start where we left off?” you ask softly as you curl your fingers around the fabric and use it to pull him close until his mouth is a breath away from yours.

The press of his lips is soft at first, but quickly morphs into an incessant, desperate force. It feels like the universe tilts on its axis, a ripple undulating out, the origin where his mouth presses to yours. It’s easy to open for him, to invite him into the confines of your mouth. His tongue slides along yours, blooming the flavor of strawberries and cream across your taste buds.

Strong hands come to frame your face, Namjoon’s fingers feathering along your hairline. Your own desperation has you pulling even harder on his shirt, trying to bring him in as close as possible so you can feel his body pressed to yours.

Your knees go to either side of his hips as he steps forward at your urging. The slit of your dress peels apart, exposing your left leg all the way up to mid-thigh. A thrill shivers through you when the hard planes of his chest meet the soft curves of your own.

Namjoon breaks from the kiss, sucking in the breath you expelled as you both try to recover from the way the universe shuddered with the brush of his lips against yours. His eyes lock with yours, and it’s all written there for you, every truth behind his words.

“I’ve never felt like this before. There is a buzz beneath my skin, I swear I can feel you everywhere.”

You feel it, too, the way your body hums with a pleasant heat licking at the base of your spine. All you want is to have more. “Again,” you murmur. Namjoon doesn’t resist when you pull him back and slot your lips over his once more.

This time, he opens for you. A deep groan vibrates through his chest, the sound echoing in the back of his throat as you press your tongue teasingly against his. Your teeth come down, nipping at the tip of his tongue as he pursues your teasing caresses.

“Oh my—I’m so sorry!” exclaims a harried voice from across the kitchen.

Namjoon straightens, abruptly ending the kiss. You both glance at the entrance to the kitchen, just catching sight of a retreating back. The loud clang of dishes from the other side of the doors fills in the blanks.

“Shit.” You giggle softly, dropping a hand to cover your mouth.

There is still heat in Namjoon’s eyes when he looks back at you. “Would it be too bold of me to ask you to come back to my place?”

You pause a moment, partly to consider his offer and partly to make him squirm a little before saying, “Not too bold, no.”

“Will you, then? Come back to my place?”

The drive to his place is full of a simmering tension that drips from the two of you like thick, syrupy molasses; just as sweet, too. He holds your hand the entire time and sits so close that the press of his thigh against yours feels branding.

Subtle touches and soft giggling accompany the ride in the elevator to the top floor of Namjoon’s building. As the elevator doors slowly close behind him, your back thumps softly against the wall beside his door.

“Namjoon,” you sigh, his name turning into a soft moan as he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat.

The elevator vestibule for the penthouse is decorated with subtle hints of Namjoon’s personality; small things that most people might miss. But you see it, perhaps more clearly now than any other time you’ve visited his top-floor apartment.

A plush rug covers the dark wood floor, and a console table with a cluster of leather-bound books and a small potted plant sits to the side. Floor-length navy curtains are open, revealing the glittering city beyond. There is a biometric fingerprint scanner and number pad that you can feel pressing against the swell of your hip as Namjoon continues to administer fluttering kisses along your neck and jaw.

“I’m getting carried away,” he husks against your throat.

You can tell it takes considerable effort for him to pull himself away from you. A part of you wants to beg for him to keep going, to forget about propriety and take you right here in the foyer. “Namjoon—”

But, a second later, his thumb is pressing to the fingerprint reader, and the sound of the lock disengaging is barely heard over the sounds of your combined breathing.

“Let me be a gentleman. Please come in,” he says, voice softer than it had been all night. The confession in the kitchen and mutually assured desire have smoothed the edges of his usual CEO precision, leaving something lighter, more vulnerable…something looser.

With a small nod, you allow Namjoon to usher you inside. Once inside, you slip your sandals off and drop the small clutch you squeezed your wallet and phone into onto the low, narrow settee positioned by the door.

You don’t even have time to fully turn around before Namjoon has you in his arms once more. “Oh!” you yelp in surprise, flushing with heat and exhilaration.

“Tell me again what you want,” he requests. His voice isn’t commanding, but it’s rough all the same. There’s an edge to it. Almost pleading.

You swallow, pulse hammering. “I want you.”

Something in him breaks then—not violently, but like a dam giving way after years of pressure in a swift and consuming sweep.

It feels surreal, the way Namjoon scoops you bridal-style into his arms and your hands find purchase against the smooth fabric of his jacket. He’s solid beneath your touch, grounding in a way that steadies you completely.

You can feel the rhythmic gallop of his heart beneath your palm as your other hand winds around his neck to nestle in the hair at his nape. His face is so close you can feel each puff of warm air he releases ghosting over your lips. All it would take is edging a few inches closer…

The silk skirt of your gown cascades over your legs, the slit opening to reveal where Namjoon’s fingers dimple the side of your thigh. You both drop your gazes to stare at where his hand grips you. His fingers flex, and you’d swear his hand was somewhere else with the way heat scorches through you as he does it a second time.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he growls, the words broken and desperate as he flexes his fingers again. “Touching you—it feels…I need more of it, of you. All of you. Please.”

“Then shut up and have me,” you rasp out.

The hair along Namjoon’s nape feathers through your fingers as you grip it and use your hold as a way to pull his mouth to yours.

His lips hit yours hard, taking your breath away. Your lips part in a gasp, and Namjoon takes the opening to slip his tongue in and toy with yours. There is an urgency in the way he kisses you, a consuming need that mirrors your own.

If you had known that agreeing to help Namjoon break out of his shell all those weeks ago would lead to this, you wouldn’t have been so hesitant to say yes.

Namjoon staggers down the hall, stopping periodically to gain his bearings as he continues to ravish your mouth. You’re flushed and panting by the time he gently sets you down onto the plush sheets of his bed.

He finally breaks from the kiss, lips swollen and glistening in the city lights sparkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room. You watch them form around his words as he breathlessly says, “Action item number nine: don’t forget to breathe.” You both take a collective breath and chuckle softly before melting into another more languid kiss.

You sigh when he pulls away once more, pushing to stand to his full height. Staring up at him, you take in the way his eyes sweep your prone form lying across the foot of his bed.

With delicate, feather-lite brushes, Namjoon explores the exposed skin along your throat and chest. His knuckles brush along the angled neckline of your gown, eliciting goosebumps in their wake.

“Namjoon,” you whisper his name, uncaring of how it comes out as a desperate plea.

“Let me take my time. Please, let me worship you,” he responds in kind as he drops to his knees.

You push up onto your hands. The silk of your gown makes it easy for him to turn you so your legs dangle off the side of the bed where he kneels.

With trembling hands, Namjoon parts the slit in your dress and pushes the fabric aside. A hunger enters his eyes, a silent plea asking for permission. You lift your chin a fraction, staring at him down the bridge of your nose. He looks like a man starved, on his knees, begging for his next meal.

A small shift of your hips is all the encouragement Namjoon needs for his fingers to slip up the sides of your hips and curl around the band of your silk thong. It slips down your legs easily, dropping to the floor at your feet. “Namjoon,” you sigh his name as he gently pushes your knees apart. His eyes slowly descend, sliding down your body until his gaze rests at the apex of your thighs.

The tip of Namjoon’s tongue pokes out, wetting the plump cushion of his bottom lip. “I want to taste you. I need you on my tongue,” he tells you fervently.

You don’t even have a second to steady yourself from the way those words have your insides churning into molten heat before he’s leaning in. Just from the shifting of your hips as Namjoon presses you open, you can feel how wet you are. His nose nuzzles against your thigh as he breathes you in. Maybe if your head weren’t full of clouds, you’d have the wherewithal to feel self-conscious about Namjoon dragging in a lungful of your arousal, but if anything, it adds to the throbbing ache you can feel pulsing through your clit.

A soft flick of his tongue has you instantly seeing stars and arching your back. The hot, wet heat of his mouth envelopes you the next instant as he latches onto your clit and sucks. His tongue slides down, the tip slipping over your entrance before coming back up to swirl around where his lips are still pressed to you.

“Yes, yes,” you chant, chest heaving and toes curling against the hardwood floor to either side of Namjoon’s knees.

You don’t mean to, but on instinct, you fist a hand in Namjoon’s hair and pull tight in order to press him harder against you. His nose presses against you, tongue and lips plucking and lashing with precision, clearly encouraged by your enthusiasm. 

With his other hand, Namjoon grips one of your thighs, using it as an anchor to keep you open for him. Every slide and flick of his tongue edges you closer and closer to that precipice of euphoria. You can feel your whole body tighten, each muscle growing taut with anticipation. A quiver begins in your thighs, making the moan that comes from deep in your throat warble.

Namjoon makes his own sound of pleasure, a rumble in his chest that mingles with the obscenely devious noises his mouth is making against your pussy. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your other hand fisting the sheets beneath you as you’re taken over with a full-body shudder before you completely unravel.

The pulsing begins deep, rippling out until you’re throbbing against Namjoon’s tongue. “That’s it, yes!” Namjoon growls around your clit, renewing his efforts until you’re shaking so much your teeth clack together.

“Fuck,” you gasp as you use your hold on his hair to ease him away from your very sensitive sex. The fluttering has eased, but you can still feel your body responding to the orgasm with lazy, slow clenches.

“That was…” Namjoon trails off, his panting breaths hitting the heated skin of your thighs. “I can’t even think of words to use.”

“Amazing,” you supply for him. Because it was. Fuck, it was. You’re not sure you’ve ever experienced an orgasm that intense before. “Let’s do it again,” you tease, earning a soft chuckle and a smile from Namjoon.

You smooth your hand through his hair, the strands mussed from your grip. He’s flushed, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. There is a distinct glisten to his lips, one that makes heat flood through your body. Normally, you need time to cool off between orgasms, but there is something about the way Namjoon looks right now on his knees between your thighs, your cum still lingering on his chin, that has your body keening in anticipation for what you want next.

Namjoon places an open-mouthed kiss on your thigh, the motion soft and languid. “I’ll do it as many times as you’ll let me,” he murmurs. The tip of his nose brushes your mound, the flat of his tongue pressing over your clit.

As tempting as it is to let Namjoon lick and suck another orgasm out of you, there is something more you want. “As amazing as your mouth is,” you begin, lightly gripping his hair once more to angle his face up so his eyes meet yours, “the next orgasm I have will be when I’m fucking you.”

A sly curve turns up the corner of Namjoon’s mouth. “When you’re fucking me?”

Tightening the grip in his hair, you push him back until he’s resting his ass on his heels, and you have room to stand up. Even like this, Namjoon is still so big that you don’t tower over him nearly as much as this position should allow. Still, though, you feel powerful like this. “Yes.” The word is not a command, just a statement of truth. By the look in his eyes, Namjoon accepts it, too, and if he has any qualms with you taking charge, he doesn’t show it. If anything, his body relaxes further, his will pliant and supplicant to yours.

“I’m yours,” he whispers, the ‘to command’ unspoken but heard all the same. “Tell me.”

Releasing his hair, you crook a finger under his chin and push up, guiding him without words to his feet. “Take your clothes off,” you instruct. “And then mine.”

Watching Namjoon slowly undress is a whole thing unto itself. The flex of sinew and muscle, deft fingers making efficient work of buttons and zippers. Finally, he’s left standing in front of you in only a pair of royal purple boxer briefs. You can’t help but smile.

“Like them?” he asks lightly, teasing the band with his thumbs.

The outline of his cock is distinct, the rigid length creating a direct line to a dark, wet spot on the front. Your mouth waters at the prospect of running your tongue along him from root to tip. But that will have to wait; the ache between your thighs is much too insistent.

You press your lips to keep from giggling before murmuring, “I’d like them better on the floor.”

“As you wish.”

The moment he is bared to you, his boxer briefs straining around his thighs before dropping to his ankles, you can’t help the soft groan you let out. It seems like a subconscious action, the way Namjoon cups his balls and then gives his generous cock a slow stroke, his eyes locked on your face the entire time.

You have to clear your throat before finding your words, “N-now me.”

A predatory glint burns in Namjoon’s eyes as he steps closer. So close that his erection slides along your belly, leaving a trail of wetness that you can feel subtly through the silken fabric of your dress.

Namjoon toys with a length of your hair before pushing it aside and trailing his fingers along your bared shoulder until he finds the clasp holding your dress up. When you purchased the gown, how quickly it would be to take off was the furthest thing from your mind. Now, however, you say a silent ‘thank you’ to yourself of a few weeks ago for making this choice.

The fabric comes loose, falling in a cascade of silk to puddle around your feet. Your nipples instantly respond to the cool air of Namjoon’s bedroom, pebbling tight. Yet again, you give yourself another little pat on the back for choosing to go braless tonight. One less article of clothing to stand in your way.

You can taste the tang of your arousal on Namjoon’s lips as you draw him to you. The press of his body against yours sends a new wave of appreciation through you. He fits so perfectly, your body molding to his effortlessly.

He’s a moaning mess by the time you pull away, chastely nipping at his bottom lip. A light press of your hands to his chest guides him onto the bed, his back hits the sheets, and his gaze stays firmly locked on you. It’s sinful the way he looks, stretched out on the bed, cock straining and muscles corded with anticipation.

A pearly bead has collected at the tip of his length, smearing across the flat plane of his belly where it rests. It’s far too tempting this time. Your knees dimple the mattress to either side of his legs as you crawl onto the bed after him.

Your breasts feel heavy, arousal making your nipples ache to be touched. Bending your arms so you hover just over him, the pert buds scrape along his thighs, making you both moan in appreciation. Just a small flick of your tongue, that’s all you need—for now.

The flavor of Namjoon bursts across your tongue as you collect the smeared evidence from his belly, the underside of your tongue only slightly grazing the crown of his cock. It jumps, the velvety length brushing against your chin.

“That’s dangerous, baby,” he says, voice husky and raw.

You’re tempted to continue, to see exactly how far you can take him before he’s a writhing mess erupting under your ministrations. But the throbbing of your pussy reminds you of something you want more right now.

With one last lave of your tongue over the mess on his stomach, you crawl forward until you’re straddling his hips. The underside of his cock fits perfectly against the slit of your lower lips. With as turned on as you are, you’re certain that all it would take is a few well-placed shifts of your hips for you to cum.

The skin of Namjoon’s chest is warm, the palm of your hand fitting perfectly over the curve of his pec as you brace yourself forward to lift your hips. Namjoon’s pupils are blown, making his eyes seem even darker than their usual espresso dapple. You can feel the course they trace down your body, lingering first on your right breast and then your left, before dipping down to where your sex kisses against his.

As you lift your hips higher, you can feel the length of him slide along you, collecting the arousal that has gathered there. Your other hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling the hefty girth of his shaft. The muscles in Namjoon’s stomach tense with your touch, and his mouth pops open with a hushed rush of breath.

It’s easy to fit him against you. Your body accepts the thick crown of his cock like it always belonged as you slowly lower yourself onto him, inch by inch. A shudder ripples through you, eliciting a similar response in Namjoon when you’ve finally bottomed out. He’s snuggly buried to the hilt, making you feel so full you’re certain if you looked down, you’d see a bulge low in your belly.

A torrent of affirmations and confessions that taste sweet on the tongue dribble from between your lips. You can’t help the babble, needing to let Namjoon know exactly how he makes you feel. “You feel so good. So perfect. Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue whispering, letting your mouth move of its own accord as you begin to move.

Namjoon grips your hips, encouraging you in his own way with sounds that spur you on. You thought him a man starved before; now he’s a man possessed. There is a need, a hunger, in the way his fingertips dimple your skin and his lids droop, mouth open as he groans with pleasure, urging you to move faster and harder.

Using both hands to brace yourself on Namjoon’s chest, you roll and undulate your hips smoothly, chasing that release you both so desperately need. The angle has Namjoon’s body grinding against your clit when you drop your hips over his, shooting sparks up your spine every time.

You can feel it, that building pressure of another orgasm tightening low in your belly. Namjoon’s body shifts under you as he braces his heels against the mattress and lifts his hips to meet yours, increasing the sensations thrumming through your body.

The grip on your hips tightens, anchoring you in place as Namjoon thrusts his hips up in quick succession. You pitch forward, chest meeting his. His mouth slots against yours, tongue thrusting deep, the action being rewarded with a keening moan from you.

A sudden and sweeping deluge of pleasure engulfs you as your body clamps around Namjoon. “Oh, Namjoon,” you moan his name, long and breathy.

“That’s it! Fuck, Sunshine!” Namjoon shudders, and a new sensation blossoms within your body—warmth. You can feel the rhythmic pulsing of his cock in tandem with your own throbbing walls.

Muscle by muscle, your body relaxes until you’re fully resting on Namjoon’s chest. His lips strum against yours in lazy kisses, both of you content to simply bask in the afterglow of what you just shared. The kisses turn sleepy, trailing off until you’re resting your cheek on his chest, listening to his breathing as it evens out and softens.

Sometime later, you’re not exactly sure what time it is, you rouse, still nestled atop Namjoon. His arms are wrapped around you, one hand lightly cradling your waist and the other tracing delicate patterns against the middle of your spine.

“You called me Sunshine,” you whisper, a soft smile curling your lips. You noticed it earlier when it happened, but were too far gone to bring attention to it.

Namjoon chuckles lightly. “Mmm. I did.” A knuckle under your chin has your face turning up toward his. “Is…is that okay?”

You search Namjoon’s face and realize that he’s asking seriously. “Of course, that’s okay,” you assure him. “I’ve always wondered why you didn’t.”

The look in Namjoon’s eyes softens, and he goes back to sweeping gentle fingers along your back. “Honestly? I didn’t feel worthy of using it. When Yoongi first started calling you that, I was…jealous, I think is the best word to describe it. It’s not that I wanted to be the one to call you it, I just wish I had thought to do so first myself. You’re every bit deserving of it, being the light that you are. You fill any room you walk in with warmth.”

“You know, I like to think of myself more as a moon…reflecting the light and warmth of others back at them. But, I guess Moonshine doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?”

You both laugh.

“Don’t tell Yoongi that, he might take it as a challenge.”

Time seems to stand still even as the rest of the weekend creeps by. Hour by hour, you find yourself laughing or sighing with content when you’re not being showered with affection—oh, and endless orgasms. When Monday rolls around, you’re fairly certain you’ve never had more orgasms in a twenty-four-hour span than you did over the weekend.

After a quick stop at your own apartment for a change of clothes—wearing one of Namjoon’s shirts was an acceptable thing to do at his place, but you’re not sure that would go over quite as well in the office—you proudly walk hand-in-hand with Namjoon into Proof.

“Are you free next weekend?” Namjoon asks once the elevator doors have slid closed behind you.

You think for a second, for once not entirely sure since you didn’t spend any time at all this weekend reviewing your calendar. “I think so, why?”

“Let’s take a trip. Spain, maybe?”

“What? Namjoon, no.”

“Why not? I want to show you to the world, let everyone know—”

“We both have responsibilities—”

“Next month, then.”

You have to hold back a laugh. The elevator continues to ascend, the hum a quiet background to your conversation.

“Namjoon,” you state, trying your best to keep at least a somewhat serious face.

He counters in a sing-song voice, “Sunshine.”

You can’t resist when he looks at you like that, eyes crinkled and lips lightly curled. “Oh, fine!”

“Yes!”

“No, not so fast,” you correct him, finally allowing yourself to laugh. “We will talk about it, okay? I’ll check our schedules, and we can discuss it further…say, tonight, over dinner?”

“As long as I get to have you for dessert,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand before bringing it up to brush a kiss across your knuckles.

It takes every ounce of your self-control to keep from pressing the emergency stop button on the elevator panel. What you wouldn’t give for another few minutes alone with Namjoon, especially after those slick words of his.

“You’re certain about this?” you ask him as the elevator slows to a stop at the executive floor. “About everyone knowing so soon?” With a laugh, Namjoon presses a kiss to your forehead. “Never been more certain. Relax, Sunshine.” You look up at him, seeing all the confidence and assurance you could need shining back at you as he adds with a wink, “Loosen up.”

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