#bickering

Chapter 1

The email hit your inbox at 2:47 a.m.

You almost deleted it. Spam filters were weird, and the subject line—"RE: HYBE Assistant Producer Application"—looked like every other rejection you'd trained yourself to expect. Eight years of chasing this dream had taught you one thing: hope was expensive, and you were running on fumes.

Your thumb hovered. Then, fuck it.

You opened it.

Dear Y/N, we are pleased to inform you...

The rest blurred. Your heart started doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly—like a malfunctioning hi-hat, just chaos—vision tunneling on words like "relocation package" and "start date" and "BTS comeback prep." You actually laughed—a strangled, disbelieving sound that echoed off your studio apartment walls. The same walls that had witnessed countless 4 a.m. existential crises, ramen dinners, and moments where you almost, almost gave up.

But you didn't. And now you were going to Seoul.

Wait.

You were actually going to Seoul.

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT.

Okay. Play it cool, you repeat to yourself. You're a professional. Professionals don't scream into pillows. ...Okay maybe just a little scream into the pillow.

Eight Years Earlier

Back then, "Seoul" might as well have been Mars.

You were sixteen, hunched over a dying laptop at 3 a.m., your bedroom so quiet you could hear the neighbor's dog snoring through the wall. Your screen flickered like it was having seizures—a pirated copy of FL Studio glowing back at you, downloaded from some sketchy forum after your allowance ran out halfway through the month. Your parents thought you were grinding for college entrance exams, buried in textbooks.

Plot twist: you were buried in YouTube tutorials about compression and sidechain EQ, earbuds cranked to max so they wouldn't hear the glitchy beats you were piecing together from garage sale vinyl samples.

Those early tracks were trash, honestly. Muddy-er than a puddle after rain, melodies that clashed like your parents arguing about bills. But when you blasted them through those cheap headphones, squinting at the waveform like it held secrets? Man. You felt invincible. Music wasn't just sound—it was your escape hatch from a life that felt way too small.

By senior year, you'd produced a full EP for a local band that played dingy bars on weekends. They paid you in free beer (which you couldn't even drink yet) and "exposure." Classic.

Exposure doesn't pay rent. But sure, I'll add "free beer I legally can't consume" to my resume, you thought back then.

6 Years Earlier

College kept the fire going. You picked music production, obviously, because "a safe option" would've killed you slowly. Your friends landed internships at banks and tech startups; you interned at a run-down studio where the coffee was older than you and the head engineer smelled like cigarettes and regret. You swept floors, fetched cables, absorbed everything like a sponge. Nights were for freelance gigs—mixing tracks for SoundCloud rappers who recorded in closets, fixing pitch issues for bedroom pop artists who paid you in "exposure" and the occasional pizza.

The student debt piled up like dirty laundry. But so did the credits.

Your back bank account cried but hey, at least you were passionate.

That's what we tell ourselves so we don't spiral, right?

Two Years Ago

The K-pop thing happened by accident.

You'd thrown together a demo reel for a songwriter camp—some random submission call you found on a production forum at 2 a.m., half-drunk on energy drinks. A small publishing house in Seoul wanted Western producers who could blend trap hi-hats with those big, emotional Korean melodies. You figured, why not? Worst they could say was no.

They said yes.

Remote collabs turned into regular work. Your Korean was garbage at first—just enough to fumble through KakaoTalk messages with songwriters twelve hours ahead. But you learned fast. Immersion, baby. You picked up enough to understand lyrics, to catch the emotional weight behind words, to suggest tweaks that actually made sense for the language. Soon you were pulling twenty-hour days, brain foggy from jet lag, riding that thin line between exhaustion and euphoria every time a track you worked on actually charted.

It wasn't stardom. But it was something.

Twenty-hour days and I still didn't know what sleep felt like. But also? Your name was on tracks that people actually streamed.

Take that, Brad from high school who said producing was "just a hobby."

Somewhere along the grind, you realized English wasn't gonna cut it anymore.

One Year Ago

Spanish came first—a freelance gig mixing for a Latin urban artist forced your hand. You needed to understand what they were saying to mix it right, to catch the slang, the rhythm, the feeling. Bad Bunny on repeat at 2 a.m., transcribing lyrics until your tongue learned to roll those R's. Duolingo streaks turned into actual Zoom conversations. Soon you were suggesting hook changes in Spanish, and artists noticed. They trusted you more because you got it—not just the sound waves, but the soul.

Korean was next, obviously. You attacked it like a battlefield: apps for Hangul, flashcards for vocab, BTS and Blackpink B-sides playing on loop with lyrics open so you could shadow every line. It hurt your brain. But you learned it. Semi-fluent now, enough to hold production meetings without translators, enough to catch tiny emotional shifts in a vocalist's delivery that English speakers always miss.

French and Italian were side quests—random collabs that turned into weapons. Enough to talk reverb tails with Parisian producers, enough to understand Mahmood lyrics without Google Translate butchering the poetry.

You weren't fluent, not poetically. Your accent still screamed "American." But you could connect. Really connect. In an industry where egos kill collabs and cultural slip-ups end careers, those four languages became your armor.

Because you hadn't fought this hard just to stand in the corner silent.

Four languages. Four. Five if you count English. And I still can't talk to cute baristas without freezing. Priorities, I guess.

Back to the Present

The HYBE building loomed like a fortress of glass and ambition. Your first day, badge swinging from your neck, NDAs signed in triplicate (seriously, they made you initial pages about not leaking bathroom locations—like, where would you even sell that information? "PSA: BTS pees in regular toilets, more at 11"), and a campus tour that made your jaw drop. Practice rooms with mirrored walls, cafeterias serving gourmet kimbap, gyms where idols sculpted those abs fans lost their minds over.

Abs. Right. You were here for the music. The music. Focus.

The recording complex? Straight-up producer porn. Consoles worth more than your student debt, isolation booths wrapped in foam like abstract art, personal studios for the BTS members themselves. You caught glimpses through cracked doors—RM's space cluttered with books and art (very on-brand), Suga's setup all black and minimalist (also on-brand). A producer's playground that made you want to cry a little.

That console costs more than my entire life. My entire life. I could buy a house. A small house, but still. A HOUSE.

Then: Conference Room 7A.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Han River, sleek furniture, your palms sweating through your professional composure. You arrived early, rehearsing your intro in your head. Cool. Detached. Professional. This was a job, not a meet-and-greet. You'd met artists before. You were immune to celebrity.

Lie. You were so not immune.

They trickled in like seven guys grabbing lunch instead of global icons. Hoodies, masks tugged down, easy laughter.

Jin came first, cracking jokes about the ungodly hour. "Yah, before noon? I need coffee before I'm charming—or awake." Infectious grin, instant room-temperature relaxer. He looked at you like you were a person, not a new employee, and something in your chest unclenched.

He's even prettier in person. Like, unfair. That jawline should be illegal. Also, same, Jin. Same about the coffee.

Namjoon followed, hand extended, thoughtful nod like you'd already been vetted. "Welcome, Y/N. Heard good things about your work." Flawless English, warm, grounding. The kind of leader energy that made you understand why seven chaotic individuals hadn't killed each other yet.

He's so... tall. And smart. And his voice. OKAY FOCUS. Professional. You're a professional.

Hoseok's smile nearly blinded you. "Annyeong! You tried the food yet? If not, I know the best sundubu jjigae spot—spicy but life-changing. Like, actually. I'm not just saying that." He pulled out his phone. "Here, I'll text you the location—"

Sunshine personified. Literal human sunshine. Protect him at all costs. Also yes please feed me I've been surviving on convenience store kimbap for three days.

Jimin and Taehyung waved in sync, a coordinated greeting that felt rehearsed but somehow still genuine. "Hi! Excited to work together," Jimin chirped, while Taehyung added a playful V-sign and a "Fighting!" that made you bite back a smile.

They're so cute. SO CUTE. Like matching chaotic gremlins.

Jimin's smile could power a small city. Taehyung looks like he stepped out of a black-and-white French film.

How is this my life?

Yoongi mumbled a quiet "Nice to meet you," eyes on his phone, but the tiny nod of acknowledgment felt like winning a Grammy. Minimal effort, maximum impact. You respected the energy.

King of "I'm too tired for this but I'll be polite anyway." Mood. Eternal mood.

Also his resting bitch face is somehow attractive? Why is everyone here attractive? Is it in the water?

And then—

Jungkook.

He sauntered in last, dragging his feet like he had all the time in the world. Black bucket hat shadowing his face, earbuds dangling like forgotten accessories. He scanned the room casually, paused on you—really paused—and everything slowed down.

Not in a cheesy way. It was physical. Like someone had dropped the whole room in a tank of molasses. Background noise muffled—Jin's laugh, the clink of coffee cups—all fading to a distant hum. The focus narrowed to him: the way the window light hit the edge of his jaw, the slow blink of his eyelids, the way his fingers toyed with an earbud cord.

Oh. OH. That's—okay. That's him. That's him. The golden maknae. The guy who—focus. Focus on literally anything else. His hat. Look at his hat. The hat is stupid. Why is the hat attractive? Hats aren't attractive. What is happening.

Cool assessment. Like a scout sizing up a rival player. Measuring if you belonged.

Then his mouth curved. Slow. A faint, infuriating smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. And in that micro-movement, you caught something photos never showed—a tiny scar, barely visible, in his cheek. Like a flaw in a Greek statue. A reminder he was human.

A SCAR. HE HAS A SCAR. WHY IS THAT HOT. WHY IS EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS MAN HOT.

His cheek has a scar and I'm supposed to function normally? In this economy?

The moment shattered when he spoke.

"New producer?" Voice low, lazy, that subtle Busan lilt peeking through.

Oh no. Oh no his voice. His voice just did something to my spine. Why is his voice like that. Is that allowed. Should I call a lawyer?

"Assistant producer," you corrected, your tone coming out steadier than expected, even though your pulse was doing parkour. "Y/N. Vocal production, arrangement tweaks for the comeback."

He tilted his head, hat brim casting shadows over his eyes. That smirk widened a fraction. A smirk. Infuriating.

He's SMIRKING. At me. Like I'm a bug. Or a challenge. Or—stop noticing his lips. STOP IT.

"Assistant. Right. Hope you can keep up."

Excuse me? Keep up? You've been grinding since you were sixteen while he was probably... actually what was he doing at sixteen?

Debuting? Being perfect? Okay maybe he has a point but STILL. The AUDACITY. Also why is audacity kinda hot? No. No. Bad brain.

Awkward silence. Someone coughed.

Namjoon cleared his throat pointedly. "Jungkook-ah."

Jungkook just shrugged—a fluid motion that seemed almost choreographed—and slumped into a chair across from you like he owned the place.

"Just saying. Last assistant kept tweaking my ad-libs without asking. Some of us have artistic vision, you know?"

Artistic vision? and he said it with a straight face. You're going to laugh.

You're going to laugh in his stupid perfect face. Don't laugh. Don't—oh god his arms. Why are his arms like that. The sleeves are rolled up. Who gave him permission to have forearms like that. This is workplace harassment by forearms.

Heat crawled up your neck. Professional smile firmly in place, even as your brain screamed did this guy really just say "artistic vision" unironically?

"I don't tweak without discussion. But if something doesn't serve the track, I'll call it out. That's my job." You paused, then added, because apparently your filter had taken the day off: "Also, 'artistic vision' usually involves more than just saying no to everything, but I'm sure you know that."

Oh god I'm getting fired on day one. But also his face. His face did a thing. Was that respect? Annoyance? Both?

Why do I want to see that face do more things?

The room went dead silent.

Someone—you think it was Jimin—made a sound like a choked laugh quickly disguised as a cough. Hoseok's eyes went comically wide. Even Yoongi looked up from his phone.

Yoongi looked up. YOONGI LOOKED UP. I made the man who never looks up from his phone actually look up.

Is this what power feels like?

Jungkook's eyes locked on yours—dark, intense, and something else flickering there. Challenge? Amusement? He blinked once, slow, and that tiny scar above his eyebrow seemed more pronounced when his forehead creased just slightly.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

Not a smile. Something smaller. More dangerous.

That twitch. That tiny little twitch. You want to see a real smile. You want to be the reason for a real smile. NO. NO YOU DON'T. You're here to WORK. To PRODUCE. Not to—okay but what if he smiled though. Just a little. Just once.

"We'll see."

What does that mean? Why is everything he says annoying AND attractive. This is discrimination.

I'm being discriminated against by a scar and forearm veins.

The meeting dragged on—comeback timelines, concept teasers, a rough tracklist that made your producer brain itch with ideas. You scribbled notes furiously, things like bridge needs buildup and chorus could use layering, but also Jungkook keeps staring at you.

What is his deal? And why his eyelashes are obscenely long from this angle?

You tried ignoring how his gaze kept drifting your way more than the slides justified, with his big dark eyes and his stupid hat and his—he's looking again.

Quick, look busy. Look at notes. Notes are safe. Notes don't have forearm veins. Notes don't make my stomach do flips.

Was he testing you? Bored? Secretly plotting your professional demise? The possibilities were endless. Also, did his jaw always move like that when he was thinking, or was that just for today?

Probably just for today. Definitely just for today. He definitely doesn't normally sit there looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. That would be ridiculous...

Afterward, as the others filed out with warm goodbyes—Hoseok actually slipping you a Post-it with restaurant recs, Jin tossing a dad joke about "producing" good vibes that made you groan internally—Jungkook lingered by the doorframe.

"First day jitters?" Arms crossed, leaning against the frame with studied casualness. The position made his biceps do something that should be illegal in professional settings.

Jitters? I have jitters. You give me jitters. Your entire existence gives me jitters. Also your arms. Please put those away. This is a workplace. There are rules.

"Not really." Lie. Your heart was still racing from that earlier exchange, and also you'd definitely almost walked into a glass door on your way to the bathroom earlier, but he didn't need to know that.

Very cool. Very collected. Definitely didn't almost face-plant into glass twenty minutes ago. You're a professional. Professionals walk into doors sometimes. It's called... being relatable.

"Good." He pushed off the frame, stepped closer—too close, that expensive woody cologne hitting you like a taunt. Close enough that you could see the tiny mole under his eye. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to maintain eye contact.

TOO CLOSE. TOO CLOSE AND HE SMELLS LIKE—like forest and money and something else you can't identify but want to bottle and drink. Also there's a mole. Under his lip. A MOLE.

You're going to pass away. Right here. In this conference room. They'll find your body and the NDA will prevent them from saying how you died.

"Because this isn't some indie project. We have expectations here." He said with a casual tone, warning underneath. "Don't disappoint."

Disappoint? DISAPPOINT? Sir, the only disappointment here is that you're standing this close and not—NO. NO THOUGHTS. PURE THOUGHTS. PROFESSIONAL THOUGHTS. Like... like music. And stuff. ...His eyes are really dark up close. Like coffee. I like coffee. Focus on coffee. Not his eyes. Coffee.

Then he vanished down the hall before you could respond, leaving you fuming in the empty room with that damn scar burned into your retinas and his cologne still lingering in your personal space.

That night, you stare at your ceiling in your tiny Gangnam departmen. The thrill of being here wars with the knot in your stomach. Proving yourself in this pressure cooker. And that spark Jungkook lit—annoyance, yes, but also something else. A challenge you didn't ask for.

Like he'd pegged you as an outsider before you even spoke. The classic "I was here first" energy elevated to an art form. And the worst part? A tiny part of you—the competitive part that kept you awake fixing phase issues at 4 a.m.—couldn't help but think: you know what? I'm gonna prove I can keep up. Maybe even set the pace.

Also you're going to find out if he always looks like that or if it was just a good lighting day. For research. Professional research. About... lighting. For the studio. Yes.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Hoseok in the welcome group chat: a food emoji and a text that says "tomorrow I'm taking you to that restaurant, you're gonna love it!" You smile. At least some of them are normal.

Then you think about that scar. How close he stood. How his voice sounded when he said "don't disappoint"—like a warning and a promise wrapped together.

Stop it. Stop thinking about the scar. Stop thinking about the mole. Stop thinking about the forearms. Think about... taxes. Taxes are boring. Taxes will fix this...

You hate yourself a little for noticing. A lot, actually.

But hey. Tomorrow the real work starts. You've rewritten your whole life one beat at a time, in four languages, through countless sleepless nights and moments that nearly broke you.

If he wants a fight, he's going to get one. A handsome face is definitely not going to tell you of what are you capable or not.

Margaret was happy, content, had her favorite movie on and was buried in her blankets. Her eyes were focused on the screen as it became everything she cared abou-

“MARGO! YOU HOME?!”

She jumps at the intrusion to her otherwise perfect alone time.

Her eyes widened, brows furrowed as she watched her bedroom door. She heard him. Stomping down the steps obnoxiously. Her annoying little brother.

“MARRRRGOOOO!!” He threw the door open wide scanning his eyes across the basement till he saw her, recognizing her only by her purple tufts of hair.

Opposite his loud entry, Margaret would slowly and quietly reach for her remote and paused the player, “you are being a nuisance..” she groans.

“Me? A nuisance? Pshhh! Never!”

Opposite his loud entrance, Margaret would quietly grab her remote and pause her movie. “You’re a nuisance..” she says.

“Me? A nuisance?! Never!” He removed his shoes next to the stairs on a shelf then walked over and jumped onto her bed next to her causing the older girl to lift into the air a little.

“Ooh.. it’s dirty dancin time? Patrick Swayzee! Look at that fella! Your little boyfriend!” He jokes.

Margaret wrapped an arm and leg around him as they got comfortable. “You guys are back? Since when?” She asks.

They weren’t really supposed to be back in town for another couple of weeks. Not a complaint of course, she liked having her little brother around.

He knew he caught her at a bad time, she kinda looked tired too. Butttttttt… “wanna cut my hair?”

He looked over at her, his sweet eyes and smile on full display to her.

Her eyes narrowed at him, “so you don’t tell us you’re home, you interrupt my quiet time, and now you ask of me labor? Am I right?” She asks sitting up in her bed and crossing her arms.

He rolls off the bed and raises his hand defensively, “ay man!”

While she expected an apology or something veiled as one, he gives her no such thing.

“It’s like a realllly cool hair cut!” He finished.

She sighs dramatically throwing herself backwards into her plush bed. He rests an arm lamely over her eyes, “brother you pain me.. I hope you know that if I never have children, it’s because I already mothered you..”

Frank shrugs crossing his legs as he remained on the floor, “meh, I can’t see you being a mom anyway. You’d definitely be a better aunt.”

At the mention of being an aunt she quickly sat bar up and peered down at him excitedly, “is Jamia!-“

“Blasphemy!!” He fought her accusations. “No! We’re not ready for that! I’m just sayin. I think you’d be a cool aunt eventually.” He repeats.

Then he remembers her prior concerns, “me and the guys returned like two hours ago..? give er take. I had to go see Jamia first, of course. I did see mom by the way, we sat on the porch a little before I came down here.” He tells her.

She nods and lets out a hum. “So what’s this about you wanting a haircut? Usually I have to forcefully cut your hair? I swear you almost cried when I buzzed it last time..”

He grins wide, “oh my gosh! I have this cool idea!” He reaches under her head grabbing a familiar object. A decapitated mannequin’s head. It was wrapped in clear tape with pins stuck into the eyes. On its neck was taped on a thin dry erase marker that he immediately pulled off to draw his design. “Okay! But look it’s gotta woosh like this! Woosh!”

—

Margaret held Frankie’s hand as they walked through the food court. He held little empty bottle as the older lead him to the trash can. Once they got to it, the seven year old made a fuss when Margaret reached for the bottle.

“Nooo! I can do it!” He argued reaching it up and just barely missing the slot.

Margaret rolled her eyes as she grabbed his free arm and pulled it up, lifting him into the air so he could do the task. He smiled excitedly as the bottle made a thunk upon being released into the slot.

“Woo!” She cheered for him and slowly lowered him back to his feet. “Now c’mon! I need a belt! And then we can adventure a little before we head home!”

“Adventure! Oh! Oh! Can we see the little dog place?”

“I think that’s next to my belt place, so yeah!”

“Yessss!”

As he took her hand again she looked over his dark hair. “Frankie.. when was your last haircut?” She asks. She wasn’t trying to start any issues with him, just genuinely curious as it had gotten pretty long again.

“Uhhhh.. but we’ll see the dogs! The dogs! Right!” He asks trying to change the topic.

She frowns but lets him have his peace as they walked to her desired destination first.

The twelve year old looked through the options available to her. Frank was helping her giving a thumbs up or down depending on whether it actually suited her school uniform.

She ended up choosing a navy blue belt and as they were about to pay, Frank jumped. Like he was quick to run to his sister’s side and hugged her helplessly. She turned quick to see what was wrong and her eyes landed on a headless mannequin.

“Frank! Dude! You can’t scare me like that!” She hissed.

He pointed to under a rack and then she saw it. The head. “Oh! Let’s pay.”

When they payed, Margaret asked for a bag. She had Frank run back in and retrieve the head for her, very much to his displeasure.. but hey! They saw the dogs after!

-

While Frank decorated the mannequin head they fondly named “Texas”, Margaret rolled up her carpet and readied her space for hair to be everywhere.

“What’d Jamia think of this new haircut?” She asks as she sweeps the concrete floor that had previously been hiding under her fuzzy pink carpets.

“Only that it’s hot! After I mentioned the idea, she said I had to do it! I like that girl!” He couldn’t help the starry eyed look in his eyes at the thought of his girlfriend.

Margaret grabbed a tarp from her closet, “you looooove her!”

“I might! I might possibly love this girl with my whole chest!” He confesses with a giddy grin. “Mayyybe”

“Alright lover boy.. salon Iero is in business! Tonight we are watching dirty dancing and if you so desire, I have some pop tarts.”

The Iero siblings sat together, Margaret on her bed and Frank on a chair in front of her.

Frank didn’t really like haircuts, only accepted them from her. He remembers to this day the time he got knicked. That wasn’t the only reason he hated haircuts.

It was a lot. A lot. For him to sit in that chair. Surrounded by chatter. Surrounded by all these odd noises and the radio turned up to full volume. Getting knicked was just the final thing that added to that list. It was small, he and the barber didn’t mention it. Then it got infected. For a kid that was sick a lot already, it really scared him.

And lastly..

“Frankie I’m gonna show you the clippers. Okay?” Margaret held the purple clippers in front of him. “Take em?”

He does he hesitantly takes the clippers into his hands as the movie goes on.

Lastly.. he hated the buzzing! The feeling against his skull! He’s happy that it doesn’t seem to bother him as much anymore but it would used to absolutely drive him crazy!

He let out a groan as Margaret yanked his head back. No apologies! She was invested in her movie and also in hairdresser mode. He knew she was gentler with her actual clients but she seemingly always threw him around when it was his turn. Pay back.

She brushed through this hair as she looked down at Texas and the design Frank made on her. She would grab some claw clips and a comb as she got to work.

“Remember the Woosh! Woosh! Woosh Margo!”

“Franklin! I might have to kill you if you keep saying that!”

After everything with divied up, she would retrieve the clippers from Frank again. So as to not alarm him, she turned it on and turned it over as she placed it on his arm to let him feel it. She’d then slowly move it to his shoulder then to his neck. She knew this was his least favorite part. Hated the clippers, always had.

“Ready?” She asks.

His response in a nonverbal nod.

Ripping off the bandage, so to speak, she started. She was careful to stay within the pattern they agreed on. She moved his head around as needed and for the first time, Frank was okay.

He wasn’t fighting, maybe his right leg was jumping, but he wasn’t fighting! He just silently watched the movie as the Patrick Swayzee dude returned in a rebellious act surprising the Baby chick.

Margaret then shoved his head around to work on the other side and he just followed her lead. “Do I still have to tip if I get a concussion?” He asks.

“Only if the concussion is blue!” She replied.

“Dang it! I’m only seeing green right now! Oh- hey look they’re about to do the thing!” He pointed to the tv.

The two siblings would go quiet as they watched the lift scene.

-

Frank looked into her vanity and did a little playful spin, “oh! I look good! Jamia’s gonna love it!” He said proudly.

“Frankie! I was thinking actually.. I have bleach?” She mentions.