#bts reader insert

Who the fuck takes notes during early orientation? Clearly Namjoon.

Out of spite you flipped your notebook open to a fresh page, mindlessly jotting down whatever the professor spat out of her mouth. Nothing useful to you, but you couldn’t let him risk the chance of getting ahead. Not this time.

Some may say you’re petty, you just like to say you’re a woman true to her word.

Was that promise only made to yourself without him present? Perhaps, but it was a promise nonetheless. One made behind a humming vending machine outside of your fourth grade gymnasium after your perfectly proportioned heart diagram lost to Namjoon’s picturesque sculpture of the brain. You could see it now: little you, tears streaming down your cheeks as you hugged that poster board and mini 3D heart in your palm, broken in your hand like the one that beat in your chest; your little soul craving vengeance.

There was no telling why hate was the emotion that stuck to him more than any others. Maybe it was the way your mother seemed to drown him in the compliments she couldn’t ever seem to find when it came to you, or that smug little smirk he had shot your way when the frilly blue ‘1st place’ ribbon had been pinned to his table.

The same one he shot you now–dark brown eyes regarding you over the lid of his reusable cup, lips curled just up enough just to sting your ego, but not enough to be read as anything but passive to an unsuspecting onlooker. A look he saved especially for you.

Giving another exaggerated roll of your eyes his way, you fixed them back on your notebook and the strange diagonal path your handwriting had taken while you weren’t looking. Easy fix. Erase, rewrite, tidy the margins…There we go. Perfect, just how you liked it to be.

This rivalry wasn’t one-sided–you had definitely earned the ranking of enemy number one in his book when your popsicle stick bridge lasted longer than his during a 6th grade project. Ever since then it’s been a race between who could do the most and who could do it better.

Dean’s list. AP classes. A third language course to your second. You standing proud on a spelling bee stage while he slaughtered his opponents at a debate next door. Sculptures. Oil paintings. The spring musical vs marching band. Anything one of you did, the other had to do something just as grand. If there was a list of any sort, you and Namjoon were climbing tooth and nail to land on top of the other, clawing past the others around you like none of them mattered.

So of course it made sense that when you graduated high-school and hiked off to college all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, ready to take on your B.S in molecular biology–he was there too. Two dorm floors up at night, and two seats to your left during the day at half your classes. You had only let yourself be disappointed for a week before making it your business to ignore him.

Now, there was no disappointment when you saw him mosey in thirty seconds after you did that morning, because at this point you had begun to expect him everywhere. You would have actually been more alarmed had he not shown up to the masters program orientation to listen to the professor explain what your next two years of Medical Illustration hell would look like. Reading between the lines of the syllabus told you that it would consist of negative hours of sleep and cramping hands–but then it would be over. Your dreams accomplished, the degree yours. The compliments from your mother showered onto you instead of him. A life you could only dream of leading with a connection already waiting at a big health magazine in Vermont, a comfortable life tucked away from small suburbs and over-priced pizza. This endless competition between you and Namjoon dead and buried for a chance at freedom and success. The little girl inside of you that nursed her broken heart squealing with excitement.

Unless he somehow applied for the same job you did. Which wasn’t out of the question when your mother so happily provided him with your connection’s number one late friday at dinner when she’d had too much Tito’s and cream-heavy pasta to care how much that hurt.

Your mouth went sour just thinking about it, the image of him tucking the torn piece of notebook paper with your mom’s cousin’s number into his pocket for safe keeping. This field was competitive enough as is, you didn’t need that giant oak tree of a man taking up more space in your path than he already was.

The professor clicked the remote in her hand and changed the slide. New sentences crawled across the screen, and your pencil kicked in to motion to copy them down. Namjoon’s did too, gaze flickering back to assess your pace before speeding up.

You grit your teeth, urging your hand to write faster, ignoring the iron hot ache that budded in your wrist and the back of your fist. That was normal, you told yourself. It was just the heat of summer burrowing into your skin and sucking the water from it. A normal reaction to dehydration. You cast a cursory glance to your cup of iced coffee, wincing when you tried to recall the last time you had a glass of water.

Suddenly you became hyper aware of the rest of your body, and the acute pang in your tailbone, a fuzzy stabbing sensation radiating down the back of your thigh. No biggie. Just restricted blood flow.

You shifted in your seat just enough to offer the relief you needed. It worked for now.

Glancing at the clock, you noted there were only a few more minutes left of this and you could be free of his presence (and this offensively hard chair). A few more sentences. A few more pages.

Your hand really fucking hurt, but you refused to slow down. It’s nothing a little ice and electrolytes couldn’t fix.

With a clap of her hands, the professor sent you off with a warm welcome to campus and a grin too wide for someone who just talked about dissecting fascia and autopsy studies for an hour. Eh. Maybe that could be you in ten years–you had no room to judge.

Shuffling your notebook and laptop into a neat stack, you barely noticed when a shadow loomed behind you. Not until it took one long, obnoxiously loud sip of iced coffee, the metal straw clanging against the rim.

“You coming for dinner on Friday, or should I mark you absent?”

Huffing to yourself, you buttoned up your bag and ducked beneath the shoulder strap, not even sparing him the smallest of glances. “I’m obviously coming, I’ve never been marked absent in my life. My mother would kill me if I didn’t.”

That was a lie. Not the part about your mother killing you–that was true–but as for your attendance, you had actually been hoping to weasel your way out of it with the excuse of prepping for the first week. You had piles of laundry to do, your apartment was in need of a good deep clean, an appointment to knock off your roster, and you were pretty sure there was an electric bill tucked somewhere beneath one of your textbooks that you kept forgetting to pay. Truth be told, you were exhausted. The kind of exhausted that afternoon naps and eight hours of sleep weren’t curing. And the last thing you wanted to do was sit at a dinner table with Namjoon while both your mothers gushed about how great he was.

Namjoon hummed. “Just checking.”

“Why?” You scoffed. “Thought you could try and win extra mom points while I’m gone or something?”

His face scrunched in distaste, and he took another sip of his drink. “No. Just wanted to know how many plates to set out. Mom was asking.”

Pacing back up the stairs of the lecture hall, you cooed over your shoulder at him. “Aww. Are you staying with mummy for the week?”

“Oh, you mean I shouldn’t enjoy free rent for the summer and home cooked meals?”

“Not when you’re twenty-five.”

“Not when you’re twenty-five” Namjoon mimicked the pitch of your voice and rolled his eyes, still following you out into the hall. “God forbid I try to be nice to you.”

Giving him a once over, you hum thoughtfully. “Hmm. It doesn’t look good on you.”

Using your shoulder, you shove your way out of the front door and skip down the steps, stopping abruptly at the bottom to fumble for a set of ear buds and plugging them into your ears, drowning out anything else he could say. You had a schedule to keep up with, and you didn’t feel like wasting any of that precious time fraternizing with the enemy. Your routine was simple yet effective; one you followed everyday without fail. And right about now you were due for your afternoon walk around the campus grounds before you’d head home, shower for the night, attempt to do some household chores before sprawling out on your desk and working on your drawing skills. There was nothing else that reignited the childlike wonder of flipping through colorful medical textbook diagrams than being able to draw your own.

Sleep was in there somewhere if you had time.

Walking was less than pleasant. The soles of your feet burned. Each step sending sharp pains up the arch of the foot that wrapped around the side and bit into the muscles and tendons there. Damn you for choosing the flattest shoe you owned that day. You made a mental note to pack your walking shoes into your bag on the first day of classes to avoid this...set back in the future.

By the time you had clambered up your apartment stairs you were screaming internally, cursing your own blood line for your poor footwear choices. All you could think about was putting your feet up after a nice hot shower and curling around a book–probably one of your last chances to read for leisure in a while.

So you did just that, washing off the sickening memory of Namjoon and his stupid coffee that smelt too much like your own and his stupid voice. Trailing steam across the hardwood floors as you paced to the kitchen for an ice pack, you snagged one for your wrist and let the fridge door suction closed. Pausing just beside it, you debating getting one for your feet. It did sound nice, after all the muscles were still raging against you.

Shaking your head, you decided against it. It would pass with a bit of rest and maybe a quick nap–nothing worth using up another ice pack for. You only had two anyway, and it’s not like you were limping around. It was just a cramp. Nothing you couldn’t handle.

_________________________________________

The week came and went faster than you had liked, bringing Friday along it’s slithering back with a sense of dread and self-pity you had no right to be feeling. You had five days to get your shit together and you hadn’t. Instead you had chosen to spend the time moping about your apartment about the impending conclusion of your break, the days a blur of aching feet, stiff wrists and a headache you couldn’t seem to shake for longer than a few hours.

You loved summer. Hated the heat.

It was the only reasonable conclusion you could give for feeling the way you were as of late. Heat was making your muscles sore. Heat was making your headaches worse. You just needed to drink water and cool down, you reassured yourself. Take the day to let your muscles breathe and your body catch up with the week ahead.

Though when you saw Namjoon jog down your block every morning at six am on the dot–hair brushed back by a sweatband and skin glowing with the rise of the sun–it squashed your resolve to rest and had you tying on your tennis shoes, taking off for the complexes gym with nothing but six ounces of water in your system and a prayer to the tylenol gods to have mercy on your poor battered brain.

Something in your mind nagged at you to slow down. Begged you to just accept that maybe today you only ran four miles instead of your strict eight. Whispered up through the pages of flipped textbooks and the cursive ink of your degree that was hung above your sofa that rest was just as necessary as effort. And of course it was! How could one expect growth without proper recovery?

Not for you though. You were built different in your mind.

Your wrist was only kind of sore by now anyway, and your feet would only hurt after the ten minute warm up instead of before. So in your twisted mind, you were improving! Just...slowly. If you pushed just a bit harder, you could build up better endurance and kick these little aches and pains to the curb.

That’s what you told yourself as you breathed through the shoulder presses, using the time to mentally organize your to-do list for the day. After procrastinating all week, it was piled high with errands, grocery lists, meal prepping, and of course, the fucking laundry that never seemed to end. Not to mention, past you seemed to have a bounty out for your sanity, because you had naively scheduled your annual physical later that afternoon with barely any time to spare before the dreaded dinner. The you from six months ago had such higher expectations for yourself. She probably thought to herself: “Oh how perfect! Knock it all out in one week! I’m such a smart, punctual superstar!”

Stupid. You were never doing that to yourself again.

Grimacing through your last set, you uncapped her bottle of water and held it up to your lips, pouring some into your mouth while you inspected the weight. Your reps felt harder to push through, each press upwards like moving the weight through peanut butter instead of air, an unusual challenge that tested your already thinned patience. Shrugging, you twisted the cap back on. It was the same amount as last week, if not a couple pounds lighter.

Maybe you had simply miscounted your reps. Or perhaps it was the damn heat again.

You passed Namjoon going back up the stairs, the man stretching his long limbs outside the building’s propped open doors while he caught his breath. Averting your gaze from him, you shuffled by to pry open your mailbox, frowning when nothing came tumbling out despite not having checked in a few days.

“Good workout today?” Namjoon asked breathlessly.

“Yup.” You replied, flat and clearly disinterested in hearing his voice. Adjusting your earbuds in your ear, you hoped he’d get the hint. Clearly he didn’t.

Namjoon shook out his arms and raised his watch to observe it’s screen, grinning back up to the side of your face. “Almost at seven miles. How about you?”

Slamming the metal door shut you stalked past him, taking the stairs slowly. “Eight. And an upper body circuit.” Stopping to lean over the second staircase’s railing, you winked. “Try and keep up.”

Skipping up the steps your legs felt numb and shaky, trembling muscle tucked inside skin that didn’t feel real. The heel of your foot struck the third floor landing, and in seconds the breath was ripped from your lungs–a bolt of lighting crawling over your ankle and up the flat of the shin, everything it touched lift tingling and weak. A clunk of bone against bone. The restricted movement that had panic eroding the edges of your confidence.

From below, you heard the telltale sound of the glass door to the building swinging closed, sneakers scuffing up the concrete stairs, and a cough that sounded too familiar. As far as you knew, Namjoon didn’t live here, but you had seen him going into that stoner’s apartment on floor two; a tall and dreamy culinary arts major that used his skills to appease his strange, smoke-leaden appetite.

You held your breath, bent at the waist to rub soothing circles into your ankle, hobbling away from the opening so he wouldn’t see. Wouldn’t hear the quickening breath of panic that maybe something could be wrong.

He stamped up to the landing below you and meandered through the hall on his left, disappearing after the smell of cooked food that smelt suspiciously of warm peanut butter and breakfast pizza.

Waiting until you heard the door to an apartment close, you tried to stand again on unsteady feet, sucking in a breath of air when it felt just as sharp. In a few excruciating steps, it began to disperse, the dust of the pain settling like it had never been stirred in the first place.

Weird.

You didn’t let yourself dwell on it, letting the moment roll off your back like water, trudging up the last flight of stairs and bee-lining for the shower. A few ankle rolls and tendon exercises were added to your workout goals for the next day, believing it was nothing more than a weak spot that needed a little tough love.

Tough love was the only love you truly believed in.

Sweat and the musty smell of gym air clung to your clothes and skin, and you wished nothing more than to be rid of them and embrace the warmth of the water.

Steam billowed in the bathroom, floating in thick clouds that moistened the air and felt good to breathe in. You took your time, massaging the ball of your ankle, running fingers over your stiff wrists and digging into the pressure points around your scalp. It felt good to breathe out the tension into the shower and let it run down the drain, relief coming in the form of increased blood flow and a comforting heat that didn’t smell like asphalt and burnt grass.

Your feet sunk into the plush bath mat, body parting the steam to stand in front of the sink, towel wrapped around your body while you started to pat in your skin care–serums and hydrating creams that promised perfection. Reaching for the second bottle, your hands lagged just a second behind direction, the movement clunky and disorienting. Shaking it off, you pinched the dropper between two fingers and tipped your head back, hovering it over your cheeks.

Black spots crept into your vision, your brain doing its own impression of a tilt-a-whirl ride around the perimeter of your skull. Hands shook and arms trembled, your brain fuzzy and dense like a rock. A dull pulse situating behind the right eye, annoying and disorienting. You hastily lowered the bottle back to the counter, blinking rapidly. Your eyelids fighting for their lives against the haze like puny windshield wipers in a category five hurricane. Counting your breaths, the feeling subsided with nothing but a slightly elevated heart rate to remind you that what ever had happened was real.

Shaking your head, you laughed at your own reflection, doing your best to diffuse the situation. To distract yourself. “Jesus, is this your first day alive?” Grabbing for the next bottle you continued on, jumping back into the hurried pace you perpetually kept, always moving through every action like you were being chased.

Laundry was next on your list, dragging the hamper from your room and taking care to empty pockets, sorting the lights from the darks. Folding what was in the dryer straight from the source, stacking it atop the machine in pristine columns that you slotted into place in your closet and drawers. Everything neat. Everything perfect, just how you liked it.

To your delight, you didn’t run into Namjoon again on the way to your car, giving you all the space you needed to prepare yourself for the appointment–or in your case, blasting the radio and treating yourself to an iced coffee so the buzz of the drink would numb the simmering panic of being under a doctor’s scrutiny.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? Someone who was training to be able to draw the intricate functions of the human heart or the wonders of pregnancy in explicit detail had a fear of a meager doctor’s visit. To be fair, it was probably your mother’s fault–that woman would rather be caught dead than in any medical facility. She was quite content with her teas, essential oils, and way too much ibuprofen than was possibly good for her kidneys. She spoke of doctors like beasts in a fairy tale, out to get you with nothing but their own best interests in mind, ravenous claws made of needles to shuck you with as they pleased and mouths foaming with poisonous chemicals and dehumanizing insults. Your mother did always have a knack for theatrics.

Can’t say that didn’t affect how you viewed them at least a little bit.

In her defense, she had a hand full of pretty shitty run-ins with doctor’s in the past. One of them tried giving her medication she had expressed she was explicitly allergic to, and another called her a liar to her face pretty much every time he saw her, bossing her around her entire pregnancy and making her feel less than. This fear ran deeper than her, beginning somewhere from her father who had struggled with keeping his own heart beating and standing upright by the time he hit thirty, turned away with scratching heads and confused shrugs by every doctor he saw, constantly being told to “exercise and eat better” all the way up until a sixth stroke wiped him out before he could hit 40. Because of that, your doctor growing up was hard work and dedication. Kisses on the forehead drenched in good intentions and colloidal silver. Good vibes and gritted teeth.

And you lived, right? More or less.

Your pulse skyrocketed the moment you turned off the exit near the practice, and was all but falling out of your mouth when you stepped onto the pavement of the parking lot. It was just a yearly check up. Nothing to lose your fucking mind over.

You knew how this would go. Check in, slump in a hard-bottomed plastic chair for ten minutes, close your eyes when a nurse dragged you on the scale, and then sink into the sterile plush table and crinkled paper for the doctor to take one look at you and send you home. And that’s how you liked it. He didn’t ask many questions, and you didn’t offer many answers. A mutual understanding that neither of you wanted to be there.

Illegal? Maybe. But you weren’t rushing to stand on trial any time soon.

Dragging your feet up to the desk, you smacked your insurance card on the surface and pulled your purse up to preemptively pluck out your ID, tossing out a clipped “2:30 with Dr. Stevens.”

The woman behind the desk paused her incessant typing, an apologetic smile gracing her features. “I’m sorry miss, but Dr. Stevens isn’t in today. They have you seeing Dr. Malkovich–is that alright?”

You froze, stammering. “Uh...y-yeah. Sure.”

“I’m so sorry, someone should have contacted you about it. Did you receive any notice?”

Thinking back, you had gotten a notification from your health portal that you had so conveniently swiped away and forgotten about. Plastering on a polite smile, you feigned forgetfulness instead of cowardliness. “Oh shoot, they had. My bad.”

That should have been your first hint that this appointment was going to go nothing like your previous ones. Yeah the chairs were still uncomfortable, and you still looked away when the nurse led you to the scale, but when you situated yourself on the obnoxiously loud paper, you didn’t wait in a cold room for ten minutes only to be interrupted by an old man that didn’t bother to look at you. Because within two minutes, a young woman in her late thirties scuttled in, curls running rampant down the sides of her face where they escaped from an over stretched claw clip and eyes so kind they melted your fear when they met your own.

“Dr. Malkovich,” She took your hand, shaking it firmly before falling back onto the stool and scanning her badge on the computer screen. She didn’t make small talk. Didn’t talk about the weather or ask if you had any vacations planned. Instead she brewed over the information in your chart, a soft crease forming between her brows while she scrolled further down. She clicked on another section. Then another.

Finally she spoke. “Your blood pressure is a bit low and your heart rate was on the higher end. Is that normal for you?”

“Guess so.” You shrugged.

The doctor hummed, tapping her finger mindlessly against the back of her mouse. “I noticed your last panel had some abnormalities. Did Dr. Stevens go over those with you?”

“Briefly,” You lied.

Her brown eyes flitted over your form doubtfully, then back to her screen. “Since it’s been a bit, I want to order another if that’s alright with you. Just check for any patterns. See how things are going.” Tugging out a small device from her pocket, she clicked on the light and scooted her chair in front of you, waving the beam over your eyes. “Have you been experiencing anything new you want to talk about?”

You thought back to the moment on the stairs. The headaches. The fatigue. The aches and cramps in your feet. The dizzy spell in the bathroom. Sighing, you knew the only way to beat out your mother’s deeply sowed beliefs was to prove her wrong, so you relayed to her (though begrudgingly) the strange occurrences that had been scattered over the past six months, and watched her face carefully for any sort of reaction.

Without warning, she grabbed for your hands and gave them a testing squeeze, her skin so warm against the cold skin of your hands your breath hitched. Clicking her tongue against her teeth at the temperature, she dropped them back into your lap. Next, the pads of her fingers prodded over the sides of your neck and below your jaw, pursing her lips when one spot was particularly tender. You knew what she was feeling, you could map out the lymph nodes in your neck and every vein and artery below it–draw the shape of the thyroid in your sleep. “Your hands always this cold?”

Hesitating with that question, you genuinely pondered over the answer. Were they always that cold? “Honestly? Yeah. It’s just...always been that way.” You relented softly.

“And all of these other symptoms, have those also just ‘always been that way’?” She tilted her head, quoting what you said with a small half-smile.

All you could muster up was a shrug, feeling far too exposed and vulnerable on the examination table than you had prepared yourself for. “Mom always said it was normal.”

The doctor chuckled under her breath at that, unwinding the blood pressure cuff from the little wire cart and coming to stand besides you, ripping apart the velcro latch with a deafening scratch and hovering it over your arm.

“What are you doing? They already did that.” Anxiety swirled around your abdomen.

“Sounds like you could be experiencing some circulation issues among other things. I’m going to put a pulse monitor on and a blood pressure cuff, and I’m going to have you move around a bit for me. Think you can do that?”

Taking her up on what you had only taken as a challenge, you shrugged. “Sure.”

You should have fucking said no.

Because if you had, you wouldn’t be sitting in a walk in lab while a nurse takes vial after vial of your blood for testing. Wouldn’t have two different referrals tucked under your arm for two different specialists. Wouldn’t have heard her say the words “With your family history, we just don’t want to risk not looking further.” Or her kind smile when she told you to start “taking it easy”.

There was nothing to fucking look for. No reason to take anything easy. You were fine. Perfect even.

If you weren’t, you would fix it. You would do whatever it took to fix it.

Your mind was reeling when you stepped up to the Kim’s front porch, wringing your hand through the strap of the bag while noting your mother’s parked sedan. You weren’t sure if the twist in your stomach at the sight of it was excitement or foreboding.

You were late.

Thirty minutes late to be exact. All of the extra time spent chatting over next steps, waiting for an opening at the lab, and picking up a preemptive vitamin D prescription digging further into your time for the day.

Against your expectations, Namjoon was the one who had opened the door, still chewing a haphazardly shoveled bite of food he had probably scooped up on his way to the door, a loose grain of rice stuck to his bottom lip. He grunted, stepping aside to let you brush past him. You didn’t miss the way his eyes zeroed in on the pharmacy bag or the piece of gauze wrapped around your elbow. That sickening, inquisitive gleam taking over the rich brown of his irises; tantalized by the potential of a new challenge by the looks of it.

From down the hall you could hear the women chattering away at the table, their voices climbing over one another in innocent excitement, punctuated with squeaky laughter and clinking silverware. It seemed your absence hadn’t stopped their afternoon in the slightest. Rounding the corner, you tucked the paper bag into your purse before your mother could lay her eyes on it and forced the edges of your mouth to soften into a smile.

“Sorry I’m late. My appointment ran a bit longer than usual.”

Raising her wine glass to her lips, your mother tried to hide her displeasure behind a tight-lipped smile. “No worries, hun. Have a seat.”

You wasted no time in helping yourself to the meal at the center of the table, scooping rice and thinly sliced marinated meat into your bowl, practically drooling at the sight of it. A small gasp broke you out of your stupor, a hand shooting out to steady your forearm.

“You let them poke you?”

Fighting back the urge to roll your eyes at her dramatics, you pulled your arm from your moms grasp and sunk into the plush dining room chair. “It’s their job mom. It’s just to make sure everything is good.”

“They don’t need to be stabbing you with needles and running a bunch of tests to know that.”

“That is quite literally their job, mom,” You snorted, shoveling a bite of food into your mouth. “Ever heard of a phlebotomist?”

The conversation moved onward without you in it, the two of them laughing over something that had happened within their book club meeting the previous evening or sharing offhanded antidotes about their week. Somewhere in between HOA gossip and grocery prices, they circled back to their favorite topic–Namjoon.

“Oh hun, did you hear that he signed up for another 10k? It’s in a couple weeks.”

The force of your grip nearly bent your spoon in half, the sharp edge of your disdain barely concealed. “Wow. That’s great.”

“And he signed up for the tutoring program for the semester. So he will be mentoring younger students on the campus for an extra boost. The professor asked him personally.” His mother chimed in, absolutely beaming with pride.

Out of the corner of your eye, Namjoon winced into his drink, ears turning a faint shade of pink. “Mom-”

“You must be so proud!” Your mother gushed, patting Namjoon’s forearm lovingly.

Your mouth went dry, gaze falling down to your half eaten bowl to nudge the grains of rice around with the back of your spoon. That burning need to prove that you could be better–that you could do better rearing it’s ugly head. The heat from it clashing with the icy cold whisper of your doctors voice telling you to take it easy. To rest. A storm brewed in your mind as the two fronts battled out their differences.

In your pocket your phone buzzed, giving you the distraction you needed from their bubbly discussion about Namjoon’s new apartment that sounded eerily close to yours. It was a notification from your health chart, a few of the test results had already been received and reviewed.

Tapping on the icon you scrolled through the panels, the flagged abnormalities staring you back in the face. A message from Dr. Malkovich already scrawled out beneath it.

“Please call the office to schedule a follow up, as I would like to discuss these results in person. I look forward to hearing about your visits with the specialists until then. Take it easy, and don’t hesitate to reach out if anything new pops up. -Dr M.”

“Is everything alright, hun?” Your mother finally addressed you again, her eyes clearly prodding over the blatant medical insignia on the apps homepage over your shoulder.

“Yep,” You cleared your throat, shoving your phone into your pocket and keeping your eyes down on your bowl. “Just the doctor getting back to me.”

“And everything’s good?” She pushed further, placing her glass back on the table. Everyone had paused to look at you, their stares feeling less like friendly concern and more like a pack of wolves with sharp teeth ready to tear into you if you said otherwise.

Lifting your own glass to your lips, you focused on the rose colored bubbles that lined edge of the ruby liquid. “Like I said, everything’s good.”

That answer was satisfactory for your mom to move on from, diving head first into her wine and jovial gossip. Though someone else didn’t seem as convinced by your answer, their eyes staring holes into your forehead, and their curious energy hanging so thick over your head you thought it might rain with questions.

Keeping your glass where it was you poised it for another sip, face scrunched up into your best ‘the fuck is your problem?’ look, which he returned with a pointed look at your phone, his brow flinching upwards just slightly.

What’s all that about? It seemed to say.

Your glass hit the table a bit harder than necessary, your mother shooting you a look from the corner of her eye that was too quick to see the silent ‘fuck you!’ you shot to Namjoon. He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling behind his next bite of food.

The last person you wanted to talk to was him. You couldn’t wait to get home and crawl beneath the covers of your bed and pretend the day had never happened. Maybe even delete the health app entirely if you were feeling extra wild–tie up any loose ends to your delusions that whatever was going on was just the heat.

Tomorrow you would go to the gym and train like you were running for a 10k. Because Namjoon was. And you couldn’t let him hold that over you.

Everything was good. Everything would be good–you’d make sure of it.

_________________________________________

Everything was not good. Your body made sure to tell you that every time you rolled out of bed or sat bent too long over a text book. The gym which was once your friend and most trusted medicine–a naive shield against any ailments–dug the knife of betrayal deeper into your back with each passing week.

The faster you ran from this mystical being that had carved out a home in your body, the closer it crept, claws extended to shred through your foolish beliefs. The heavier you trained, the worse you felt despite the thousands of health influencers online trying to convince you otherwise. Sleep called to you more than you cared to admit, more than you thought it needed to, but no matter how much you tried to feed into its starved greed, it was never satisfied. The beast craved more, and punished harder when you didn’t listen.

Months had gone by, the heat no longer a suspect you could point your finger at when your joints shook or your head threw its own firework show behind your eyelids.

At some orthopedic specialist your doctor had wanted you to see, they advised you against running– against heavy lifting and everything that made you feel powerful. Everything that made you feel like you were in control.

They gave you a list of exercises to do in your home, on your floor, or in your bed. Exercises that were too easy for your muscles that they didn’t believe that you trained because your blood work and physical examination had said otherwise. Apparently, you had decreased muscle mass. Apparently in their eyes, you weren’t trying hard enough, but somehow trying too much. A scold and a redirection. Correction for the sake of care.

Your mother must hate the doctor’s office because it must feel like looking into a mirror; for everyone there acted just like her. No praise, only critique.

That doctor wrote another referral, some rheumatologist on the edge of town that had a five month waiting list and a hefty copay, sending you away with a pat on the head and a “try and work on these exercises for us, okay?”

Of course you listened, the insulation that couldn’t or hadn’t been doing anything at all scorching your pride. You did those exercises six times a day instead of three just to prove that you could. Limited all the foods they told you to even though you weren’t really eating them in the first place. Drank even more water than you already were.

The next occupational therapist then of course told you that you drank too much water and tried too hard. She threw around the word Fibromyalgia with a voice so soft and angelic it was like she was talking to a baby. A suggestion that she couldn’t stick onto you yet. A condescending tone masked behind sweetness. A series of flashcards that explained shit you already knew. Shit you already did.

If you were doing everything right to fix it, why wasn’t it fucking fixed already?

“How many miles did you do this morning?”

You blinked away the blurry haze of your thoughts, coming to on the leg press machine in your complex gym, eyes flitting up to a face that made you instantly regret having good vision. Namjoon’s question shouldn’t irritate you. It was something he asked you each time he found you in the gym since he had scurried into an apartment on the first floor at the start of the semester. The first couple weeks you would gloat about your mileage while wiping well-earned sweat from your brow. As of recent though, you found yourself fibbing–making up numbers on the spot and watching him believe it.

The lie much easier to say than the truth you would never admit out loud: that you couldn’t run anymore. Seeing the way he’d puff out his chest and laugh at you meant you would take that secret to the grave.

It was easy to fool him with the way you suddenly found yourself heaving after a simple strength routine, muscles weak and shaking from thirty minutes of low intensity movement, sweat pouring down your temples like it deserved to be there–it all made the lie believable.

But today?

You weren’t sweating. You were crumbling from nothing. Thighs quivering from only two minutes on the machine. Fatigue crashing into you like a tidal wave that weighed heavy on your eyelids.

Still you lied, voice smaller and more defensive than you intended. “Nine.”

One of his brows quirked upwards into his sweat dampened hair, lips pursed as he drank in your state. “Nine?”

“Yep.” You averted your eyes to the window in front of you. “Keep up.”

You sounded flat even to yourself. Everything felt flat. Your eyes sight lacked some of its dimension. Your sharpened edges of wit were nicked with exhaustion. Exhaustion you didn’t deserve. You hadn’t even fucking done anything yet. Only three months into your first semester and you felt like this. Three months and what you had thought would be a little bump in the road was becoming a sink hole.

Namjoon seemed to notice something was off, hesitating besides the machine for a beat too long. His body heat hovering just a hair too close. Finally, after a few minutes of just standing there with his annoyingly observant eyes scanning your features he found what he wanted to say.

“You good?”

Profound. The exhale you released from your nose was supposed to be humored, but just sounded a bit cynical. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth, body shifting like he was weighing what he wanted to say. “Your mom said you were going to a new doctor. How’s that going?”

Humiliation ravaged your insides, twisting and coiling tight like a snake waiting to sink its teeth into whatever sorry soul happened by its den. You missed two dinners and all of the sudden your mother is spilling out your secrets to whomever she wanted. It was unclear why you were humiliated, but something about Namjoon getting a whiff of your current predicament felt like salt on a fresh wound. He was the last person you ever wanted to know about how you’ve been. You couldn’t bear seeing that stupid fucking smirk when he’d rub in his superior genetics.

Snatching up your water bottle from the floor you scowled. “Great. Why the fuck do you care?”

Namjoon didn’t bite right away, content with just watching you squirm under his scrutiny. “Because you seem to care a lot about me caring.”

“I don’t.”

“Clearly you do or you wouldn’t be so defensive.”

Pushing yourself out of the seat, you shook your head at him, veering off towards your gym back and hoisting it over your shoulder. “I could care less about anything to do with you.”

“Our whole lives seem to beg to differ, but go off.” Namjoon scoffed, bending down to adjust the weights on the leg press machine. Higher than you had it. Much higher.

Your throat constricted as though that very weight had wound itself around your neck. “Yeah, right. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Shoving open the door to the hall you let it bang against the exposed brick and close on its own behind you. A promise to yourself that next time you saw him, it would be a victory of yours and not his. If you couldn’t beat him in the gym you would continue to dominate him in the lecture hall. Easy.

Finals popped around the corners like the zombies in one of those kitschy haunted houses your friend had dragged you to the previous autumn–surprisingly shocking even though you had smelt its arrival from a mile away.

Studying was a nightmare.

Answers started slipping through your fingers for you to fumble to catch just in the nick of time. Letters mixed themselves up on the page. You saw doctors more than you saw your own mother–each one of them left you more puzzled than the last, scratching their heads and sending you home with more physical therapy referrals and a pat on the back to “exercise more and eat well”. Pain was now your closest friend. The strange aches and sharp tugs of muscle or bone more consistent than your sleep schedule. The fatigue whittling down at your motivation.

But when you found yourself shivering in the breezy lecture hall that December, you prayed that it would all be worth it when your professor returned your research paper onto your desk with a subtle curve of her lips, traipsing down the rest to slip them onto the desks of your peers. You didn’t dare flip it over, not until Namjoon’s packet slid across the dark wood and into his hands. Then you looked.

Waiting until the teacher was distracted with another student, you held it up, index finger hovering below the score written in bright red ink. 100/100 :).

Even from your distance you could see Namjoon’s eyes widened a fraction at the score on your paper, an inaudible scoff shaking him. He shook his head, cheeks hollowed in frustration and pad of printed writing dropped back down to his desk. Briefly he flashed you his own.

99/100.

You rode that high for the rest of the week, carting around the paper in your bag like it was a trophy. A reminder of why you studied so hard your eyes burned and your body gave out. Friday rolled around and you couldn’t wait to bring it up to your mother. Couldn’t wait to slip it into conversation like it was nothing–like it wasn’t something you had cried over, begging your hands to just fucking work when they kept lagging behind your brains command or your headache to stop trying to kill you.

A score of this caliber would have just been what you expected for yourself in the past, but for some reason after the tribulations of the entire first semester, you couldn’t lie and say you hadn’t wept with relief. That it didn’t soothe the budding worry that maybe hard work wasn’t enough.

Now was the time, your mother pouring her second glass of pino gris and Namjoon’s mother busy helping you pass the plates around the table.

You slipped it in so nonchalantly, not letting the excitement warm your tone in case your mother took note of it and tried to chase it out with icy words. Just a ‘-and I totally aced the final-’ in between your brief update of your week. The key with your mother was giving her just enough to feel interested but not too much as to make her feel like she was already told all the good bits. Give her bait to bite.

And she immediately did so with glittering eyes. “Really? What was your score?”

Preening under the glow of her glee sent your way for once, you stifled a grin. “100%. She told me how impressed she was after class.”

Readying her next bite your mother’s smile curved upwards, proud and gentle. You braced yourself for the words of pride you craved to hear, hands gripping the silverware in your fist. Then her head tilted to the side, glazing over you and shining onto Namjoon instead.

“And what did you get?”

You swallowed. Hard. The action burning more than you cared to admit.

Namjoon shrugged, his expression placid and unbothered. This didn’t seem to mean much to him at all. “99.”

Nodding, your mother hummed to herself, cutting a piece of pink steak with her knife. “See, now that’s more realistic. I don’t believe in 100s. A good teacher knows there is always room for improvement.”

Grease seeped out from her cut and onto her steamed vegetables, pooling around the base of her plate. Watching it was hypnotizing. It kept you distracted enough not to throw up all over Mrs. Kim’s nice burgundy table cloth. The conversation chugged on, the tracks of it unfettered by what you now realized was an unimportant interruption.

Buttery potatoes and crisp broccoli florets seasoned to perfection might as well have been a mirage of cardboard and acrylic paint in your mouth, teeth sinking into the same bite over and over again. You sunk into the background, trying not to let the dejection drag you too deep. When you looked up to the the clock on the back wall, you inadvertently met Namjoon’s shameless stare.

He didn’t look smug like you had expected him to. Instead he was reserved, chewing pensively while he raked his gaze over every inch of your face. Like usual, he quirked a brow up. A silent challenge to say something to him.

Except this time you didn’t have it in you to give in. Turning back to your plate, you soaked up some of the gravy that had dribbled down your potatoes with the smallest piece of broccoli you could find. You weren’t sure if you could stomach anything else. He had barely said anything, yet your rage burned brighter than ever.

_________________________________________

It was late. Too late for you to be up trying to fold laundry like you were. An art project that would have previously taken you maybe a few hours in the past had taken all of your weekend, meaning your household duties had taken a backseat while you wrangled your last art project for the season into the submission box.

The mess got under your skin, far too embarrassed to admit to yourself just how many days worth you had let pile up on top of the washer or on the floor of your bathroom. Something as simple as picking it up off the floor feeling like a workout after spending all your energy on physical therapy and studying.

You had enough of wrinkled trousers and balled up hoodies straight from the dryer, and set out to chisel at the mountain of clothes you had to put away.

And it ached. Made your bones creak with each folded shirt or hung up sweater, your equilibrium knocked off kilter when you’d reach your arms over your head to try and line the stacks into neat rows.

Which didn’t work. The stack tumbling to the floor into a wrinkled pile of half-folded fabric for you to pick up and refold. You tried again. And again. And again. Fingertips refusing to move the way you wanted them to.

Tears built wobbling walls in your eyes, a groan tearing out from your chest as you snatched up the pile and tossed it onto your bed in frustration, running a palm down your face to try and calm your breathing. Your closet was just short of how you liked it. Your perfect organization swapped out for whatever worked–crooked towers of sweatpants and shoes that started to pile on the bottom. Jackets hanging in different directions. Methodical organization breaking apart at the seems just like you felt.

Just when you were about to let the first tear fall, a knock resounded at the door, echoing through the quiet apartment and bouncing around your skull to dance with the brewing headache that awaited you.

Holding yourself together for a few moments, you waited for the person to leave. It was almost eleven, no one had any business standing outside your door anyway let alone knocking for your attention. You just wanted five minutes to cry about what an awful weekend you were having.

The person knocked again, unrepentant and persistent.

Tiptoeing to the door, you peeked through the little peep-hole and stifled a string of profanities, fumbling to untwist the lock and yank it open. “What the fuck are you doing here right now?”

Namjoon didn’t seem taken aback by your sudden outburst, giving you another aggravating once over that felt too intimate. Like he had you all figured out from one glace. Holding up a thick envelope between two fingers so you could see, he finally spoke. “Found this in my mailbox. Figured you’d want it–seems important.”

Scanning the sender, your body froze, a chill running down your spine and settling cold in your belly. The rheumology and arthritis institute. Important information enclosed. Return address requested.

With an indignant grunt, you snatched the letter from his hands and hid it behind your back so he couldn’t see it. A futile effort when he had probably already read over the title at least twice. “Why do you have this?”

Namjoon scoffed. “Mail guy put it in the wrong box. Happens sometimes.” Gesturing to the letter with his chin, he continued as though the two of you making small talk was a normal occurrence. “New doctor again?”

“Nope. It’s a persistent boyfriend I can’t shake.” Sarcasm dripped from every pore as you rolled your eyes hard enough for it to hurt. “Well thanks for this. See you never.” Shutting the door in his face would have been satisfying had his hand not shot out to stop it from closing.

“Can we talk?” Nothing about his voice implied any sort of competition. It was missing that bitter edge that invaded the back of your throat. This was normal. Casual even.

You wrinkled your nose. “About?”

Namjoon didn’t answer, just looked over your shoulder into the entrance way like he was asking for permission to enter. It felt weird to have him so willingly put the ball in your court–but not unwelcome. Ignoring the alarm bells that had started ringing in your head, you huffed out a sigh worth fifty extra years of age and stepped back to let him in. You didn’t have the energy to fight this either. Your battle with the laundry was still unfinished and you had yet to scheme your next attack.

Kicking off his slides, he shuffled into the main living space, sweeping over the open floor plan that was void of any light save for the lamplight that escaped from the door of you room. It seemed that the absurdity of him being in your home only bothered you.

Rounding the kitchen island, you flicked on the kitchen light, wincing visibly when the rays stabbed straight through your pupils with a vengeance, and propping your elbows on the granite tops to fix him with an expectant glare. “You wanted to talk. So...talk.”

Pulling at where his shirt had stuck to his chest absentmindedly, he stepped closer to hover just beside the counter, never crossing the line by sitting on a stool or leaning against the lip of it. “I wanted to apologize.”

You must be losing your mind. Grabbing your earlobe and giving it a swift tug like it would dislodge the bullshit you had just heard, you blinked. “Pardon?”

“For dinner on Friday.” He clarified.

Shaking your head slowly, you rested more of your weight on the counter top to take some of the pressure off your knees. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“What your mom said was harsh.”

“And it was something she said.” You enunciated carefully. “Not you.”

“I shouldn’t have answered her question.” He looked like he wanted to grab for a stool but stopped, remembering where he was. “I thought that it would make you look better if I did.”

Rage bubbled in your gut, spurred on by a rush of embarrassment that came out in a sneer and clipped response. “I don’t need your help to ‘look better’, Kim. I can handle myself, pretty fucking well.” Shoving past him to duck back into your room, your ears bellowed steam and your breath quickened. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Fuming, you grabbed one of the toppled shirts and folded it into a clumsy square, picking up the one below it to do the same. The edges of them were uneven, the seems rippled and tags sticking out in odd directions. You were too pissed and too tired to care anymore.

“I wasn’t implying that you couldn’t.” Namjoon appeared in the doorway, arms crossed while he watched you pluck up the next shirt, roaming his eyes over the expanse of your room. Always looking, always soaking in information like a sneaky little sponge. You wanted him out before he found too many clues amongst the piles of laundry and dusty shelves about what was really going on.

“Well that’s how it landed.” You grabbed for the stack of freshly folded shirts and turned to your closet, standing on your tiptoes to shove them on top of the others. It was as if the universe had it out for you, because when you looked up to slide it in place, your vision blurred and your arms dropped as though full of cement, the pulse behind your eyes moving to sit mid forehead.

Shirts forgotten, you pinched the bridge of your nose and supported yourself on the wall nearest to the closet, your weight swaying from one side to the other on legs that didn’t feel connected to your body anymore. You could vaguely hear Namjoon saying something, hear his footsteps pad across the wooden floor–but everything sounded muffled and distorted, a symphony of nonsense your brain couldn’t keep time with.

You felt him before you saw him, large hands steadying your upper arms and the familiar smell of his moms laundry detergent permeating your senses. Blinking away the dark clouds you flitted up from beneath your hand to look at him, his expression crossed between curious, confused, and if you dug around enough...a dash smug.

“G-Get out,” You mumbled, hand planting a weak shove on his chest.

“New doctor, huh?” He seemed proud of himself for a moment. “I knew something was wrong-”

“There’s nothing wrong!” You shouted, shoving him back from your orbit. “I’m just tired. This happens when people are tired.”

“Not usually.”

“Yes, usually,” Growling under your breath you planted two hands on his back and started to push him from your room all the way until the front door, ignoring the way your palms shook against him. “Now get out before you make it worse. I wasn’t like this until you walked in. Must be something wrong with you.”

Namjoon finally seemed to listen, stepping over the threshold and shooting you a knowing look. “I’m going to find out eventually, whatever it is.”

“No you won’t. I won’t let you.”

The glint in his eyes grew brighter. “So there is something to find out then.”

“No–it’s just-Ugh!” You groaned out in frustration, gripping the edge of your front door tight enough to splinter the wood.

“So what’s with the new doctor?”

You shook with fury, wishing nothing more than for the door to actually hit him on the way out. “It’s just to make sure everything’s good! You know, because of my grandpa. Not because of anything with me.”

“I thought they didn’t know what was wrong with your grandpa?” He tucked his hands into his pockets and took on a new air of confidence.

“They didn’t.”

“So then how do they know what to look for?”

Your mouth hung open for only a half a second, but it was enough for someone as keen as Namjoon to pick up on.

“The more you push me away, the more I want to find out what’s making you act so weird.” He lilted, doing that annoying thing with his voice where he pretends to be too cheery but is actually being the biggest dick in the universe. Something you had heard too many times in middle and high-school.

“Well have fun, because there’s nothing to fucking look for. Goodnight.” Finally, he let you slam the door in his face this time, and it killed you inside to know that he had to let you.

_________________________________________

Next part

Main navigation

So many paths that will never cross–this is a thought you constantly have as you stare at the museum and gallerygoers wandering through the exhibition hall, their footsteps muffled by the polished wood beneath them, their gazes fixed on frames capturing bodies, brushstrokes, and meaning.

You often find yourself watching people as much as you watch the art. Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe it’s the same flicker of wonder you felt the first time you ever walked into the Guggenheim Museum in New York. You’d gone to help a close friend move into the Columbia University dorms to start her first year as an architecture major, and she took you there on a whim. You didn’t expect to fall in love–not with a person, but with the silence between walls, with the hush of reverence, and with the people who stopped in their tracks, struck by something they couldn’t name. Art pieces obscure and beautiful of all shapes and sizes.

That feeling never left you. You chased it all the way to Seoul, through your grad school years at Seoul National University and working at their Museum of Art, through internships at Gana Art Center, and temporary roles at Gallery Hyundai and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Seoul. You finally landed here at Kukje Gallery about eight months ago. First as an archivist. Now, you're curator.

And yet, for all the ways you study art, you’ve always studied people too.

You can’t help it. The way your mind drifts when you see a stranger paused in front of a sculpture or squinting at a canvas. The thoughts creep in.

Who are they? What brought them here today? What are they carrying that you’ll never know?

Moments of sonder, you’ve always called it. Realizing every person is living a life as vivid and complex as yours. Yet you pass each other without ever intersecting.

You’ve carried that thought with you ever since.

Still, you never acted on it. Not until one quiet afternoon, in late August, when your body moved before your mind could catch up.

He was tall. Broad shoulders, muscular frame. Thick thighs that tapered into lean legs. Thick-rimmed glasses, sometimes paired with a mask and a ball cap, sometimes not. His outfits rotated from pressed button-downs and slacks to oversized hoodies and shorts. Casual. Low-key. Purposefully anonymous.

He came often, yet never drew attention. Quiet. Observant. Always lingering in front of each painting for longer than most, as if he were dissecting every brushstroke, every nuance.

And despite the hundreds of visitors who passed through the gallery, there was something about him that made your eyes follow him every time.

One day, you left your desk to retrieve documents from the archive room across the hall. As you returned, you spotted him again. He was standing in front of Kim Heungsoo’s Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. There was something about his expression this time–creased brows, a slight frown. Frustration?

Your curiosity got the better of you.

“Something wrong?” you asked, in Korean.

His head jerked slightly, startled. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked to your chest–your name tag. L/N, F/N. Recognition flickered behind his lenses. Foreign name. He thinks he’s seen you here before, working. Somehow, that small confirmation calmed him.

You noticed the way his stance eased. Still quiet, still a little guarded, but less… rattled.

“Oh, uh,” you continued, “you looked like you were looking at the paintings and thinking really hard, so I was curious to see if you were okay.” Should you not have asked? Maybe he thinks you’re weird. You’re not sure why after all this time of observing people at museums looking at paintings, that you decided to finally interact with one of them in their most pensive moment.

He just nodded, weighing his next words. For a second, you thought he might brush you off. You wouldn’t blame him for it. But instead, he followed it up with a question. 

“Um, do you know who wrote these artwork label descriptions?”

“Oh, these?” You glanced at the placards and then back at him. “That would be me, the art curator of this gallery. Why?”

He glanced at you, and then back at the art, lost in thought.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he began, his gaze returning to the paintings. “I know art is subjective and open to interpretation, but…” He paused, then looked back at you. “I think you’re missing something in your interpretation of Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. Especially in terms of Kim Heungsoo’s perspective on form and desire. It’s not just about appreciation of the body. It’s about the subtle tension between abstraction and eroticism. Your labels don’t really touch on that.”

Your mouth opened, stunned. You weren’t used to being challenged–at least not like this.

“Uh, what do you mean? I studied these pieces,” you said, defensively. “I curated this exhibition. I spent months researching the cultural context, the artist’s interviews, the stylistic evolution–”

He gave a small shrug, then responded in English, shocking you completely.

“I still think you’re overlooking something important. But I’ll agree to disagree. Thanks.”

And with that, he turned and walked ahead. Just like that. Leaving you standing in the quiet gallery, blinking at the space he left behind.

He turned and walked away, disappearing further down the hall.

You stood frozen, utterly thrown off, appalled. What was that?

Did he just… mansplain a label you wrote? Who the hell is this guy? You doubt he’d have any understanding on erotic modern art pieces like you do. This is your forte after all. You learned about all of this through blood, sweat and tears. What does he know?

Ugh. It left you feeling like after eating a sour hard  candy,

You wanted to say something back. Something witty, cutting, professional yet scathing. But you held your tongue. You had a job to do. So you sighed, going back to the office as there were some remaining things you had to do before you head home.

Still… seriously? Who does he think he is?

A few weeks pass.

It’s a slow Tuesday evening in the late summer–still a bit warm, golden light stretching through the tall glass windows, shadows melting across the polished floor. Foot traffic is light. Most people don’t visit galleries on weeknights unless there’s a special event, and tonight, it’s just a few quiet souls drifting through the current nude modernist exhibition.

You’re at the front desk, going through the evening checklist, when a familiar figure enters. The same figure that lit a flame in you not too long ago.

This time, he isn’t wearing a mask. His black baseball cap casts a soft shadow over his face, but you see him clearly–hoodie, matching gray 5-inch shorts. Still effortlessly tall. And frustratingly… attractive. No surprise to be completely honest. There’s handsome men like him who frequent museums in Seoul just to feel something or to feel nothing, just performative for their social media or social rich circle.

You’re still mildly irritated with this guy as you see him approach a painting at the entrance, lost in his own thoughts. You shouldn’t play with fire, but something about him doesn’t let you just ignore him. So you stand behind him and pounce on the moment.

“Are you here to look at an exhibition and tell me I’m bad at my job again?” you ask dryly in English, remembering how this man went on a whole rant in Korean only to end it in perfect passive-aggressive English.

A small chuckle escapes him as he settles into your language. “Hey, no, I’m actually here to sign a few papers. I was just looking at the painting while waiting to see if one of the people I know here would come out, but even the front desk is vacant.” His head gestures to the empty front desk. You assume he wanted to see the chairwoman, who left to go to a small event earlier. Sekyung’s not even here to help because she went to grab dinner with a friend. So much for a quiet night.

“Oh, I see.” You quirk a brow. “Well, what papers did you need?” Once again, a hint of hesitation that you catch in seconds because it becomes nonchalance.

“I don’t really like to mention this because I hate bragging,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “but… I donated a bit of money to the gallery. Just to keep supporting research and future exhibitions. I like coming here, and I want to keep coming.”

You pause. Wait, what. Who the hell is he, even? Donating money for the arts? No way… but this would make so much sense as to why he was being so critical when you first met him.

Your tone softens, caught between guilt and surprise from your previous thoughts about him. “Oh? That’s actually really kind of you. I can pull up the paperwork for you. What’s your name?”

And again! The hesitation. A flicker in his eyes as he speaks before it goes away.

“…Kim Namjoon.”

Okay?

“Ah. Okay. Mr. Kim Namjoon.” You type it into the system, and sure enough, his name pops up. “I see you here and the pending paperwork. I’ll get the documents printed out.”

He watches you, his gaze studying your face with care. Still no flicker of recognition from you, he thinks.

Do you really not know who he is?

He doesn’t want to be obnoxious, but… he’s Kim Namjoon. BTS. Global phenomenon. Cultural ambassador. A foreigner like you must know who he is, right?

He waits for a double-take at any moment. Even a pause for you to say something about him.

But nothing.

“Oh,” you add, scrolling through the screen, “there’s also a form here about submitting your own pieces for a future exhibition? You collect art?”

His earlier thoughts dissolve. “Oh, uh–yeah. I do.”

“Well.” You flash him a tight-lipped smile. “That explains why you were so critical of my work. You’re a collector after all.” Another petty remark you throw out. Why are you like this? You’re going to get yourself fired if he reports you to the execs. 

He winces a little, chuckling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, Y/N.”

You freeze.

Your name.

You aren’t wearing your name tag today–you forgot it at home.

Your eyes slowly lift from the screen to meet his. Your heart thumps once, heavy in your chest.

“How did you…” you start, but your voice fades.

He looks back at you, unreadable behind his glasses and cap, and continues before you can press further. “I apologize about the other day. I was too deep in my thoughts and said something rude without thinking. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

I’m sorry, what?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Is this… an apology? From him? Mr. know-it-all?

You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t have to do anything. Really. It’s part of the industry. I’ve seen it happen to others when critics walk in–I just didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. At least… not like that.”

He nods slowly, turning each of your words over in his mind. “I get that,” he murmurs. “I’m not a critic or anything, but I care too much about art sometimes. Especially when it moves me.”

“I can see that, but you’ve already given back to the gallery,” you reply, your voice softening. “That’s more than enough to show you care.”

“But I want to make it up to you, Y/N.”

You blink, caught off guard by his insistence. You hesitate.

Maybe this could help smooth over the tension between you two. He’s a donor. Maintaining good relations is in the gallery’s best interest–your best interest. For your research. Your exhibitions. Your job.

Yes. That’s a good reason.

“…Maybe,” you say slowly, eyes dropping. “Buy me a coffee?”

You bend down to retrieve the printed forms from the tray beside the desk. “Sign here on this page, and then again on the back.”

You place the papers in front of him and hand over a pen. Your fingers brush, just briefly, but it’s enough to send a flush creeping up your neck.

He signs quickly, glancing up afterward.

“How about dinner instead?” he asks. “I know a laid-back spot that has great food. No pressure–just… a peace offering.”

You look at him, a little amused, a little surprised.

“So this is how you bribe people you offend?” you tease.

His lips curve faintly. “Not exactly. Maybe I just want more than five minutes to talk about art… and to hear your point of view.”

You smile, slower this time, your gaze lingering.

“Then sure,” you say softly. “I’d like to hear more about your thoughts, too.”

“Alrighty.” He picks up one of the business cards in the acrylic holder on your desk, flips it over, and writes neatly–his number and KakaoTalk ID.

Namjoon slides the card across the counter. “I’ll message you. Does Friday evening work?”

You nod, tucking the card away into your blazer pocket. “Yeah. That works.”

He bows slightly before heading to the exit, the warm evening light catching the back of his hoodie as the glass doors slide open.

For a long moment, you just stare at the space he leaves behind.

You’re not sure what just happened.

Only that it leaves your heart beating faster than it should.

That night, after your shift, you return to your small studio apartment, kick off your shoes, and curl up on the couch with your phone still in hand.

A part of you hesitates. Should you message first? Will he really follow through?

[You] Hey! Just wanted to confirm for Friday. What’s the name of the place we’re meeting?

A moment passes. Then another. You tap out of the conversation, scroll through Instagram aimlessly, then tap back in.

Still nothing.

Then–a reply. A few minutes later.

[Namjoon]Yetnal Guksi in Yongsan. 8pm. Let me know if you have trouble finding it.

You pause, staring at the profile photo he uses–some anime character in profile, hair tousled, playing a saxophone. His display name isn’t even his real name. It’s a casual, half-joke Korean nickname. It doesn’t match the polished, reserved guy you met at the gallery at all.

But you don’t question it.

You type back:

You: Got it. Thanks. See you then.

And then, without overthinking it, you set your phone aside and go to bed.

You leave work earlier than usual. Your coworkers agree to cover the last two hours of special guest tours, and you’re quietly grateful.

Still, the journey is long. You take the subway from Anguk Station, transferring at the stop connected to Lotte Department Store. Weaving through corridors of glowing cosmetic ads and the rush-hour crowd, you switch lines again until you finally arrive at Noksapyeong Station.

From there, it’s a ten-minute uphill walk. The evening is starting to cool; your hair sticks slightly to the back of your neck as you pass small bars, cafés, and the slow hum of a residential neighborhood waking for dinner.

Almost an hour in total. Maybe you should have asked him to pick you up. But maybe he’s busy before this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t offer. You hope that’s the reason. And not that he’s some prick after all.

You finally arrive at Yetnal Guksi (옛날국시), a modest, old-school noodle joint with handwritten menus taped to the window and the steady clatter of bowls from inside. Nothing fancy, but comforting. You like that, honestly. You check your watch. 7:53 p.m.

He isn’t there yet.

You stand just off to the side of the entrance, pretending to browse your phone. Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

No Namjoon.

Your chest tightens. Anxiety blooms slowly beneath your ribs. You pride yourself on punctuality–getting somewhere early helps you stay calm. But it also means sitting in that discomfort longer when the other person doesn’t show.

At exactly 8:15pm, you send him a message.

You: “Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

No reply.

A part of you starts to spiras. Maybe meeting him outside of work is a mistake. Did he seriously stand you up? Why bother giving you a time, a place? You’re not sure where he lives. Not like you bothered looking at any of his personal info in his file, but you can’t imagine he’d get here any time soon. It took you awhile to even get here yourself after all.

You suddenly feel eyes on you. An ajumma from the restaurant steps out, drying her hands on her apron.

“Are you coming in to eat, miss? Or…?” Her tone carries the unspoken question: Or are you just going to be loitering suspiciously outside this establishment?

“I’m waiting for someone,” you explain with a forced smile. “But he hasn’t arrived yet.”

Just as you finish, a soft gust of wind lifts your hair–and then a low voice behind you, in Korean: “I’m here.”

You turn.

Namjoon stands there, slightly breathless, baseball cap pulled low, a thin sheen of sweat on his neck. His hoodie clings to him like he jogged the last few blocks.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, back in English. “I should’ve texted. Got caught in traffic.”

Irritation that was flickering inside you fades into relief.

He really came after all.

The ajumma nods at you both and waves you inside.

You follow Namjoon into the narrow space–walls slightly yellowed from time and oil, the clinking of metal chopsticks and bowls playing beneath the low hum of a TV in the corner.

Most diners are older–old people sharing soju, middle-aged couples eating quietly, a few solo regulars bent over their bowls. No one pays you any mind, which feels strangely comforting compared to other places out in Seoul.

Namjoon slides into a booth near the back, tucked by a wooden window cracked open for the breeze. You settle across from him, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he pulls a laminated menu toward him.

“Want me to order for us?” he asks, glancing up.

“Please do. You said you’ve been here before, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. I come whenever I want something simple and quiet. Their bibimguksu is solid. And we’ll get a small plate of gomabap, too. Mini gimbap rolls.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He flags down the ajumma with a warm, familiar tone–nothing overly polite or stiff, but respectful, like he’s done this many times before.

Soon, two steel cups of barley tea are placed in front of you. You lean back slightly, watching him.

“You come here alone?” you ask.

“Uh, yeah, usually,” he says. “Sometimes with a friend or two, but mostly on my own. It’s pretty peaceful. Away from the crowd.”

You see why. Despite the lack of frills, the place has a worn charm. The light is yellow and soft. The air smells like sesame oil and chili paste. No one’s here to impress anyone.

When the food arrives, the scent makes your stomach flutter. The bibimguksu glistens red with sauce, sliced cucumbers and boiled egg resting on top, noodles glossy and tangled. The gomabap rolls sit neatly beside a small bowl of soy sauce.

You pick up your chopsticks, twist a bit of bibimguksu around them, and take a bite.

Your eyes widen instantly. “It’s really good!”

Namjoon smiles at your reaction. “I’m glad you like it too.”

“It’s… sweet, spicy, cold…mmm–it has so many layers. I wasn’t expecting this level of flavor.”

“Right? The sauce is just the right kind of fermented. And they don’t cheap out on the gochujang.”

You try a piece of gomabap with soft rice, crisp vegetables, a hint of sesame. Clean and light. Perfect alongside the fire of the noodles.

“I have to admit,” you say, grinning between bites, “I was kind of dreading it being bland. But this might be better than some trendy restaurants I’ve been to lately.” “That’s the thing,” he replies, leaning on one elbow. “Places like this… they don’t try hard. They just know what they’re doing.”

You nod thoughtfully, then look up. “So what’s your usual order here?” you ask, half-teasing. “Or is this it?”

“Sometimes kalguksu if I’m tired. But usually this.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face. “I didn’t want somewhere fancy. Figured this would be better.”

“It is,” you say sincerely. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He looks down for a moment, hiding how his smile pulls wider.

You fall into a comfortable rhythm–eating, talking, trading casual stories about art. You tell him about how you once dropped an entire tea tray at your old gallery job and cried in the archive room for twenty minutes. He tells you about buying a sculpture he thought was two feet tall but turned out taller than him. He hesitates to say where he ended up putting it, scared it might reveal too much. But despite all of his efforts to put up a wall to prevent you from learning too much about him. There’s a part of him that wants to tell you. He has a feeling. A good feeling. A feeling that you’re a safe person he can confide this with.

And once you ask him this question, it truly has battling with opening up himself to you, to his world.

“So what do you do for work outside the art world, Namjoon?”

Caught off guard, he wonders what to say. Should he really tell you he’s an idol? The fact you haven’t recognized him still surprises him. What would you say if he told you? Judge him? Freak out?

He reminds himself again that he doesn’t know you well, and the thought scares him to share too much given what he’s seen in the past. To him, to his members.

But he decides to be genuine. Lying feels worse. Plus, the feeling he has about you is something he’s never felt about someone before.

He sets down his chopsticks gently, wiping his hands on a napkin, stalling a moment. “I’m… actually a musician,” he says carefully, watching your reaction.

You blink, chopsticks hovering. “Oh, really? Like… producing? Or do you perform too?”

He hesitates. “Both.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “That’s cool. What kind of music?”

He laughs softly, almost in disbelief. You still don’t know after all these hints, he thinks. 

“Mostly hip hop and pop. I’m… in a group. We’ve been around for a while.” A while is twelve years, he thinks.

Your brow furrows. “A group? Like a band?”

“Not exactly.” He leans in quietly, readying for the grand reveal. “BTS.”

A beat of silence.

You stare. For a moment, your brain lags behind your ears.

You run his words over–BTS–and something clicks. The glasses, the quiet composure, the careful words, the way he observes art like air. You knew about BTS–your close friend back home was obsessed with K-pop in her teen years, trying to rope you in with playlists and videos, especially featuring their “leader,” Rap Monster… or RM. You’d listened here and there, curious, but fangirling over K-pop always felt a little unrealistic. A little too delusional Life was hectic, so the interest faded.

You’d heard headlines about Kim Namjoon in the art world, maybe seen a photo or two online, but none of it mattered much–until now.

Now you’re here, eating dinner with him.

Your chopsticks lower slowly, words whispering out in the quietest voice, “Wait. Like… the BTS?”

He nods, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”

You laugh, stunned, sitting back. “Wow. I… I didn’t recognize you at all. That’s insane.”

His eyes flick to yours, searching for a change in tone. But there isn’t one. You’re not freaking out. Not grabbing your phone. Just surprised. Maybe a little amused. A bit of disbelief too.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you admit. “But I didn’t want to assume. You didn’t act like… you know. Someone that famous. So i shrugged it off,”

“I try not to,” he murmurs. “It gets tiring.”

“I can imagine.”

You pause, looking down at your nearly-empty bowl, gathering thoughts. “So that’s why you knew so much about those pieces. You’ve probably been studying art a long time.”

“I try. It started as just going to a museum while on tour years ago. Purely a hobby, just collecting, but now it’s… part of my life. Something I love.”

You nod slowly, still a little floored but smiling. “Well, you’re were still kind of rude about my curated labels.”

That makes him laugh, low and genuine, warming your cheeks.

“Yeah. I deserved that.”

You sip barley tea, shaking off the surreal feeling of sitting across from a global icon who just asked you to dinner at a tiny, greasy spoon. But he’s still the same man who stands in front of paintings, deeply, frustratingly thoughtful.

He doesn’t ask for special treatment, and you won’t give it.

You lean your chin into your palm, eyes softening across the table.

“I’m glad you told me.”

His gaze meets yours, grateful behind his glasses. “Me too.”

You both linger over the last bites, the plates mostly cleared, spice tingling pleasantly on your tongue. The restaurant has thinned out, leaving only a few older couples finishing in silence. The air is warm and still, laced with sesame oil and the clink of silver chopsticks against ceramic.

Namjoon sets down his spoon, wiping his hands with a napkin. “That was nice,” he says quietly, the moment calling for softness.

“It was,” you agree, smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.”

His hand comes up, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was close, apparently.”

You both laugh.

“I should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone. “It’s getting late.”

“I can take you home,” he offers immediately.

You shake your head gently, already anticipating. “That’s sweet, but I live a bit far. The train’s faster.”

A flicker of hesitation passes his face.

“But,” you add, standing, light in your voice, “if you’re not in a rush… I wouldn’t mind you walking me to the station. Just ten more minutes.”

That makes him smile–the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to grin. “Yeah. I can do ten minutes.”

Outside, the night greets you with a soft breeze. Namjoon quietly pulls a black face mask from his pocket and tugs it over his nose and mouth. You notice but don’t comment. It makes sense.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say after a few steps, voice light but sincere. “I won’t tell anyone… about you. I’ve worked with private clients before. I know how to keep things quiet. If you want, I’ll sign something.”

He chuckles, low and warm beneath the mask. “I’m not going to make you sign anything. Honestly, I get a sense about people. And I don’t think you’d do that.”

You glance at him as you walk. “Thanks for trusting me.”

He shrugs, hands in pockets. “It’s not just that. I… don’t have many female friends to talk art with. Mostly my younger sister, my mom or older gallery owners and retired curators who send me handwritten notes.”

You smile at the image. “I feel honored to be in such company.”

He laughs quietly. “No, I’m honored to have you spend time with me. I’d like to see you again. If you’re up for it.”

“I’d like that,” you say, meaning it.

You continue toward the station in a quiet, easy rhythm. Just two people sharing a corner of the night.

This is the nice boundary to keep. He escorts you to the front entrance of Noksapyeong Station, the traffic humming low in the background, headlights glinting off passing cars. You come to a stop just before the stairs lead down.

“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly behind the mask but still warm.

“That sounds good. See you around, maybe, Namjoon?” You give him a polite bow, hands folded in front of you. It feels a little too formal for what tonight was, but you don’t know what else to do. When you rise, you catch the flicker of something in his eyes–like he wants to say more, maybe even lean in and hug you, but holds himself back.

Silly Namjoon, he thinks to himself. He can’t afford to be careless in public. Not here. Not with who he is. Any passerby could snap a photo, leak a name, turn a small moment into a scandal. And the last thing he’d want is to inconvenience you with something like that. You’re a kind and smart woman, he thinks. A bit feisty, but he find that endearing. Even just by the conversations he had today, his heart began feeling something, which is rare for him.

Despite all his thoughts about you, he settles on a soft, almost wistful smile. “Will see you sometime in the future. Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night,” you say, your voice quiet as you disappear down the stairs, heading home.

Two weeks pass. No messages.

You don’t dwell on it. Not really. You get it. This is RM. Kim Namjoon. BTS. You’d be naïve not to assume his days are consumed by meetings, recording, traveling, photoshoots, whatever comes with being who he is. You heard he was recently discharged from the military. It makes sense he’s adjusting, returning to a rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for casual texts or catching up with the art gallery girl.

So, on a quiet Saturday afternoon, you throw on an old tee and decide to do a deep clean of your loft in Myeongdong. The space is small but cozy, perched above a cosmetics shop with a big bay window that lets in too much sun during the afternoon. You don’t mind. It’s not like you’re home that often anyway.

You’re wiping down your kitchen shelf, halfway through reorganizing your spices, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

[namjoon] hey y/n. i apologize, i've been busy so i haven't had the time to message you. how have you been?

You stare at the screen for a beat, lips quirking before you even realize it.

And just like that, the long, continuous, conversation begins. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Messages weaving in and out across days, with gaps and time zones and all the signs of two people trying to find a bubble of time in the chaos of their lives. He asks about your favorite artists. You ask what exhibitions he’s excited for. The conversation flows easily over the course of days–sometimes a few texts a day, sometimes long pauses between messages–but neither of you seems to mind. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing.

You both fall into rhythm talking about painters and sculptors and entire exhibitions you wish you could relive. Namjoon talks about his admiration for Yun Hyong-Keun–how the earth tones and minimalist brushwork feel deeply meditative to him–and how Kim Whan-Ki’s dot paintings remind him of memory fragments and starlight. He brings up Roni Horn too, her approach to identity and landscape through sculpture and photography. And Thibaud Hérem, with those intricate architectural drawings. “There’s a weird comfort in the details,” he texts. “It’s obsessive, but beautiful.”

You tell him you’ve always been drawn to the emotional tension in Rothko’s color fields, the sense of vast stillness in Agnes Martin’s grids, and the chaotic sensuality in Cecily Brown’s layered canvases. You mention you once stood in front of Girl on a Swing for twenty minutes, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. He sends a voice message: “I totally get that. Brown’s stuff is like... the aftermath of a dream.”

Namjoon replies late one night with:

You pause, rereading that line. There’s something deeply sincere in the way he talks about art–as if it’s a language he’s been speaking longer than he’s known himself.

[you]Woah, I’ve always wanted to go. Rothko makes me feel both grounded and like I’m floating. It’s weird but calming.

The next morning, he sends a photo of his bookshelf–several monographs, poetry collections, and a thick exhibition catalog from a Kim Whan-Ki retrospective.

You send a picture of your coffee table covered in old gallery pamphlets and the Cecily Brown zine you picked up in London.

You ask what exhibitions in Seoul he’s excited for. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing. 

Later on he asks about your favorite music artists. You talk about what brought you to Korea, the music you listen to–The Marías, Emotional Oranges, Frank Ocean, Wave to Earth, Se So Neon.

He likes them too. You exchange playlists. Listen to new music you’ve never listened to before. You tell him you paint in your free time. For fun, not for any hope of becoming famous. He says he admires that, because he only painted something once and thought it’s not his thing after all.

Gardening comes up. He says it calms his mind. You have several plants as well though, you accidentally forget to give them water and have killed a few in the past. He tells you he’ll help you pick the right ones that will be easier to care for next time. You say, next time?

You even get into film. One night, the thread leads to Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he texts. “I love how it plays with longing and detachment.”

You admit you haven’t seen it.

A pause, then:

[namjoon] do you want to watch it together?

Your thumbs hesitate above the screen.

[you] uhh, how is that gonna work? is it showing in theaters again?

His reply is instant:

[namjoon]lmao no. it came out a few years ago. we can stream it.

You bite your lip, grinning.

[you] so… you’re inviting me over to your place?

Seen.

Typing…

[namjoon]only if you’re okay with that. no pressure.

Typing…

[namjoon] i’ll even make you tea. or wine. or beer. or ramen. whatever works.

You stare at the message. Then you smile to yourself, heart beating just a little faster.

[you] only if it’s good ramen.

[namjoon] challenge accepted.

October 11th.

It’s another Saturday, exactly three weeks since Namjoon messaged you again after that dinner, and now you’re standing at the entrance to Nine One Hannam.

The building looms ahead, all sleek lines and understated opulence, tucked behind tall stone walls and trimmed hedges. A sign gleams beside the entrance gate. You’ve heard whispers about this place before. A-listers, diplomats, generational wealth. The kind of neighborhood with valet spots for Teslas and private elevators.

And apparently, this is where he lives. Kim Namjoon.

You pause a few feet away, adjusting your long cardigan as your nerves start to hum. Are you seriously going in there? Is this outfit appropriate for a casual hang out with you, art mutual? These thoughts linger as you look down to your outfit: a navy blue oversized cardigan, a white spaghetti tank top, a denim mini skirt, white converse sneakers.

You spot the small booth outside the pedestrian gate, a security officer already eyeing you as you walk up. The air feels strangely still, as if even the trees here breathe quieter.

You clear your throat. “Hi, I’m here to visit Unit 244A.”

The officer–middle-aged, buzz cut, clearly alert–looks you over with polite suspicion. A foreigner, he likely notes. He reaches for a clipboard and pulls up the visitor log.

“Name?”

“Y/N L/N.” You hand him your ID without hesitation, just like Namjoon told you to do.

He checks the list, confirming. A subtle nod. “Alright. Go on in.”

You give him a quick thank you, stepping past the gate. The building ahead is massive, its exterior modern but quiet in that rich-people-don’t-need-to-try-hard kind of way. Your sneakers feel too loud on the pavement. And now that you’re in–how the hell are you supposed to find his unit?

“Hey.”

You practically leap out of your skin.

He’s there. Namjoon, leaning casually against the wall, dressed down in a forest green Tyler, The Creator Chromakopia Tour hoodie, the hood pulled halfway over his face. His black shorts barely hit his knees, and his long legs look even taller without trying. He’s got his phone in hand, smiling as if this whole thing is the most normal Saturday hangout in the world.

“God, you scared me!” you exclaim, laughing in relief.

He chuckles, easy and deep. “It’s hard to explain directions to a place like this in English, so I figured I’d just come down and walk you up.”

“Well, thank you for the rescue,” you say, nudging his arm lightly.

“You’re welcome,” he grins. “Let’s go. I got food delivered for this occasion, instead of ramen.” “No ramen?” You say sarcastically. “Might just go home then.”  “Oh, come on. I got something better,” He gently tugs at your shoulders with both hands, before pulling away. He had a moment of realization that maybe he was being a bit touchy when he hasn’t been like this to you before. He’s been like this with his members ever since they all came back from enlistment, but never with anyone else. He doesn’t want you to think he’s weird, like some of these other men out in this city. The walk to his building is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and distant birdsong. Inside, the elevator glides up without a sound, and he makes some small talk–but it doesn’t feel awkward. There’s a calm between you two that neither of you feels the need to fill.

When you step into his unit, you blink in surprise.

It’s spacious–more spacious than you thought any Seoul apartment could be. A clean hallway leads into an open-concept living room, where daylight pours through sheer curtains. Stacks of books sit against the walls, climbing toward the ceiling like curated towers. A soft grey couch stretches along the far end, low to the ground, lived-in but elegant. Potted plants fill corners. Sculptures and minimalist furniture round out the space.

But the art. The art.

“Whoa,” you whisper. “This place is… beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Namjoon says, sliding off his slippers. “Took a while to make it feel like home. Got some pieces I really care about, too.”

Your eyes sweep over the walls and freeze immediately on one familiar work.

“Oh my god–” you gasp, walking closer without even thinking. “You have Roni Horn’s ‘But the Boomerang That Returns is Not the Same One I Threw’ artwork? That’s so cool!”

He grins at your recognition, clearly pleased. “Oh yeah! That one hits me hard the first time I see it. I keep thinking about how memory isn’t linear and how we come back to people and places and ideas changed. I have to get it.”

You step closer, looking at the piece with reverence. “You know, I referenced this once in a thesis. It’s about the circularity of memory in contemporary installation art. This line stays with me.”

Namjoon smiles, brushing his knuckles over the side of his hoodie. “See? I knew you’re the right person to talk about this stuff with.”

You turn to him, arching a brow. “Are you saying you lured me here with art and food?”

“Maybe a little,” he laughs. “But mostly for the company.”

You flush slightly, feeling the easy warmth between you again. He motions toward the couch. “Come over, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You sit on the soft, clean-lined sofa while Namjoon brings over the food–a spread of tteokbokki, fried mandu, japchae, and a couple of dishes you don’t recognize. “You weren’t kidding when you said food was already here.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says as he sits next to you, cracking open a couple of sparkling waters.

Impress you? There really is no need for that. If anything, you should be the one trying to impress him, the client of the art museum you work for.

The two of you begin eating. Between bites, you look around the curated chaos of his apartment–organized piles of art books, records stacked near a turntable, a small bonsai on the windowsill, and paintings and prints on nearly every wall. There’s a calm sense of order to it all, but nothing sterile. It feels lived in, thoughtful. Like him.

“Do you ever get overwhelmed living here?” you ask softly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sweet potato japchae.

“Yeah,” he admits, “sometimes it feels too big. I’m used to small spaces. But I’ve learned to make it feel... grounding. Plants help. Books help. Art helps.”

You nod. “I get that. Your place doesn’t feel like a celebrity’s house. It feels like a collector’s sanctuary.”

He smiles at that, modest but proud. “That’s kind of what I want.”

After you finish eating, he clears the plates while telling you to scroll through streaming apps looking for Decision to Leave.

“It’s on here,” you call out. “Should I start it?”

“Go for it,” he replies from the kitchen, rinsing off a bowl. “You want beer? I’ll get some out from the fridge after I’m done?”

“Oh yes, please.”

By the time he comes over and dims the lights, the film has begun. He settles in beside you on the couch again, this time a little closer. Your elbows nearly touch.

The opening scenes of Decision to Leave unfold quietly. Detective Haejun, a murder mystery, his insomnia, his marriage already dissolving at the seams. A routine case turning seductive, falling for a strange foreigner, his restraint slowly breaking.

You watch in silence, fingertips loosely wrapped around the sweating bottle of beer, but your focus begins to drift–not from the film, but from the proximity. The way Namjoon’s arm lightly brushes yours when he shifts. How his thigh rests just close enough to yours that you have to force yourself not to notice.

You try to focus on the film, but from the corner of your eye, you see the way his arms fold, the slope of his shoulders, the flickering light catching on the sharp cut of his jawline.

Ten minutes in, a sex scene fills the screen. Slow, quiet, achingly intimate but very awkward.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your own breathing. Of Namjoon’s proximity. His scent, clean, soft, like cedar and something faintly citrusy, fills your lungs.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t look at you, but he smirks. “It’s... definitely not a movie to watch on a first hangout,” he murmurs, chuckling as his eyes stay on the screen.

“You didn’t mention that,” you pout, sinking lower into your seat.

“I forgot, I swear!”

You let out a breathy laugh and try to focus.

Every now and then, you glance at Namjoon, who watches with furrowed brows, like he’s mentally cataloging everything. It’s kind of attractive.

“I’ve always loved how Park Chanwook balances contradiction,” Namjoon murmurs during a lull in the dialogue. “Like that line–‘grief as an envelope or slowly spreading ink.’ It’s brutal, but elegant.”

You turn to him, the glow of the screen painting your profile. “That one gets me too. The metaphors in this film are so carefully placed. It’s not just a love story at all.”

He nods. “Yeah. Like when the detective lies to his wife about sushi, but brings the best for Seo-rae. His values contradict, but love bends people that way.”

“Oh! You’re so right!”

You realize he’s such a yapper; now you’re really hanging out with him in the comfort of his home.

“You like Yun Hyong-Keun, right?” he asks at one point during a slow moment. “That scene with the fog rolling through the mountains? It reminds me of his palette. That kind of smoky grief.”

You nod. “I see the vision, filled with the same exact emotions.”

He turns his head to look at you. “You really know how to talk about art.”

You smile, a little shy. “It’s kind of my job.”

Later, when Haejun mentions he has insomnia, Namjoon stirs beside you. “That part hits close.”

You turn to him, brows drawn. “You have insomnia?”

He gives a half-shrug. “Since I was in the military. Something about the routine… or the lack of it. Stress, maybe. Sometimes I think it’s just residual from everything–work, my members, the future. Not knowing what will happen while I’m in there and when we get out.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he says “we.”

You want to say something comforting, but then Seo-rae whispers: “I wish I could give you a piece of my sleep. Just like a battery.”

That’s it.

You both fall quiet.

Neither of you speak for a while after the credits roll. The silence that follows isn’t awkward–it’s full. A current of thoughts stretching out beneath the stillness, taut and invisible.

You finally speak. “You know… when Haejun tells her to throw away the phone, he’s basically telling her to hide the murder, right? But to me, that’s the closest he ever gets to saying ‘I love you.’ Because if he didn’t, he’d let her get caught.”

Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow. “Yeah, it’s tragic. But it’s also… pure, in a way. Like loving someone means making a choice that could destroy you.”

Loving someone… it’s been too long since you’ve done that. Why bother thinking about this now?

You turn toward Namjoon now, fully. The room is dark but you can still see him, his brows drawn in quiet thought, the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes.

After a pause, he sets his empty beer bottle down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “But I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. It’s gonna take a few hours, but that’s life.”

You hesitate for a second, then lean in just a little, close enough to really look at him. “Might be silly, but I wish I could give you my sleep,” you say softly. “So you could rest. So you didn’t have to carry so much, all the time. Living the life of an idol. Plus, I don’t really need mine anyway.”

Namjoon turns his head toward you, his expression faltering for a moment. Like your words knock the wind out of him a little. There’s something startled in his eyes, almost boyish. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Small. Disbelieving. Touched.

He laughs once…quiet, breathy. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Just... moved. Like maybe he hasn’t heard something so gentle in a while. But you think otherwise, “Sorry! It’s late and I’m just yapping away. I don’t know–”

“Is that your way of telling me you like me?”

The question lands like a spark in your chest.

Your eyes go wide. “H-Huh?”

Your heart stumbles. Trips. Nearly crashes. The beer bottle in your hand feels like an anchor now–too cold, too slippery. You suddenly feel very aware of everything: the slope of his knees beside yours, the faint warmth radiating from where your thighs nearly touch, the low hum of the movie credits still rolling.

“I–I mean–not like that,” you blurt out. “Not like Seorae or anything, I think I’m just a bit tipsy so the words just–”

Namjoon lifts his hand in mock defense, grinning now, though not unkindly. “I’m kidding,” he says, the words slow and gentle. “Just teasing.”

But the glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. And neither does the silence that follows.

You take a breath, trying to ease your pulse. “Don’t play around like that, Namjoon,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching downward. “Don’t you have someone you’re with?”

The words fall out before you can stop them.

Regret pricks at you the moment they hang in the air. because it sounds invasive. And maybe it is. You’ve established this simple friendship through your love for art and other miscellaneous things, but questions about anything else–his members, his deeper relationships, his family–certainly feel off-limits.

You shift your gaze down to the neck of your bottle, feigning casualness, even though your mind is screaming. God, he’s thirty-one. He’s too attractive. Too grounded. There’s no way he’s not seeing someone. Even if it's not public. It’s not like you keep up with tabloids, but every friend you’ve had who followed Western bands swore up and down about many secret flings and long-term hidden lovers. Why would Namjoon be any different?

Why wouldn’t he?

But then he answers.

“No,” he says simply. Calmly.

Your eyes snap back up to his face.

He meets your gaze without hesitation, his posture still relaxed. But there’s a weight behind his words that makes them feel true. Not performative. Not for effect. Just honest.

“I’m not,” he repeats. “I haven’t dated in a long time. There was someone over four years ago. And someone else… maybe seven years before that.” There were others he was seeing for a bit, but it never evolved into anything. And usually always, he seemed to be the root cause of that. Not really worth mentioning that, he thought.

He shrugs one shoulder slightly, as if brushing it off, but the quiet undercurrent in his tone betrays him.

“They didn’t last. Not because they weren’t good people. They just–” He pauses. “There wasn’t really time before. Not real time. Not the kind where you could actually… show up for someone.”

You stare at him now. Not just his face, but his whole being. The slope of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The lines around his eyes that you now recognize not as age but weariness. You wonder how many pieces of himself he’s had to give away. How much of him is left for himself. For this version of him now–barefoot on a couch in sweats, sipping beer with you at midnight.

You’re about to respond when he shifts, looking over at you again.

“What about you?” he asks, and there’s something shy behind it. Hesitant. Like maybe your answer matters more than it should.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Me? I haven’t dated in a while either,” you admit. “College was… busy. Two or three flings that never really turned into anything. I always chose work, my projects. I guess I just figured there wasn’t room for both.”

Namjoon listens intently, eyes on you, head slightly tilted.

You swallow, voice softer now. “And at some point… I think I just stopped believing I was the kind of person people waited for. I settled just to not date.”

The room falls quiet.

He looks at you–not just looks, but it feels as if he sees you. Like you opening up about your love life rearranged something in him. His brow softens. He sits up a little straighter, knees brushing yours.

“That’s not true,” he says, voice low and sure. “You’re... someone people definitely remember.”

His hand reaches out, tentative, searching. His fingers graze the side of your face, knuckles brushing your cheek in a slow, reverent touch. You freeze under it, heart in your throat.

He leans in a little closer. Not rushing, not assuming. Just closing the distance like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you don’t move. You’re eagerly waiting for the next move.

And your voice wavers. “Namjoon…”

“I’m not trying to complicate anything,” he says, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… and I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want to know you beyond art.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

And in the next moment, you both move–together, unsure of who initiates–but it doesn’t matter. Your lips meet in a kiss that’s hesitant at first, barely a brush. Then again, longer. Surer. Warmer.

Namjoon feels the shape of your mouth, the curve of your breath, the way you sigh into him like you’ve wanted this too.

God, he thinks. She tastes like an escape. A great escape. From all his stress. From sleepless nights. From this whole life he chose to live many years ago.

You both pause, pulling back a fraction, breath mingling. The room pulses with something unspoken.

Then you dive in again. This time slower. Deepening. Exploring. His hand cups your face more fully, thumb stroking your cheekbone as if to memorize the curve of it.

You kiss again and again, and somewhere in the middle of it, you shift forward, knees brushing his. He pulls you in gently, and before you know it, you're climbing into his lap. Straddling him.

Your knees are planted on the cushions below, your hands resting on his shoulders as you settle against him, close enough to feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his hoodie.

Namjoon lets out a low breath, stunned at first. Then his hands move instinctively to your hips, steadying you, holding you there like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. 

You’re facing him now, fully, and the sight of you this close, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-bitten lips, the wide, searching look in your eyes, undoes him.

You feel his breath against your neck, his hands warm through the fabric of your tank top. He tilts his forehead to rest against yours, the closeness unbearable in the best way.

“Fuck…I’ve thought about this,” he admits, voice roughened with restraint. “A lot.”

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

“You have?” you whisper.

Namjoon nods. His eyes flick between your own. “Since that evening I saw you at the museum. Since you sent me instagram reels that reminded you of things i’ve mentioned.” He grins, but it fades fast into something more serious. “Since you told me what you loved about Yun Hyong-Keun. Since I’ve seen you wear these sexy, yet simple, casual outfits,”

Your breath hitches.

“I’ve tried not to think about it too much,” he continues. “Tried to stay in control. Be good. Remember that you’re a curator probably just trying to maintain a good relationship with me, your client. But that wasn’t just it for me. You’re just not easy to forget.”

Neither are you, you think. In the last few weeks, you’ve grown to wait for his messages, and hear about his thoughts and his feelings. You’ve enjoyed him sending you selfies. You’ve thought about him late at night. But the words don’t come out to let him know.

Instead, you lean in again. And this time, there’s nothing tentative about it.

And underneath it all, you have no idea how long he’s wanted this.

To touch you. To consume you. It might’ve even been from the moment he met you. Reading your labels, opening up a new world to him that amused and frustrated him at the same time.

His hands grip your hips more firmly now, thumbs pressing into the rough fabric of your denim skirt as your mouths crash together again–deeper, messier. You're no longer holding back. The second your hips rock forward, you both inhale sharply. It’s instinct, friction, need–years of restraint unraveling between stolen breaths. You want to feel him, no, need to feel him.

Namjoon groans softly against your mouth, like the pressure against his cock beneath his  shorts surprises him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel how hard he is beneath you–thick and straining against the cotton of his shorts. Your breath stutters. You grind down again.

“Shit,” he whispers, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he sucks in air. “You can’t… you can’t move like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you breathe, the words barely formed. “I mean it.”

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling him in as your hips start a slow, grinding rhythm against his. There’s nothing frantic about it. Just drawn-out, indulgent friction. Dry, but heady. Heated. Real.

Namjoon kisses your throat now, lips warm and reverent, dragging along your skin like he’s desperate to memorize the taste of you. You tilt your head back to give him more, gasping when his tongue darts out to soothe where his teeth grazed. His hands remove your cardigan and slip under your tank, splaying wide against your back, dragging up slowly until his thumbs brush just under your breasts.

You arch into him. He pulls back slightly, searching your face.

“Okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, trembling with restraint.

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

And then his hands find your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your blue lace bra. Your back curves with the sensation, thighs tightening around him, as a low moan escapes you. He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and reverent.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck.”

Your hips grind down harder, and the sound that escapes him is almost guttural. He grabs your waist with both hands, guiding your movements now, slow and deep, grinding the shape of his cock against your clothed center.

Every motion sends sparks along your spine.

When Namjoon’s fingers slip under the hem of your tank. He doesn’t rush. He just pauses there, his thumbs brushing soft circles against your skin. Then he tugs, gently, not forceful, not demanding. Just a question, wordless but clear.

Your breath catches. The haze in your head lifts slightly, the thrum of arousal edged now with hesitation.

You pull back a little, just enough to meet his gaze. “Wait…” you say softly, fingers curling around his wrist to still him. “Can I tell you something first?”

Namjoon’s eyes are immediately alert, open. “Of course.”

You take a breath. Then another.

“I’m not really… confident about my body,” you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. But it honestly just sounds like word vomit. “Especially not with my chest. My boobs are kind of… weird? They’re not perky. They droop, but not in that cute teardrop way people talk about online or show in porn. They’ve always been like that. Just… heavy. Uneven. And I guess I always worried that guys wouldn’t know what to do with them. Or worse, would see them and just… lose interest.”

God, he’s going to think you’re ridiculous, isn’t he?

However, Namjoon just stares at you for a moment, and then he smiles. So soft, so full of something almost like wonder. A giggle slips from him, not mocking but sweet and earnest.

You blink. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he says, resting his forehead briefly against yours, “You’re talking to someone who once spent an hour staring at Koo Bon-woong’s Nabu at the MMCA, completely mesmerized by the lines of a woman’s back and the uneven curve of her breasts.” His hand strokes slowly over your side, not daring to go further yet. “Or Lee Kwae-dae’s 기대어 앉은 나부 1940년대. Have you seen it? One breast is visibly fuller than the other. Her arms look a little too long. It’s imperfect. But it’s alive. It stays with you.”

You swallow, something cracking open in your chest.

God, you really picked a intelligent man.

“Art doesn’t care about symmetry,” Namjoon continues gently. “It cares about presence. About the truth of something. And you…” His voice drops, reverent now. “You’d be a masterpiece. No matter how you look.”

Your eyes sting suddenly. You don’t know what to say.

Namjoon leans in, kissing your cheek, your jaw. “I want to see you,” he murmurs. “Only if you want me to. But I promise, there’s nothing here that could scare me off.”

You hesitate one last second. Then you nod.

And when he lifts your tank off, slow and careful, his eyes don’t drift. They stay locked on yours, until the fabric slips away and your skin meets the air between you.

Namjoon exhales. A soft, almost awestruck sound.

His hands glide up your sides, reverent, and he murmurs something in Korean under his breath you don’t quite catch. But you can feel the meaning in the way he holds you. Tender. Certain. Present.

Like you were never anything less than art.

And then his mouth is on you again, kissing a path down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast. His hand comes up to cup you while his lips close around your nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently. New sensations storming through you with these actions.

“Namjoon–” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.

“They’re beautiful, just as i thought.”

He moans against your skin, one hand lifting up your skirt to rub at your clit covered by your blue panties. It only pushed Namjoon further seeing that you matched your lingerie just to come hang out with him. You rock into his touch, needy, grinding down onto his hand and the firm press of his cock beneath you. The pressure is maddening. Delicious. Not enough.

You both move like you’re chasing something–chasing release, connection, the safety of each other’s hands. His thumb rubs slow circles where you’re aching, and your whole body shudders. You’re soaking through your underwear, can feel the wet heat smeared against the curve of him through all the layers between you.

Namjoon’s head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your hips roll harder, faster. “Fuck, if we keep going–”

“I know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “But I want to.”

He kisses you again–desperate now. Bruising. Starved. You rut against each other in sync, messy and quiet, until both of you are trembling.

Your breath hitches. Your stomach coils tight. You’re so close.

“I–” you start, but your voice breaks. He hears it anyway. Feels it in the way your body tenses.

“Come for me,” he whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Just like this. I’ve got you.”

You do. With a broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you shake in his arms as your orgasm hits. It rips through you, drawn out by the relentless friction and the heat of his voice in your ear.

Namjoon curses low, grinding up into you a few more times before his hips stutter beneath you. He buries his face in your neck, breath shattering as he comes hard, cock twitching in his shorts against the soaked heat of your center. His grip on you tightens, then softens.

The silence after is thick. Heavy with breath. With everything that just passed between you.

Eventually, you both go still. Your forehead rests against his, your chest still heaving.

Namjoon chuckles softly, breathless. “Shit, so much for taking it slow.”

“Agh, I’m actually embarrassed.” You laugh weakly, arms still wrapped around him. “We didn’t even make it off the couch.”

He chuckles, “Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t regret this at all,” he murmurs, voice low and tender.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, smile against his cheek.

“Neither do I, though now i can’t go home like this.” you groan, carefully getting off of him not trying to stain his likely very expensive grey couch. “Just throw your ruined clothes in the washer,” he says, nodding toward the laundry area. “Stay the night.”

“Stay the night?” You blink, caught off guard.

He reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours. “It’s late anyway. I don’t want you out there with all the drunkards on a Saturday night. I’ll get you one of my shirts…”

Wearing one of his oversized shirts does sound dangerously comfortable, but then he adds with a smirk:

“After we move to the bed and finish what we started.”

Oh my god.

“Kim Namjoon?!” you gasp, then lower your voice with a sharp whisper. “Did you plan this all along? Are you really that deprived of sex as an idol–?”

“Yes. God, yes,” he giggles, dimples flashing. “But hey–I didn’t know you’d actually feel the same way. You played into it too, so we’re in this together.”

You roll your eyes, heart thudding wildly. You had thought about it, of course. But the risk, the reality of getting involved with someone like him always held you back. And yet, he’s the one making the moves. Making it real. And harder to resist.

“I was perfectly content being art buddies,” you mutter, teasing.

“But now we’re doing more than just talking about art. Doing art,” he grins.

“Clearly.”

“Starting again…right now,” he declares before scooping you up into his arms. You yelp in surprise.

“W–Woah! Hey!”

He mutters something under his breath–probably praying he doesn’t drop you–and somehow makes it to the bed in one piece. He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I have condoms,” he says, already reaching for the drawer in his nightstand.

“Good to know,” you reply, then cock an eyebrow. “But… you’re not gonna make me sign an NDA or anything? This is kind of a big risk, no?”

Namjoon looks at you seriously, hand pausing on the packet. “I already told you. I trust you. There’s no need for all that.” “I admire that,” you say softly. “And I’d never dream of telling anyone. Not even my K-pop-loving friends from back home. They’d combust on the spot and probably crucify me.”

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, then leans in to kiss you again.

The kiss deepens quickly, all tongue and hunger. He lifts your knees gently, unbuttoning your skirt, fingers hooking onto your underwear and skirt and sliding them down with care. You shiver when the cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his touch–his fingers slipping between your thighs, finding your slick heat.

He strokes you slowly at first, kissing you through each quiet moan, then teasing your entrance with one careful finger, then two. When he feels how wet you are, he pulls back from your lips and shifts lower, eyes full of dark, focused hunger.

You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel his mouth on you–warm, insistent, devoted. His tongue slips inside you and your head falls back with a strangled cry. He groans against you like he’s starving for it, like the taste of you is something he’s imagined far too many times.

You buck your hips against his mouth, chasing the wave rising in your core–but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.

“Wait–what–”

Immediate sexual frustration hits you.

But then he flips you gently onto your stomach, his hand sliding under your hips to raise them. You hear the soft rustle of clothes being shed, followed by the rip of a foil packet.

“I’m going to put it in, that okay?” His voice is hoarse with restraint.

You nod into the pillow, voice a breathy whisper. “Y–yeah–ah!”

He presses into you slowly, the stretch making your eyes fly open.

“Oh fuck–” you choke out, nails gripping the sheets. “Couldn’t even wait, damn..” “I’ve been waiting a bit too long, baby.”

Oh, baby…

You haven’t even seen his dick–but you can feel how big he is. Each inch pushes deeper, and your body trembles around him, overwhelmed. 

Is it even possible to fit it inside you? You’ve been thoroughly prepped, but still! You haven’t done this in a few years.

Namjoon lets out a low groan behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You feel–fucking amazing…”

Namjoon’s thrusts start slow–but deep. Each drag of his hips feels like he’s trying to memorize the way your body fits around him, how you twitch and squeeze at every pullback. But it doesn’t take long for him to build rhythm, and then he’s pounding into you like he can’t help himself.

“F-fuck, Namjoon–!” you cry out, forehead pressed to the sheets, grabbing the same said sheets for dear life.

He grunts in response, fingers digging into your hips as he drives himself in again and again, filling you completely every time. You’re reeling–your body not used to this kind of stimulation. No one has ever stimulated you this way. No one has ever wanted to make it known how much they wanted you. Or how badly they wanted to ruin you.

You’re definitely soaking him and these sheets. The sounds between you two are obscene, and it only turns you on more.

Your mind spins. How did this happen so fast? You’re usually so cautious, so calculated when it comes to sex. But he has you unraveling. There’s something about the way he takes you–how open and vocal he is, how tender and filthy all at once. It makes your pulse pound with something deeper than just lust.

Another orgasm sneaks up on you before you can even brace for it.

You clench hard around him with a gasp, your whole body seizing with pleasure. “Shit–shit–I’m cumming again–!”

Namjoon groans loud into your neck, the sound vibrating through your spine. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

Your arms give out under you, and you collapse against the bed, panting into the sheets. He slows for a moment, breathing heavy, eyes searching your face.

“You okay?”

You’re flushed and pissed–and not at him.

“No,” you snap weakly, breathless. “I’m fucking mad.”

He freezes. “Wait–what?”

“I lost myself too quickly,” you groan, turning your face to look at him. “I told myself I’d take it slow, and now I’m already cumming twice like I’m in some kind of fever dream.”

Namjoon’s lips twitch in a smile, clearly amused.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn. “I can go for more.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“I want to make you cum this time,” you declare, sitting up and pushing your messy hair from your face. “Let me ride you.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face, replaced by something darker.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. He is gonna fucking love this.

“I’m sure.”

He smirks, impressed. “Alright then. Let’s see what you can do, baby girl.”

You roll your eyes, move quickly, both of you shifting positions. Namjoon lies back, head propped against his pillows, arms resting behind him in a slow, cocky sprawl. His eyes track your every move, and now that you have space to look at him fully–fuck.

You finally see him.

Your gaze drops–and your breath catches.

Holy shit.

His cock, slick and flushed and painfully hard, looks even bigger now that you’re seeing it properly. Veiny, thick, girthy in a way that makes you second-guess every confident thing you just said.

You’re about to put that inside you again? You’ve officially lost your mind, L/N F/N.

Still, you climb over him, hands trembling slightly as you wrap your fingers around the base.

“You good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your expression with quiet concern. Constantly calling you baby… God…he will be the death of you. This man feels the same too, though you don’t know that.

“Y-Yeah, just processing your... situation,” you mutter.

He laughs, husky and low. “Take your time.”

You hover over him, grip tightening as you angle him toward your entrance. Slowly–so slowly–you lower yourself down.

The stretch makes you groan instantly, your thighs trembling from the effort.

Namjoon’s eyes flutter closed, brows furrowing in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel good.”

You inch down further, and further–until you’re seated fully in his lap, completely filled. Your nails dig into his abs for support.

“God,” you pant, adjusting your hips. “How are you fucking real?”

He gently rubs circles into your back with his palm. “You’re doing amazing, baby. Just go at your pace.”

You nod, focused, letting your body settle before testing the motion–shifting your hips in a slow, grinding roll.

Namjoon opens his eyes to look at you–and the moment your rhythm picks up, his mouth parts in awe.

She’s beautiful, he thinks. Completely unfiltered. The way your brows pinch in concentration, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, the way your chest bounces slightly with every motion–he’s fucking obsessed.

He swore he’d let you take the lead. He swore he’d hold back.

But that restraint doesn’t last long.

Your pace quickens, and the look on your face–the pleasure, the determination, the way you ride him like you own him–it breaks him.

“Shit–” he groans, hands flying to your hips. “Sorry, baby–I need to–”

He slams up into you with force, taking control again, driving himself deeper as you gasp out his name.

“Namjoon–!”

He pounds into you from below, hands guiding your hips down to meet each brutal thrust.

You can barely breathe, let alone think. All you can do is ride the wave of it–the rhythm of his cock stretching you open again and again, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.

You’re both already close–so close–and the heat between you builds to another breaking point–

You ride him hard, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in rhythm with your quickening breath. Namjoon’s grip tightens on your hips, grounding you through the rapid push and pull of pleasure mounting on both ends.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling sharply beneath you. You’re barely holding on–thighs trembling, eyes fluttering shut as another orgasm builds low in your belly. And then it crests, stealing the air from your lungs as you cry out, clenching hard around him as your body shudders from the release.

Namjoon gasps under you, brows furrowed deep, his voice cracking in that final second as he comes too–hips jerking up as his cock twitches and empties inside the condom, thick and warm, filling it far more than you expected.

He groans, head tipping back, completely undone. “Shit…”

You collapse forward a little, hands splaying out on the solid plane of his chest, using him to steady yourself. He’s warm, his heart thudding against your palms, the faint sheen of sweat across his skin glowing soft in the low light.

You're spent. Or at least, your body should be. But your mind is still racing. You want more. Want to see him fall asleep completely relaxed–without tension in his jaw or worry in his eyes. You want him to feel cared for, too, in a way you’ve never really offered to anyone else.

Carefully, you lift yourself off of him with a whimper at the sensitivity, reaching between your bodies to gently roll the condom off his softening cock. It’s heavy with his release, warm in your hand.

Namjoon lets out a slow, almost incredulous breath as he watches you. “Already eager to keep going?” he asks, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.

“Of course,” you murmur, tossing the condom aside and shifting your body again. You crawl up between his legs, knees pressing to either side of his thighs, hands sliding along his skin. “Now doing this…”

You lower your head and give the underside of his cock a soft, lingering lick–kittenish and slow. His body jolts faintly, oversensitive but already responding. You glance up at him, eyes wide, a faux innocence in your expression that makes his throat bob with a swallow.

You let your tongue trail up from the base to the tip, deliberately teasing, holding eye contact the whole time. His cock twitches against your tongue, not yet fully hard but already awakening under your gentle attention.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he rasps, watching you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

You press a kiss to his tip and then lick again, this time with a firmer stroke. “Wanna help you sleep like a king tonight,” you whisper against his skin. “No tension. No stress. Just melt into the pillows and let me take care of you.”

He exhales shakily, his hand lifting to brush your hair back from your cheek. “You’re so dangerous,” he mutters, but the way his fingers linger says he likes that about you. 

You giggle softly and wrap your lips around the head of his cock, coaxing him back to life with every warm, wet suck. One hand cups his balls gently while the other strokes the base of his shaft, your mouth working in slow, tantalizing pulls. You can already feel him growing hard again under your care–eager, despite just having cum.

Namjoon groans, one hand clenching the sheet beneath him. “You’re seriously gonna make me fall for you deeper by doing shit like this.”

You hum around him–intentionally letting the vibration tease him deeper–and keep going.

You suck him slowly, deliberately, coaxing him into full hardness again with your mouth, your tongue teasing every ridge and sensitive vein along his length. Namjoon’s hands slip into your hair, not forcing, just grounding himself in the sheer pleasure of your lips around him. His breath grows ragged, eyes fluttering as he tries–really tries–to hold back.

But then your tongue swirls around the head of his cock and you moan just a little, like you enjoy the taste of him, the feel of him stretching your lips. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck–baby, I’m gonna–”

He chokes on the rest of the warning as he comes hard, cock twitching in your mouth, hot spurts of cum hitting your tongue–and more. A thick, sudden spill lands warm on your cheek. You close your eyes and take it all in stride, swallowing every last drop with ease.

It tastes…surprisingly good. Slightly sweet, salty, clean. He really must eat well. Idol diet and all.

You finally pull off with a soft pop, licking your lips, and wipe your cheek with the back of your hand as you glance up at him. Namjoon looks absolutely wrecked–mouth parted, chest heaving, the remnants of disbelief in his eyes.

“Damn…” he exhales, voice hoarse.

His head tips back against the pillows, muscles twitching with aftershocks. He wants to go again–you can see it in the way his eyes trail over you, hungry and dazed–but this time, his exhaustion catches up to him first. For the first time in a long while, his eyelids actually start to flutter shut on their own.

“That…was so fucking hot,” he mumbles, still breathless. “But we need to take a hot shower before we sleep. I also need to change the sheets…”

You glance at the state of the bed and smile lazily. “If we go in together, we could finish faster and head to sleep?” you tease.

Namjoon laughs and instantly reaches for you, sweeping you into his arms again. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

He carries you–again, praying he doesn’t trip over his own feet (he’s a bit clumsy) and brings you into the bathroom just to the left of his room. It’s massive. Double sinks, a wide soaking tub set in dark marble, and a luxurious glass-enclosed shower with rainfall and handheld settings.

You both step in, the hot water already running and filling the space with gentle steam.

Namjoon pulls you under the spray and wordlessly reaches for the body wash. His touch is gentle as he lathers his hands, then begins softly washing your arms, your shoulders, your back. His fingers linger, not overtly sexual, but reverent. Almost too reverent. It makes your insides twist with tenderness.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice husky and close to your ear.

You nod, but your voice is small. “Yeah. Just…sensitive.”

He leans in and kisses your temple. “I know. You don’t have to push yourself for now.”

You shake your head, eyes closed as his hands gently trace suds over your waist. “It’s not that. It’s just–this feels really nice. And it’s making it hard to go back to a professional relationship.”

Namjoon’s hands pause. His chest presses into your back. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he says, almost too softly.

You don’t reply. Not yet. You simply turn and take the body wash for yourself.

“Your turn,” you say with a little smile, wanting to keep things light.

You gently start working the lather across his chest, over his broad shoulders, and then down his back. The muscles move under your hands like smooth, sculpted marble. He sighs deeply at your touch.

“You know,” you murmur as you wash down the center of his spine, “your back looks like a landscape to me.”

He chuckles. “A what?”

“Like a canvas. Like–I could paint a tree on it. Or wings. Or maybe a river cutting through hills.”

Namjoon hums low, smiling to himself. “You’re such an artist. Everything you touch turns poetic.”

“You’re the one who quoted nude paintings during sex, remember? You even make music about poetic euphemisms of riding you,”

He laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. “Touché.”

When you’re both finally rinsed and clean, he shuts off the water and steps out, grabbing the largest, fluffiest towel and wrapping you in it first. Then he ruffles another towel through your hair, drying you gently like you’re the most delicate thing in the world.

Once you're mostly dry, he hands you one of his oversized white t-shirts. It swallows you completely, falling down to mid-thigh, and smells just like him–earthy, clean, with a hint of something musky and expensive.

“You look really good in that,” he murmurs with a grin as he pulls on his own sweats.

You help him strip the bed, tossing the stained sheets into a hamper tucked in the corner of the room. Then, together, you remake the bed–Namjoon smoothing the fitted sheet while you fluff the pillows and pull the new comforter into place.

When everything’s set, you both crawl under the covers, bodies warm and damp and soft with sleep.

Namjoon pulls you into his chest, your back to him, his arm draped protectively over your waist. He exhales one last time, burying his nose into your hair.

“Can’t believe I’m going to sleep without checking my phone for hours,” he mumbles, already dozing. “You’ve gotta be magic.”

“That’s honestly all just you,” you smile to yourself, your eyes fluttering shut. “Goodnight, Joon.”

“‘Night, baby.”

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly through the night.

+

That night became the catalyst for a series of sexcapdes with Namjoon. You started visiting his place regularly–what started as late-night hangouts became something far more intimate, far more regular. Despite the chaos of his world tour preparation, long hours at the dance studio, late-night recording sessions, and relentless content filming, Namjoon always made time to see you. He'd slip home in the narrow windows between his schedules just to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you like he’d been starved, and to fall into bed tangled together.

Your sex life evolved into something rich and varied, a secret world just for the two of you. Namjoon, surprisingly attentive and open-minded, explored your body with curiosity and care, never rushing, always wanting to understand how you responded to every touch, every angle, every rhythm. You enjoy this too, and opt to go on birth control after some time just to ease the process for you both, while still using condoms at times to maintain protection. These are risky activites after all.

The kitchen table became your first unconventional setting. One late night, dressed in one of his oversized T-shirts and nothing underneath, you’d leaned against the marble countertop while making kimchi jjigae. One look from him, slow and hungry, and somehow you were up on the dining table seconds later. He tugged your hips closer until your toes barely touched the floor, then lifted one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he thrusted his cock into you. The cold contrast of the table made you shiver, but his body was warm and grounding. His hands gripped your thighs tightly as he shoved himself into you, slow and deep, each movement echoing off the kitchen walls. The stew became cold, forgotten. Namjoon’s breath came heavy against your collarbone as he muttered, “Fuck, I could take you like this every night. Watching your body shake just from this angle–God.”

Another time, in the living room, you’d found yourself in his lap one late afternoon, straddling him while his back sank into the plush couch. You were both reading a book, which soon became forgotten. The light from the window cast golden streaks across his chest. You pressed your hands against his shoulders and sank down on him slowly, the stretch sharp and perfect. You moved with languid rhythm, your knees digging into the cushions, hips circling as your eyes fluttered shut. Namjoon couldn’t look away. His large hands spanned your waist and guided you as you rode him harder, your rhythm growing frantic, both of you getting lost in the slick, slapping sounds filling the space. One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a messy kiss. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s above me like this, he thought, hips bucking upward. “Just like that, baby… keep using me.”

The shower was chaotic in the best way. Slippery skin, fogged-up glass, and steam curling around your bodies as he pinned you against the wall. Your legs up, wrapped around his waist, water cascading down his broad shoulders as he thrusted into you, the sharp clap of wet skin muted under the patter of the spray. You gasped against his neck while he braced one hand against the tile and the other held your ass, adjusting your angle so he could hit even deeper. “You drive me fucking insane,” he growled into your ear, barely holding back. And even when he was losing control, he still reached down between your bodies to rub you gently, expertly, pushing you over the edge even as his own release built.

And then even at times, the bathtub. It started as a soak, your back against his chest, legs resting atop the edge, wine glasses on the side. But the moment you turned to straddle him under the water, your mouths met in a slow, heated kiss, and his cock slipped between your thighs. You guided him inside, gasping as the hot water surrounded you both. Your movements were slow and indulgent, bodies rocking beneath the surface, water spilling over the sides with every rise and fall of your hips. Namjoon held your waist with reverence, marveling at how your breasts bounced gently with every motion, your lashes wet and cheeks flushed. He whispered, “Baby, you look like something out of a dream,” just before his head fell back against the rim of the tub, lost in the pleasure you gave him.

One night, he brought up the Kama Sutra. You were sprawled on the bed, still slick and panting from a particularly intense session, and he casually flipped through the app on his phone, showing you diagrams. “For art and science,” he teased, nudging you with his elbow. You grinned, your curiosity piqued.

You laughed. “You’re actually such a pervert, Kim Namjoon.”

“You’re no different from me!” “I’m not even going to argue with that, let’s just try one.”

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a ritual. It helped him sleep better, too. You felt more livelier again after living in such a draining city. A surprising bonus.

He wanted to visit your place next, but you lived in Myeongdong, right above a busy alleyway filled with cafés and foot traffic from both tourists and locals. Too risky. One slip and someone might spot him, and you refused to be the reason his privacy got breached. So instead, his Hannam-dong apartment became your second home. His sanctuary turned into a shared one.

You started leaving things behind–changes of clothes, your favorite moisturizer, a toothbrush. Eventually, you even had a drawer, then a shelf. He didn’t mind. His closet was massive. You began using his place to rest after museum shifts, sometimes staying the night even when he wasn’t around. He’d given you the door passcode weeks ago, murmuring how precious you were to him while he typed it into your phone himself.

There were quiet nights when things were reversed. Sex first, then lounging, late night talks about music, art, artists, exhibitions, life, etc. One evening after a steamy sex in the shower, still wrapped in towels and slightly damp, Namjoon brought up something you’d mentioned during your first night over.

“You said you wanted to paint a tree on my back,” he says, rummaging through the closet.

You blink. “You remembered that?”

“I bought some body-safe paints and brushes. Even got a canvas drop cloth so we don’t ruin the floors.” He lays everything out with boyish excitement. “I thought it might be fun.”

Your eyes light up. He smiles, gently patting your head. “You’re seriously so cute.”

You both sit naked on the drop cloth, backs resting against the couch, warm lighting casting shadows across the room. Namjoon sits in front of you with his back to you, strong shoulders relaxed, spine straight. You dip your brush into black paint and start with the roots, then move slowly upward–every stroke intentional.

“So… what are we?” you ask suddenly as your brush moves along his lower back.

He chuckles. “Isn’t it a little late to ask that? We’ve been seeing each other for three months.”

“Just checking,” you say with a smile. “We’ve never put a label on this, so I want to know how you feel.”

He pauses for a moment before speaking. “I don’t mind labels. Or not having them. Some of my members don’t like being tied to those terms, especially with our jobs. But… being able to call you my girlfriend?” He turns slightly, flashing you that warm, dimpled smile. “That makes me even happier.”

You blush, caught off guard by his honesty. “Stop… you’re making my cheeks heat up…”

He laughs with his whole body, shaking his head in amusement. “What about you, baby?”

You hesitate. “I’ve been scared of labels, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if that would burden you. I didn’t want to add pressure on top of what you already deal with as an idol.”

Namjoon tilts his head slightly, sensing the sincerity in your voice. “If it’s you, I don’t mind it. Honestly, I think it’d give me more energy if you called me your boyfriend.”

You smile to yourself and dip your brush back in the paint. “Then, okay, my lovely boyfriend, I have finished the art.”

He stands and walks over to the mirror in the hallway between his bathroom and the closet. His eyes widen. “Is this a plum blossom tree in traditional Korean ink style?”

You walk over beside him. “It is. Plum blossoms symbolize resilience, hope, and perseverance in adversity. I think you embody that completely, especially after everything you’ve told me about your journey as an idol.”

Namjoon looks at you softly through the mirror, your reflection beside him glowing with warmth. His expression softens. His heart swells.

He turns and hugs you close, your bare chest pressing against his. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

“I truly love you, you know that?”

You giggle softly. “Yeah… of course I know. And I love you too.”

He pulls back with a playful smirk. “Now it’s my turn to paint you. Maybe I’ll put some flowers on your chest.”

He’s so precious. You burst out laughing at his cuteness, already reaching for the brushes again.

“Go for whatever your heart desires.”

January. After months of constant hangouts and long, ongoing conversations, itt’s been two weeks since Namjoon last texted you.

You don’t really mind the lack of communication. You know better than to assume the worst. He’s an idol. He’s juggling a packed schedule with rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, choreography tweaks, and the constant pressure of the public eye. Silence isn’t always rejection. Sometimes, it’s just exhaustion.

Still, the quiet lingers in your phone like an unopened letter.

You consider texting him to let him know you’ll be at Frieze Seoul, the international art fair held annually in the city, known for bringing together global collectors, artists, and institutions. It's one of the biggest events of the year–a week-long celebration of contemporary art spanning prestigious museums and galleries across Seoul. This year, the after-party for opening night is being hosted by Artue in a private rooftop space above Itaewon.

You’ve seen past articles–photos of Namjoon quietly observing installations at events like this, tucked in black caps or sponsored by a prestigious brand in branded clothing. He’s no stranger to Frieze. He even reposted a sculpture from the fair two years ago. But you doubt he’ll make it this year. With the tour prep underway and pressure all on as the comeback nears, it seems impossible.

Still, you hover over your phone screen. Should you let him know?

Would that be weird? Does he even care about your schedules?

Would maybe seem to him that you’re fishing for attention? Or worse–assuming he’ll be there? You don’t want to seem like a clingy girlfriend and you also don’t want to interfere with whatever he’s been up to. You get it. Maybe you should just get back to work.

You lock your phone without sending anything.

The COEX Convention Center is buzzing by the time you arrive, bright white lighting softened by the elegant glow of uplights bouncing off glass panels and floral installations. You walk through the tall revolving doors beside the Kukje Gallery Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee, CEO Charles Kim, as well as 3 other big gallery staff members you closely work with. Your heels click quietly across the marble.

Your For Love & Lemons Ophelia Gown, a floral satin slip dress clings to your figure, swaying at the hem with each step. The corseted bodice shapes your waist, soft ivory fabric catching flecks of light like pearls. You blend in–yet stand out. Clean and classic. Soft and smart.

“Y/N,” the Chairwoman leans in slightly, speaking over the hum of jazz and clinking glass. “You look lovely tonight. Walk with me.”

You heard the big lady boss, so you do.

“Tonight’s about presence. You don’t have to say much–just listen, absorb, and know who to recognize. Frieze is where art meets capital, and relationships are the real investment.”

“Yes, Chairwoman,” you nod, adjusting your clutch as you follow her into the crowd.

You’re introduced to gallerists from Tokyo and Berlin, a Swiss collector who apparently has a soft spot for Korean post-war art, and a British curator who mentions she follows your gallery’s Instagram. You smile graciously, thank her, accept the champagne flute a waiter hands you. Every few minutes, Director Bokyung Park sweeps past with a whispered cue–“That’s the Arario team. Oh, and the woman in green? She used to work with Zwirner.”

Jiwon and Sekyung, fellow Kukje Gallery assistants, are more relaxed now with drinks in hand, joke quietly near the sculpture exhibit by a Norwegian artist–tall slabs of glass stacked precariously like a frozen Jenga tower. You recognize a few celebrities from afar. One of them, a K-drama actor, brushes past your shoulder and nods with a grin. You smile politely, tucking hair behind your ear.

Matthew Thompson, the international liaison working at the Kukje Gallery with you, leans over and murmurs with his usual British charm, “You’re handling this well. Most first-timers freeze up at events like this.”

“I’ve worked under people like Curator Sungah Serena Choo for far too long to freeze up at events like these,” you reply with a small laugh. “That’s impressive of you, especially at your age being in this world.”

The night rolls on with curated elegance. Music swells from a live quartet in the corner, and the soft chatter of artists, dealers, critics, and collectors swirls around you like the fizz of your champagne. You’re perfectly composed, but something nags at the edge of your mind.

Would he have come here tonight?

Would he walk through those doors?

And if he did… would his eyes look for you, with the same thoughts that you’d likely be here?

You sip your champagne, gently sway your hips to avoid a passing waiter, and smile at someone you half-recognize from an online networking panel last year.

You remind yourself you're here for the art.

Not for the chance to see him.

But your eyes still glance toward the entrance.

Just once. Maybe twice.

A sudden roar erupts from outside the COEX venue–louder than anything you’ve heard all evening. It crashes through the air like a wave, spilling into the open glass lobby from somewhere far beyond the polished walls.

You glance up. Fans have been camped outside since sunset, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite idols and actors as they arrived for Frieze Seoul’s opening. Most can’t even get past security, but they wait anyway, with cameras in hand and phones pressed to barricades.

But this time, the noise is different. Sharper. Higher-pitched. Sustained.

Something tugs at your heart.

Could it be…?

“Oh my god–it’s BTS RM and J-Hope! They’re here!”

Gasps flutter across the floor like startled birds. Conversations falter. Glasses pause mid-air. And then the migration begins–art professionals, dealers, and curious attendees flock toward the mezzanine railing of the second floor, eager to catch a glimpse.

You follow slowly, stuck behind a few people in the crowd forming, your heels clicking against the marble as you try to peek between shoulders and heads. Eventually, you find a sliver of space near the glass edge–and there he is.

Namjoon.

Wearing a VISVIM Crosby short-sleeve leopard print shirt, black slacks, and a sleek crossbody bag. Next to him stands J-Hope, dressed in Louis Vuitton, just as effortlessly casual. Both are flanked by tight security and rich older socialites sponsoring the events, surrounded by camera flashes and waves of cheers from fans outside the building’s lower entrance.

Namjoon’s calm in the chaos, nodding politely to a curator you know who greets him. He lifts a hand in soft acknowledgment toward the crowd below. You just barely catch his profile. His sharp jawline, the lines of concentration that crease his brow.

You freeze. It’s glamorous moments like this that remind you how different your worlds really are. The privacy you shared, your bodies tangled together in the quiet of his apartment, feels so far removed from this spectacle. Still, you can’t help the soft awe that creeps in. He’s so composed. So charismatic. So... him. Yet, so different from the Namjoon you know.

You turn away before he can spot you. Not like you think he would amongst such a big room with a lot of people. Back to the exhibit you go. Back to the safe familiarity of your team, who’ve now scattered into small groups across the gallery floor. Just before adjusting the strap of his bag, Namjoon looks up toward the mezzanine. He catches sight of a figure turning away–your silhouette. Was that really you? The thought tugs at him, feeling bad that he hasn’t had the time to message you, or anyone really.  He needs to finish two more tracks on the album so he’s locked himself in the studio with the occasional Yoongi and Pdogg to help him with producing. Today was just lucky enough for him to have a schedule that pulled him out from the hell pit of work. And to see the sight of you after so long, it leaves his heart feeling excitement, yet sorry. He feels bad to cast you aside a bit, but he hopes you understand. But for now, he has other matters to attend to.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of polite smiles and steady conversation. You network with visiting curators, directors from European museums, and several artists whose work you've followed since grad school. Champagne flutes come and go, passed around by white-gloved staff. You laugh at a lighthearted comment from Matthew Thompson about Americans trying to understand makgeolli, and smile as Bokyung Park introduces you to a pair of Paris-based collectors interested in your last exhibition.

But there’s a dull ache in your chest. You haven’t seen Namjoon again. Not even once.

And yet, you remind yourself–this is your job. He’s doing his. There’s nothing wrong here.

Later, an art world acquaintance you haven’t seen in a year waves you over, and you catch up while waiting for your ride to Artue’s exclusive rooftop after-party in Gangnam. You consider skipping it–your heart feels too unsettled–but something inside you says to go. To loosen up. To reclaim the night for yourself.

And so, you do.

At Artue’s rooftop after-party in Gangnam, you try to loosen up. Lights twinkle above like stars tethered to wires, casting a soft glow across the rooftop. The skyline hums around you, music pulses through the crowd. You sip your drink and sway a little to the sounds of H.E.R. performing, followed by Rosé and Se So Neon. Then Crush, then Dean. It’s electric. Dreamy. The air smells of night-blooming flowers and expensive perfume.

You sip your drink and let your body sway to the rhythm, willing yourself to dissolve into the crowd. For most of the night you’ve managed to stay on the edges, drifting between familiar faces, nodding through conversations, pretending the distance in your chest doesn’t ache.

And then you see him.

There he is.

Front and center near the main bar, Namjoon stands with J-Hope at his side, both of them animated in easy laughter. Two idols flank them, and then Minju Kweon–Head of VIP & Business Development, Asia at Frieze–glides into the circle, her tailored dress catching the light as she leans in to greet them. You recognize a few more faces orbiting in, industry players and rising artists eager for a moment, a smile, a photo. Phones flash discreetly, capturing proof of proximity.

Namjoon poses, not resisting the camera. His hand rests casually in his pocket, his expression gentle, open, polite. He bends down slightly when Minju says something, the corner of his mouth tugging into that warm half-smile that you usually see from him. J-Hope throws his head back at a joke, and Namjoon’s laugh follows, low and familiar.

From where you stand –maybe twenty feet away, tucked into a pocket of the crowd–it feels like a universe. You are close enough to trace the slope of his shoulders, to notice how the glow of the rooftop catches on his rings, yet far enough that he might as well be untouchable. He hasn’t seen you. And a part of you wonders if you want him to.

The divide between you sharpens under the music. Him: easy in his element, at the center of gravity, people orbiting without hesitation. You: an observer on the edge, glass sweating in your hand, caught between the pull of wanting to belong and the urge to disappear.

You start to turn your head, already imagining the neatness of a discreet exit. Better to leave the moment untouched than to risk being pulled into a spotlight you’re not sure you’re ready for. You sway, feeling a bit dizzy. Snap out of it. This isn’t good for you to ponder about. “Y/N.”

A hand taps your shoulder, jolting you out of the thought. You blink and turn.

Sekyung.

"There are a couple of idols who said they wanted to meet you. They’re fans of your works."

You blink. "Oh?"

She steps aside, and you’re introduced to two young men–Ricky and Matthew from Zero Base One.

"You curated the Origins of Silence exhibition at Kukje, right?" Ricky says, shaking your hand with a surprisingly warm smile, followed by Matthew complimenting and doing the same. 

"It was incredible. Your curation notes alone had me googling artists for hours."

"Thank you, that means a lot," you reply, your nerves smoothing into flattery.

You speak in Korean for a while about a few specific pieces with both men, before Ricky nods politely and excuses himself to mingle further. Matthew lingers.

"You’re American?" he asks in perfect English.

You blink. "Yeah–I’m from California, originally. Are you…Canadian?"

"Yeah, how’d you know?,” He chuckles. 

“I can hear it a bit from the accent!”

“Haha, it feels relieving to talk in a language I’m comfortable with." He leans slightly closer, still casual. "I’ve just started tagging along with Ricky at these events, but it feels so awkward trying to act so sophisticated and professional."

You laugh, the tension in your chest loosening more than you expect. "No worries, I feel the same, but hey, you’ve found another international person here to make you not feel too alone."

From across the party, Namjoon spots you.

He had lost sight of you hours ago, but he was sure he saw you earlier. Now, seeing you again–standing so close to Matthew, laughing–it triggers something deep inside his chest.

He knows about Matthew. Funnily enough, before a specific Weverse post of a fan accidently copy pasting the wrong korean meant for Matthew, instead of him. Young, talented, bright-eyed, full of momentum as Zero Base One ride the high of fourth-gen stardom. It’s not that Namjoon doesn’t respect him. It’s that Matthew represents something Namjoon is beginning to fear.

Time. Change. Relevance.

Namjoon clenches his jaw. He hates when he does this–spirals. Doubts. Wonders if he’s too old, too worn down, too deeply embedded in a life of late-night studio sessions and leadership roles to be someone’s... boyfriend.

Especially yours.

You're younger. Bright. Blossoming in your own career. So perfect for him it almost hurts. But maybe… not meant for him after all?

No. Fuck that.

He pulls out his phone and calls you.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance at the screen. Namjoon.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Matthew gently. “I have to take this.”

He nods. “Of course.”

You step aside, barely hearing the music over your own heartbeat as you answer.

“Turn toward the center,” Namjoon says.

Your gaze shifts. And there he is.

Eyes locked on yours. A stillness in a sea of bodies.

“You’re here,” you whisper.

“Meet me by the emergency stairwell door in the back. We can’t talk here.”

His voice is low, firm. Sweet beneath the command.

“Okay.”

You weave through the crowd. He moves too, both of you drawn together like magnets. The stairwell is hidden behind a catering table and a black curtain. He reaches you first, hand closing gently around your wrist before tugging you behind the wall and through the heavy metal door. "Woah, Namjoon–"

"So when I'm not here, you decide to go talk to other idols?"

"Huh? What?"

"I saw you talking to Matthew, all smiling and shit. What was that about?"

"Huh? Matthew?" The idol you were just talking to? You had already forgotten his name. "Ah, the member from Zero Base One? Our gallery sales assistant introduced me to him were just talking about art and our upbringing abroad. Nothing more!"

"Really? Because it didn't look like that to me, or maybe even others."

"Absolutely not. What the hell are you on about? Are you jealous or something?"

Namjoon sighs, feeling stupid that he let his emotions get the best of him. "No, I'm not.." He scans you and the dress you're wearing. the way it hugs your body, the way it shows your cleavage. 

"Doesn’t sound like it to me!"

He looks away, "Ugh, let's go home. We've clearly been apart for a little too long and we’re taking this frustration out on each other." Two weeks doesn't feel too long, but dammit, it does to him. And to you too.

"Woah, wait!" He pulls your arm, pulling you walk down the emergency stairwell. He calls his manager to get the car to pick him up from a backdoor emergency exit that leads out an alleyway. no one should be able to see you two leave from here. He texts J-Hope to tell him that he's leaving ahead of him.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you won't dare to talk to another idol and only think of me," he says  as the car arrives and takes you to his place.

You swallow hard.

Tonight is far from over.

The car pulls into the underground parking garage at Nine One Hannam, its tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Namjoon’s hand is already on your thigh, jaw clenched and unreadable, the tension in his body palpable.

The second the door opens, he’s out first, rounding the car to open yours. He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hand, intertwines your fingers with his, and walks you briskly toward the elevator. His palm is hot, firm, grounding.

The elevator doors close behind you.

It’s like a dam breaks.

His mouth crashes against yours with a hunger you haven’t felt from him in a while–raw, claiming, desperate. He cups the back of your head, tongue sweeping into your mouth, breathing heavy through his nose. Your hands curl around his shirt collar, pulling him closer, gasping when he angles your head and kisses you even deeper. You worry the elevator will open at another floor and someone will enter, but luckily, it doesn’t happen. It seems the stars have aligned just for you and Namjoon here.

When the elevator dings at his floor, he doesn't stop. Just pulls away with a firm, “Come on,” voice dark and low.

He unlocks his apartment with one hand while the other holds your waist, already pawing at the curve of your hip. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he pins you to the wall beside the entryway, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slides down your side.

“This dress,” he growls softly, eyes raking over your body as though he’s just now really letting himself take it in. “God, baby… you look incredible.”

You barely have time to murmur a breathless “Thank you,” before he adds, voice lower, rougher, “But you look better out of it.”

He tugs at the zipper at the side, peeling the floral satin from your body slowly, watching your expression like a man starving. You step out of it, heat rushing to your face as you’re left in your lace white thong and heels. Namjoon’s already undoing his shirt–each button flicked open with precision–but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a fact. Not a question. So domineering, you think.

Your fingers brush at his lips slowly, as if sealing them will silence him and his urge to consume you. “I know.” 

Then he’s kissing you again. Guiding you backwards toward his bedroom without breaking contact, walking you there with strong hands and stolen breaths. Clothes trail behind the both of you: his shirt, his pants, your heels. When your knees hit the bed, he pushes you gently onto it, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

His voice dips. “Lie back. Spread your legs.”

You do–eyes wide, heart pounding–and he climbs over you, muscles taut and tense with restraint. His cock, thick and flushed, presses against your slick folds as he settles between your legs. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he says softly, hips grinding forward so the tip of his cock drags through your wetness. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?”

“It was seriously nothing–” you breathe, but he cuts you off with a thrust.

It’s rough. Deep. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Then you won’t mind me reminding you who fucks you like this.”

He pounds into you again, each stroke controlled and precise, angled perfectly to hit the sensitive spot inside you. He lets your wrists go only to push your thighs up higher, spreading you open more obscenely so he can drive deeper. You moan, high and needy, and he growls as he pulls out, slapping the length of his cock against your soaked entrance–once, twice–before plunging back in. He’s gritting his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, watching you unravel. Your legs are trembling around his waist as he fucks you deeper, harder.

“You like that, baby?” he growls against your mouth. “Only I get to feel this tight little pussy. Only I can make you cry like this.” Thrusts continue as the wet slap of your bodies echoes in the room.

“You’re so…a-ah, f-fuck..Namjoom, please” you moan.

Hell, you are even crying a little–more from pleasure than anything. His pace is ruthless, but he still keeps checking in with soft touches, lips brushing your temple, whispers of “you okay?” that only you can hear.

At one point, he pulls out and flips you over. Presses your chest into the mattress and grips your hips hard enough to leave imprints. When he sinks back into you from behind, he lets out a broken moan–like he’s finally letting his jealousy melt into pure, greedy need.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking into you with long, possessive strokes. “Taking me so good, even when I’m this deep?”

You whimper something like a yes, your cheek pressed to the sheets, barely coherent.

Then he leans down over your back, lips near your ear. “Let me see that face,” he says.

He grabs your waist, pulls you upright, your spine flush to his chest as he continues fucking you from behind in this new angle. One hand circles your throat lightly, keeping you steady. The other slips between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight, focused circles. His thrusts grow sloppier as you clench down on him–your body tightening and pulsing in time with the strokes of his fingers.

“Come on, baby. Come with me. Show me who you belong to.”

You explode immediately. Trembling, gasping, your nails dig into his thighs as pleasure rips through you in waves.

He follows, only seconds later, with a guttural moan that sounds ripped from the base of his throat. His hips jerk as he fills you, pulsing deep inside until he has nothing left to give.

Then he pulls out suddenly, breath ragged. “On your knees,” he orders.

You scramble onto all fours, but he doesn't go behind you just yet. Instead, he walks around, grabs your chin, and presses the tip of his cock to your lips.

“Open.”

You do, and he slides in slowly–so slowly–until your mouth is stretched full, lips wrapped around the base. He lets out a shaky groan, hand cupping the back of your head. He doesn’t thrust at first. Just holds you there, watching tears prick the corners of your eyes. Then he begins to move. Controlled, deep strokes that leave you gasping and drooling.

“You take it so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your spit-slicked cheek. “All that smart mouth and now look at you. Fuck.” You give me a sly, silly smile. You’d love to argue a little bit more to rile him up, but your headspace is all over the place right now. Let’s just accept this fate being devoured by one of the finest men in Korea.

He pulls out with a wet pop and slaps his cock across your tongue–once, twice–before giving your ass a sharp smack. “Back on the bed. Face down.”

You scramble into position again, heart racing, and he doesn’t waste another second. He slaps your ass once more before grabbing your hips and driving back inside in one deep, punishing thrust. You cry out into the sheets as he pounds into you from behind, rougher now, voice rasping, “That’s it. Let me fuck the thought of anyone else out of your head.”

“Y-yes!! Fuck!”

Your orgasm crashes through you hard and fast, made sharper by the sting of another slap to your ass as you come. And he doesn’t stop–he keeps fucking you through it, body trembling with effort, until his own release overtakes him with a low, guttural growl.

You both collapse after a few more rounds, tangled in sweat-slick sheets and each other, your breathing uneven, hearts thudding out of rhythm before slowly syncing again. His hand strokes your waist lazily, thumb drawing idle circles into your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “I really lost myself… after not seeing you for so long, and then suddenly seeing you talking to another man.”

You giggle, tilting your head toward him. “Ooh, you were jealous? Did you think I lost interest already?”

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck. “No. But… I wouldn’t have blamed you, honestly. I’ve been neglecting you.”

“Namjoon…”

“No, really. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to text you, but I’ve been drowning in work. The album..we’re pushing for release in the next 2 months, and I haven’t been able to–”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cut him off gently. “I figured as much.”

“I missed you so much,” he admits, voice breaking with honesty. “More than I could even say.”

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But next time… just let me know. Even a short text, so I don’t worry. You were completely M.I.A.”

“I know.” He exhales, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with aching tenderness. “I thought I could power through and surprise you with big news when it was done, but… I was wrong.”

You press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as his warmth seeps into you. “Joonie. Like I’ve always said, don’t worry about it. I’m here now. My worrying yapper king.”

Namjoon chuckles, dimples deepening, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Yeah. You are.”

He lingers like that a moment longer before carefully rolling out of bed, his body still languid from the intensity. He pads to the kitchen and returns with a tall glass of water. The kind of post-sex gesture that’s not flashy, but intimate–like he knows your needs before you do.

You sit up, muscles sore, and take the glass from him gratefully. As you sip, he sits at the edge of the bed beside you, his fingers ghosting down your back.

He hesitates. Then, quietly:

“Y/N… do you want to come by the HYBE building sometime?”

Your lips part, the glass freezing halfway to your mouth. “Huh?”

“I want to introduce you to the members. Officially.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Wait. Really?”

“I think it should be fine,” he explains, careful, like he’s rehearsed this in his head. “People already know I like art. If anyone sees you with me, they’ll just assume you’re an ‘art friend’...someone I know through exhibitions or gallery connections.” His tone softens into something more vulnerable. “But to the guys… I want them to know who you really are.”

The words sink in, spreading through your chest in a way that feels almost too big to contain. Meeting his members. The people he’s built his entire life and career with. The people who have seen every version of him you’ve only caught glimpses of in photos Namjoon has shared with you or just mentions in your late-night conversations with him.

It hits you like a tidal wave. This is real. Not just a pocket of time you’re stealing together, not just secrecy behind closed doors. He wants to bring you closer, to fold you into the circle of trust he holds so tightly guarded. Your excitement prickles with nerves. What if they don’t like you? What if you say the wrong thing? But beneath all that anxiety is something brighter, warmer: the thrill of being chosen, of being claimed, of being seen. By the person you love so dearly.

Namjoon has always moved with intention. Never rushed, never careless. And this? This feels monumental. Like he’s opening a door you hadn’t dared imagine he’d ever unlock.

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a whisper. “Okay.”

His gaze flickers to you, searching. “Okay?”

You nod, a smile curling shy but sure across your lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Relief washes over him, loosening his shoulders. “I think the guys’ll love you.”

“You sure they won’t hate me for monopolizing your time?” you tease, though your heart’s racing too fast to sound casual.

“Are you kidding?” His grin is wide, boyish, the kind that makes your chest ache. “They’ll thank you for keeping me sane.”

You both laugh, soft and sleepy, and lean back into each other, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist again like muscle memory.

The bath can wait. Sleep can wait. For now, it’s just the two of you. Breathing. Holding. Wondering how everything is somehow moving forward.

most of his life has been planned out (he planned out how the next twenty years of his life would go when he was ten, and according to this twenty-year plan, he’s pretty on track) and he likes it that way, so yes, he isn’t a big fan of change when it comes to such an important timeline like this

he’s currently a professor at the university he got his phd from, and because part of his twenty-year plan included going from his bachelor’s degree to his master’s degree to his doctoral degree, it means that he’s actually the youngest professor on the staff’s roster (which, again, was part of his plan all along) 

he’s been teaching here for nearly two years now and has built a very solid reputation with his co-workers, he’s the school’s most sought-after professor when it comes to his philosophy classes — he teaches three undergrad classes and two graduate classes and every semester they’re always packed and students will always email him to try and get into the class when the capacity is full — and he’s pretty sure he’s getting a raise soon, which is great because he’s been meaning to splurge on a new electric tea kettle that lets you control the temperature and sings a little song when the water’s done boiling 

“alright, let’s bring today’s discussion to a close.” namjoon shakes his wrist, checking the time on his watch before nodding to himself — the lecture ends in five minutes, so he’s wrapping up right on time and he’ll be able to grab a coffee and a croissant before his office hours start, “what we’ve explored today is really just a glimpse into the vast and ongoing conversation about how to engage critically with your existence.” he hums, leaning back against his desk as he looks out at the sea of students in front of him, the sound of pen tips scratching on paper and typing on keyboards coming from all over the room 

“after you leave class today, i’d like for you to reflect on the choices you make — not just the big, life-altering ones, but the miniscule, everyday decisions.” he reaches up to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “are they leading you toward a life of purpose and integrity? or are they dictated by external pressures and unexamined habits? we’ll continue this discussion next time, but until then, i’d like you to keep questioning, keep thinking, and keep living philosophically. as always, i have office hours here from 3:30-6 if you have any questions. class dismissed.” he nods, and almost immediately the class breaks into packing up, murmurs rippling through the vast lecture hall 

namjoon smiles lightly to himself as he gives himself a mental pat on the back

yet another successful lecture!

he really does love teaching, and he’s so grateful that he’s able to do something that he actually likes for work 

shaping young minds is something that he’s always wanted to do, and he thinks he’s been doing a pretty good job as a professor 

…

oh, who is he kidding? of course he’s been doing a fantastic job as a professor! 

he smiles politely as his students trickle out the door, turning around to grab his wallet out of his backpack 

croissant time! 

»»————- 📚 ————-««

“hello, are you here for office hours?” namjoon isn’t surprised when he opens the door to see someone standing by his desk, looking around the empty lecture hall, “it actually starts at 3:30, so it would be great if you could come back in fifteen minutes and i’d be happy to answer any questions you have about the lecture.”

“oh, hi!“ you spin around with a smile, and namjoon returns a polite one as he sets his coffee and pastry bag down on the desk, “no, i’m not here for office hours, i’m here to check out the lecture hall for when i start teaching alongside you next week. you’re namjoon, right? i’ve heard so much about you, i’m y/n y/l/n and i’m really excited to start working together-“ you stick your hand out for him to shake and he immediately frowns, glancing down at your hand before looking back up at you with a scoff of disbelief 

“teaching… alongside me?” he tilts his head, reaching over to give your hand a shake after a moment of hesitation (it would be rude of him to turn down a handshake, and he has to admit you have a nice, firm handshake), “i’m sorry, what are you talking about?” 

“didn’t you get the email? i’m the newest philosophy professor joining the staff-“ you slide your tote bag off your shoulder and pull your phone out, “they told me i’d kinda be shadowing you before they can determine if i should lead my own lectures or not. so i guess i’m a co-professor for now, but eventually i’ll just be a professor. i’ve seen a few of your lectures online, i’m looking forward to working together and-“

“co-professor?” namjoon interrupts, holding his hand out to make you stop talking, “i’m sorry, this is the first i’m hearing of this.” he fumbles for his phone before looking through his email because there’s no way he would’ve missed an email as important as- 

okay there it is 

yep 

he totally missed that 

“i see.” namjoon pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, “okay, well… i guess you can just sit with the class and listen to the lectures. i don’t need an assistant professor, but you can help give out handouts or something-“

“well, that would make sense if i was a TA, but i’m not entering this classroom as a TA or an assistant professor, i’m entering it as a co-professor. we’re equals!” you point out, namjoon’s eyes widening when you pull a pen out from your bun and slap a copy of the class syllabus down on his desk 

he’s appalled to see that you’ve written all over it, and not only that, you’ve used multiple colours to take notes instead of the traditional black, blue, and red 

…pastel purple?!

“i took a look at the lineup you have, and to be frank, it’s a little stiff. your students are drowning in dense readings, and i don’t know about you, but i actually hated reading so much when i was in undergrad-“ 

“well, that sounds like it’s a you problem, because i liked reading and always appreciated when the professor gave us something dense and enriching to read-“

“why not swap out one of the medieval philosophy lectures for something a little fresher?” you suggest, using the back of your pen to point to the lecture he has planned in a few weeks, “maybe we can do a session on philosophy in science fiction? ooh, ethics in AI might be fun, no? it’s something they can apply to the modern world-“

“philosophy isn’t about chasing trends. it’s about discipline, rigorous thought, and engaging with foundational texts that have shaped human understanding for centuries, professor y/l/n-“

“it’s doctor.”

“what?”

“dr. y/l/n. i just graduated with my phd.” 

a moment of silence passes as namjoon processes all of this new information

processing…

processing…

“you-“ still processing… “you what? how old are you?”

“you should never ask a woman how old she is, but i’m two years younger than you. and i know that because i actually took the time to look at your profile on the university’s website after getting the email that we’d be working together for the rest of the semester-“

“rest of the-“ namjoon chokes, reaching up to adjust his tie, “okay, respectfully, dr. y/l/n, my whole point is that students have no business calling themselves actual philosophers if they can’t wrestle with aquinas and avicenna-“ 

“right, because thirty pages of medieval metaphysical debates on the essence of angels is going to determine whether or not a student can call themself an actual philosopher. i’m not saying to abandon the classics, i’m just saying it’s not gonna hurt to throw in a few discussions that’ll make philosophy feel a little more… alive to them!” 

namjoon resists the urge to roll his eyes as he takes a seat at his desk, keeping his eyes glued on the scribbles all over your copy of the syllabus 

there’s no way he’s gonna work with someone who thinks pastel purple is an appropriate colour to use when taking notes 

he reaches over to grab his coffee, taking a sip and- 

his coffee is cold 

he waited too long and now his coffee is cold, and he would’ve been drinking perfectly lukewarm coffee if it weren’t for the fact that you came and disrupted his whole schedule like this 

“anyway, i’m open to discussing spicing up the syllabus once you have the time. i don’t want to take up any of your office hours, i know you probably have students lined up outside already-“ you fold the syllabus back up into four squares before tucking it away into your tote bag (namjoon is once again appalled you don’t have a folder for your papers and seem to have based your organising system off mary poppins’ purse), “but it was really nice meeting you, dr. kim. you have my phone number and email when you want to arrange a meeting.”

“…right…” namjoon trails off, and for the first time is rendered completely speechless and doesn’t know what else to say 

all he knows is that there’s no way in hell he’s going to allow this co-professor business to happen. 

»»————- 📚 ————-««

you let out a breath as you shut the door behind you, your shoulders finally slumping 

you hated that whole interaction 

you can already tell that working with namjoon is going to be a pain in the ass 

you’d heard some things about him — you’d heard about how great of a lecturer he is and how he genuinely cares about what he’s teaching and what his students are learning from him, but you’d also heard that he was pretty stuck in his ways and not… super cooperative, which you already saw first hand 

at the same time, you had to admit that that was a quality that both of you shared — you’re not exactly a fan of being co-professors, you’d much rather just take the reins and lead the class yourself while namjoon sits off to the side, but you are the new one around here and you do want to be liked 

so you can play nice for now, because the most important thing you’re focusing on is securing your place as an official staff member and making a great first impression on your new co-workers and your new students 

you’d prefer for namjoon to like you, but he seems to be a tough nut to crack 

the both of you should at least try to get along, and you’re willing to do that as long as he’s willing to meet you in the middle 

so… let’s just hope he’s willing to meet you in the middle

your phone buzzes in the back pocket of your jeans and you pull it out, surprised to already see a text from namjoon 

okay

this is great!

the fact that he’s already opening a line of communication is a good sign, maybe this semester won’t be hell on earth after all 

the smile on your face slowly disappears when you finally get around to reading the texts, your eyebrows knitting together instead

Hello, Dr. Y/L/N. This is Kim Namjoon. Please save my number so that we may communicate with each other if needed. The semester has already begun, therefore I don’t think there has to be any changes made to my syllabus. We do not need to discuss this topic any further. Thank you.

you don’t even get a chance to really process his text before another one pops up 

Also, please stick to black, blue, and red ink for future note-taking and grading purposes. Pastel purple is not an appropriate colour for a higher education atmosphere. Thank you. 

»»————- 📚 ————-««

namjoon sighs to himself as he makes his way up the brick stairs to enter the philosophy building, reaching up to adjust his tie 

for the first time ever, he’s running a little behind (only by like, three minutes, he’s not that reckless) but it’s only because he spent the earlier portion of the afternoon speaking with the department head and practically pleading them to change their minds about this whole co-professor situation 

he’d gone into the office with many good arguments tucked into a neat little powerpoint presentation 

for example, he doesn’t need a co-professor because he knows what he’s doing and you would only slow him down 

also his students consistently have high grades and his classes are always packed each semester so there’s no issues with consistency or lack of interest 

sure, philosophy can be a stiff subject to work with but he thinks he’s done a great job at teaching it and upkeeping enthusiasm 

the point is he doesn’t need you, and if anything you should just be teaching your own class and the students who don’t make it into his class can all go to you! 

(maybe he shouldn’t have made that last comment, but it’s true.) 

but of course, because luck wasn’t on his side, his presentation didn’t convince the department head to change his mind 

apparently you were a “great addition” to the staff and that namjoon should feel lucky he gets to work alongside such a “smart, well-spoken young professional” who is “just as good at teaching as he is” 

ridiculous

totally ridiculous 

what’s even more ridiculous is the fact that you seem to have become a fan favourite despite only being here for literally a week 

your mug is already right next to his in the cupboard in the professor’s lounge

it’s clearly a handmade mug you probably made at one of those pottery places because the edges are a little bumpy which makes it wobble a little when you put it face down 

the outside is an eggplant purple and the inside of the cup is painted a shade of sage green and it looks like a child would drink chocolate milk out of it 

his mug is sensible and professional 

it’s plain white with his initials on the front printed in times new roman 

everyone knows it’s his mug and there’s never any confusion 

he even heard a rumour about one of the spare rooms in the philosophy department being cleared out for a new office for you if things work out 

and yes, he has his own office already, but he just thinks everyone is being a little hasty clearing out an office space just for you 

he can’t even imagine how you’d decorate the space 

you’re probably one of those people who have little trinkets everywhere and you’ll probably have like a miniature pool table on your desk to play with 

he shudders as he thinks about having to sit in oversized beanbag chairs instead of actual chairs 

“alright, alright, alright!” 

namjoon’s surprised when he opens the lecture hall door to an unusually bustling room, the students chatting animatedly as they flip through their notebooks

the air is alive with the rustling of papers, clinking of metal water bottles, and the occasional burst of laughter and he frowns as he sees a few of them leaning forward enthusiastically compared to the usual scene of them scrolling through their phones or talking to each other

he turns his head and sees you at the front of the room, perched casually on the edge of the desk twirling a purple pen between your fingers before shoving it into your bun, “now, something a little controversial...” you pause dramatically, “red ink for grading. ethical, or a crime against student morale?” 

namjoon’s jaw immediately clenches as he rolls his eyes — obviously this has something to do with the text he sent you the other day about your ridiculous coloured pens and your little ego’s been bruised and that’s why you’re being bratty 

but whatever, because if anything this is just proving his point — you’re an immature little kid totally unfit to be his equal! and he’s more than happy to let you make a fool of yourself in front of his students, so sure, go ahead and talk about your little purple pen for all he cares 

the room erupts in laughter and groans and namjoon silently makes his way over to the front to join you, pulling his chair back to see that you’ve already put your backpack down on it 

he picks it up and plops it down on the ground, using his foot to kick it under the desk before taking a seat and hanging his backpack on the back of the chair 

“i always feel like i’m being yelled at when i see red ink!”

“exactly!” you laugh, sliding up to sit on the edge of the desk with your legs swinging slightly, completely blocking the class from seeing namjoon, “it’s psychological torture. red ink doesn’t just mark mistakes, it screams them. it’s aggressive. but what about if i used green? or pink? or… pastel purple? would you feel a little different about your grade?” 

“it would feel… friendlier?”

“friendlier, right?” you grin, tapping your temple as you look out at the room of enthusiastic students, “then here’s the real ethical dilemma, kids — if something as small as ink colour affects how we perceive feedback, then what do we think that says about bigger, more serious choices? if we can reframe an experience with something as simple as colour, then what other biases are shaping the way we see the world around us? something to think about...” 

“are you just about done, dr. y/l/n?” namjoon raises an eyebrow, tapping his fingers against the desk as he leans back against his chair, “because i’d like to get started with class now, if you’re ready to go.” 

“ah! dr. kim, sorry — i know you usually like to start your classes with a silent ten minutes of quiet reflection of last week’s lecture, but i figured i’d warm up the class myself since this is my first day as co-professor.” you chirp, sliding off the desk before turning to face the class again, “very lovely to meet you all and i’m looking forward to getting to know each and every one of you as we progress with the semester!” 

“kiss ass.” namjoon coughs into his fist quietly, getting up from his seat before smiling warmly at his students, nudging you aside with his hip before clapping his hands together, “alright, class! medieval philosophy, let’s get into it…” 

you immediately roll your eyes when you turn to face away from the class, taking a seat next to the desk and crossing one leg over the other 

he’s just jealous because the students clearly like you more and you’ve only been here five minutes

but if this is how he wants to play, then you’re more than willing to play along.

»»————- 📚 ————-««

namjoon finds that the simplest things in life bring him the most pleasure

a hot cup of black coffee, the perfect scent of sandalwood in a room, the feeling of cracking the spine on a brand new notebook… 

but most importantly, a perfectly toasted buttery flaky croissant from the cafe on the bottom floor of the philosophy building

he’s eaten these croissants ever since he was a student here, and he always has a croissant after he teaches classes here on tuesdays and thursdays — it’s like a reward! 

“what do you mean there are no more croissants?!” namjoon slams both palms down on the counter, pulling away immediately when he feels that the surface is a little sticky 

gross 

“sorry, namjoon!” hoseok shrugs, “i just sold the last croissant to- actually, i think you know her, she said she’s the new professor in the philosophy department-“

you.

“i know who you’re talking about.” namjoon grits his teeth, looking at the pastry case for anything else that might satisfy his midday sweet treat craving but he doesn’t want a stupid sea salt chocolate chip cookie or a raspberry white chocolate scone, he wants his plain buttery croissant that you probably only bought to spite him! 

“yeah, her!” hoseok grins, setting namjoon’s coffee down on the counter, “she’s really nice, isn’t she? she said she likes the way i do my leaf design on her caramel lattes, no one’s ever complimented my leaves before- it just feels so nice to be appreciated for once-“ 

“no!” namjoon snaps, pointing a finger at hoseok, “you have to stop yourself from being charmed by her, it’s all an act and- and- next time she asks for a latte, you should do a giant- a GIANT frowney face-“ 

“well, i don’t think i’m going to do that but-“ hoseok frowns when he notices a vein starting to bulge out namjoon’s forehead, “hey, you seem a little tense! how about a cookie on the house?” he asks, using his tongs to pick up the sad-looking cookie before putting it in a paper bag for namjoon, “it’s just a croissant, namjoon. i know you like ‘em every tuesday and thursday but if it makes you feel better i’ll save you one on thursday! it seems like both of you guys like croissants so i can definitely save two of them-“

the both of them look over to where you’re sitting by the window with his croissant while you flip to the next page of whatever stupid book you’re reading, and namjoon’s gaze doesn’t waver in the slightest when you look up and over at them 

you smile brightly, raising the croissant in the air a little before taking a massive bite out of it, rubbing your stomach and nodding your head exaggeratingly 

namjoon’s eye twitches and he turns back to look at hoseok

“it is not just a croissant and you know that, hoseok-“ he snatches the cookie from his friend before shaking his head in disappointment, “she is a siren and you are a helpless, weak little sailor-“

“hey! what the hell, man?!” 

“WEAK little sailor!” namjoon exclaims as he storms away, angrily shoving the cookie into his mouth and wiping crumbs off with the back of his hand sloppily 

»»————- 📚 ————-««

“tae, have you seen my mug?” you frown, taking a few steps back to see if you can get a better view of the second shelf, “i usually have it on the first shelf but i can’t find it anywhere…” 

“is it not there?” taehyung — he’s the janitor here and you guys got along pretty quickly — hums, setting his mop aside before walking over to join you by the cupboards, “i swear i saw it there this morning, that’s odd. i’ll keep an eye out and let you know if i see it anywhere. you sure you didn’t leave it in your lecture hall?”

“no…” you trail off, shutting the cupboard doors gently with a sigh, “hm. i’m sure it’ll pop up somewhere. thanks, anyway…” 

you like to think that you’re a pretty chill person, but there’s just something about misplacing something that really irks you 

because then you start thinking about when the last time you saw the missing object was and then it turns into a spiral of how you could be so careless and irresponsible and lose something and also it makes you anxiously think about someone else using something that belongs to you and only you 

that’s your good luck mug!

you made it at a colour-me-mine in freshman year and you’ve used it ever since 

you’re convinced it has some kind of magical power because the mug always happens to be there when you get good news

it was there when you got accepted into your graduate program, your doctoral program, and it was literally in your hands when you got the email from the university accepting you as a new professor

so… hopefully it does pop up somewhere 

you used it yesterday after class and you remember washing and drying it immediately before sliding it back on the shelf 

you chew on the corner of your lip as you push open the door to the lecture hall, your eyes widening when you see namjoon standing there taking a sip from your mug 

you open your mouth to say something but he immediately brings a finger up to his lips to shush you — the class is having their silent time and the last thing you want to do is cause a scene, right? 

“that’s my mug.” you whisper through gritted teeth, and namjoon moves his hands to the side quickly when you reach up to try to snatch it out of his hands, “you have a stupid, boring mug already-“ 

“oh, but your mug is so much fun!” namjoon grins, taking another sip of water from it 

(it’s actually killing him having to drink from this cursed vessel. why are the edges so bumpy?! how do you drink from this stupid thing without dribbling all over yourself?!) 

“it is on, dr. kim.” you hiss, forcing a smile on your face when a few students look up from their desks, “it is so on.” 

“hm.” namjoon clears his throat quietly, the two of you standing side by side with your arms pressed together, “bring it, dr. y/l/n.” 

»»————- 📚 ————-««

the next few weeks seem to go by like a blur — maybe because you’re actually having a good time teaching the class and slowly growing more comfortable being a professor (you agreed to stick to namjoon’s syllabus only if he allowed you to teach your ethics of AI lecture) but also because this rivalry between the two of you seems to be keeping you on high alert 

after the croissant and the mug incident, the two of you only continued to one-up each other 

you replaced the sandalwood essential oil in the lecture hall with a refreshing peppermint (and you really doused it in the machine so it would take multiple cycles to be fully flushed out) and in response namjoon bought the entire jug of caramel syrup from the cafe so you’d be forced to pick another flavour 

and then you took all of namjoon’s sensible coloured whiteboard markers and replaced them with bright, fun ones forcing him to write in a fuschia pink and in response namjoon bought all fifteen croissants that day which felt kind of dramatic but at the same time you can’t help but kind of respect it

whatever

all you know is that you despise kim namjoon

every morning when you wake up, you’re thinking about how else you can terrorise him besides just taking the last croissant in the display case 

every night before bed, you’re thinking about how else you can make fun of his stupid powerpoint presentations and you even considered hacking his laptop and adding fun transitions to his powerpoints to throw him off

he hates fun transitions 

with that being said, you’re willing to put the fight on pause because today is an important day — it’s your first time leading a lecture! you’ve been prepping for this ethics in AI lecture and you’re more than excited to show the class (and namjoon) what you’re capable of 

and if all goes well, you will be rubbing this success in his stupid, handsome face. 

“handfphome?” you blurt out, toothbrush hanging out of your mouth as you blink at yourself in the mirror

oh 

oh no 

you don’t actually think he’s handsome, do you?

well, there was that one time he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and when he turned around you couldn’t help but notice how broad his back was 

and that other time you were looking at his hands when he was pointing to something on his stupid powerpoint and you couldn’t help but think that he had such pretty hands 

and also he always smells really good — like a combination of smokey sandalwood and his natural musk 

and when you listen to him speak it’s really soothing because he has a deep voice that kind of makes you feel like you’re floating on a cloud being rocked back and forth

he’s also very intelligent and incredibly well-spoken

highly educated, charming in his own weird way (not with you, but you’ve seen the way he interacts with other professors), kinda funny sometimes, and you only know he’s single because you overheard two students whispering about it in the hallway — apparently they’d done a deep dive of his socials and there was no partner to be found, his instagram page was full of pictures of plants and quotes from philosophers 

so basically he’s a hot single nerd who’s really into philosophy and plants and you guys are only two years apart and hypothetically if you didn’t know each other and you saw him at the bar you would probably feel a little flustered if he flirted with you 

and maybe one time you watched him apply chapstick onto his plump lips and you wondered if they were as soft as they looked 

…

…

…

you take your toothbrush out of your mouth, your eyes widening in realisation and- 

“son of a BITC-“ 

»»————- 📚 ————-««

“would you let AI decide whether you get a loan? a job? parole? surgery?” you pause, letting the weight of the question settle over the students, “i know, it’s a crazy question. but maybe you already have… algorithms are making these decisions right now — sorting resumes, predicting crime, even diagnosing illnesses. AI is everywhere, and the question isn’t whether it should exist, it’s whether we should trust it…”

the only reason why namjoon is cooperating today is because you’ve (sort of) cooperated with his syllabus over the last couple weeks despite being a total menace to him personally 

yes, he’ll let you teach your ethics in AI lecture today because he’s interested in seeing what points you’ll bring up today

he can also tell you’ve been really nervous about leading your first lecture and he still remembers how nervous he was when he was in your position, so he’ll take it easy on you 

he caught you practicing your intro in the professor’s lounge and he slowly backed out so that you wouldn’t see him

and he’ll never say this to your face but from the intro alone it sounds like a pretty promising lecture

and it was kind of cute seeing you fumble with your cue cards and going over your lines with your eyes shut 

namjoon leans back against his chair as he listens to you speak, keeping his eyes on the back of your head as he crosses his arms over his chest 

sure, maybe you’re more than immature when it comes to buying his croissants and replacing his scented oils, but… 

oh god

does he respect you as an educator?! 

he pauses for a second to think, watching as you reach up to fiddle with a button on your shirt nervously 

also you actually dressed up today compared to your usual attire of a sweater and jeans and namjoon can’t help but notice that your ass looks really round in that pencil skirt 

he tilts his head slightly as his eyes continue staring at you from behind, the ooga booga man part of his brain wondering how it’d feel to grasp your waist and cup your ass as he- 

oh no

he feels his dick twitch in his boxers and he clears his throat quietly, looking down at the desk and focusing on a speck of dust instead 

oh 

what is this feeling? 

he’s pretty sure he hates you 

and he’s pretty sure you hate him, so it doesn’t make sense for him to suddenly be thinking about how sweet you smell and how pretty your smile is and how funny it actually was for you to buy the last croissant just to get on his nerves 

no 

nope 

you guys don’t like each other! 

that’s how this works!

you just came in here and totally messed up his flow and you just expect him to go along with it but he refuses to do that and after this semester is over he hopes they stick you in another building far, far away from him 

he doesn’t need anyone messing with his routine, and especially not some hotshot professor who just got her phd 

“now, some of my less adventurous colleagues-“ you step aside to reveal namjoon, and namjoon feels his jaw twitch when the class laughs lightly after you gesture to him, “would tell you that AI is a dangerous pandora’s box, something that we should fear. and sure, it’s got its problems… bias, accountability, control. but let’s not kid ourselves — human decision making isn’t exactly perfect, either. AI didn’t invent discrimination, it just inherited it from us. so can we teach morality to something that doesn’t feel?” 

“AI is a threat to ethical stability. we’re delegating moral decision-making to machines that lack genuine understanding, consciousness, or accountability.” namjoon butts in, standing up from his desk with a scoff, “how can we trust algorithms with decisions that affect human lives when they can’t even grasp mortality in any meaningful way?” 

you look at him, slightly surprised that he’s interrupted you this early in your lecture for a debate 

but sure, you’ll give it a go — the two of you haven’t actually debated over a subject before and you’re down to totally humiliate him in front of the class 

“dr. kim is a great example of what sounding like a doomsday prophet is, class.” you smile sweetly, fluttering your lashes at namjoon as the class breaks into a few giggles and chuckles, “AI is a tool. nothing more, nothing less. it doesn’t need to ‘grasp’ mortality than a calculator needs to ‘understand’ math. the ethical responsibility lies with us! blaming AI is like blaming a knife for stabbing.” 

“that’s a dangerously naive view, dr. y/l/n!” namjoon laughs, the two of you staring each other down as you stand at opposite ends of the desk, “AI systems are already making high-stakes decisions — these systems inherit biases from their training data and can operate in ways even their own creators can’t explain. if we don’t impose strict ethical guidelines, we’re ceding control to forces we barely understand-“

“you’re acting like we’re summoning some digital god that’ll enslave us all! AI doesn’t have agency — instead of fearing it, we should focus on improving transparency and fairness in these systems. ethics in AI isn’t about rejecting technology, it’s about guiding it responsibly-“

“guiding it-“ namjoon can practically hear his heart thumping in his chest as his frustration rises inside him, “guiding it responsibly?! and what happens when corporations prioritise efficiency over ethics? what- what about when governments exploit AI for mass surveillance? when biased training data leads to systemic discrimination? you’re placing blind faith in a system that rewards profit over morality- you’re playing a dangerous game, dr. y/l/n, AI isn’t just another tool, it’s a tool we may not be able to control. and your reckless optimism makes you too eager to hand over the reins-“

“maybe you just don’t like that i’m willing to embrace the unknown!” you throw your hands up into the air before pointing an accusatory finger at him, “maybe that unsettles you because you have everything planned to a ridiculous degree, like the temperature of your coffee and what time you eat your croissants-“ 

“what unsettles me is your inability to take this seriously!” namjoon presses his lips into a firm line, feeling his face heating up, “you act as if ethics in AI is some intellectual playground when in reality, it has life-or-death consequences-“

“oh, i take it very seriously, dr. kim, i just don’t think fear is the right response. fear clouds judgement, and i think you just like to have an insane amount of control over things-“

“well, excuse me! someone has to have control, someone has to make sure we don’t create something we can’t contain-“ 

“you always think you can contain things, don’t you?”

“and you always think you can push boundaries without consequences!”

“you’d be surprised how many boundaries can be pushed safely, dr. kim.” 

there’s a beat of silence between the two of you, the air heavy with something that doesn’t feel like loathing, but rather… 

you pause, remembering all of a sudden that the students should be debating with each other instead of watching their professors do it 

“uh-“ you turn back to face the class before letting out a chuckle, “let’s take twenty minutes to discuss this subject with the person next to you! dr. kim and i have to re-evaluate the structure of today’s lecture, please pardon us-“ 

the class breaks into discussion and both you and namjoon exchange glares as you head towards the door

the two of you stumble against each other and get caught in the door for a second, both of you wanting to be the first one out to lead the way 

“oh, get off me-“

“you get off me!” 

“what is your problem?!” you snap as soon as you leave the lecture hall, heading straight for an empty classroom nearby, “you’re supposed to let me lead this lecture, today was my day and you just couldn’t help yourself!”

when the hell is this going to end?! 

there’s no way the both of you can work together if he’s going to get this heated in a debate

and sure, he made some really good points and the nerd inside of you is saying that that really good debate session might as well been some form of foreplay but that’s beside the point 

“oh, please.” namjoon kicks the door shut behind him, “all we did was get into a debate, you should be glad i participated at all-“ 

“you know what, i actually do know what your problem is.” you whip around, jabbing a finger into his (firm) chest, “you’re just a little man who’s threatened by me because we both know i can do your job just as well — or honestly, even better than you can, and this is the first time you’ve had any sort of competition. i’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but you just have to accept the fact that i’m going to be here and i’m sticking around for a long, long-“ 

“i’m going to kiss you, and if you don’t want that to happen, then tell me now and we can go back to the classroom and i’ll sit there quietly for the rest of your lecture.” namjoon interrupts, and your eyes widen as your breath hitches in your throat 

“wha-“ your voice cracks and you feel your face flush, “you- i’m sorry, what?”

“you heard me, y/n.” namjoon looks down at you, and you’re half expecting him to quit the act and say that he’s just fucking with you, but… “so what’s it going to be?” 

a moment of silence passes and you feel your thighs press together slightly when namjoon reaches up to loosen his tie slightly, his chest falling and rising in heavy breaths, “funny. you’re so quiet all of a sudden.” 

“i…” your lashes flutter as you stare up at him, “fine. you- we-“ you straighten your posture, trying your best not to show how flustered you actually are, “but make it quick because i have a lecture to-“

without another word, namjoon closes the distance between the two of you and in one fluid motion, presses his lips against yours and now you can finally confirm that his lips are as soft as they look 

you grip the front of his shirt to pull him closer, deepening the kiss with a fervor that matches the intensity of your back-and-forth over the last few weeks 

your lips move against each other’s as namjoon’s hands slide around your waist to pull you in even tighter, his body pressing against yours as if he can’t get close enough 

you’re breathless when the two of you eventually pull away, your cheeks flushed and your heart thumping wildly in your chest 

“this better not be some weird prank-“ you manage to blurt out, head still spinning from what was a very, very good kiss, “because i’m petty enough to call the catering company and tell them to nix the croissant deliveries entirely-“ 

namjoon laughs, leaning down for another kiss — this time softer, more deliberate — before pulling away with a playful eye roll 

“we’re gonna go back in and you’ll finish your lecture, and if you’re free tonight, i’d love to take you out for dinner.” he murmurs, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was being a little shy

it’s cute

“i’ll go out with you… on one condition.” you hum, reaching up to adjust his glasses for him 

“hm?” 

“next week you let me lead a lecture on examining the moral dilemmas faced by superheroes in film and comics — like how batman has a no-kill rule and-“

namjoon immediately groans as he turns and heads towards the door, “oh my god, you are infuriating-“

“what?! it’s a good subject!” 

🎙️ ask y/n about her thoughts on the nature of consciousness (talk to my characters!) 

📚 why not explore the rest of the library while you're here? (go say hi to yoongi and y/n in la vie en bonsai!) 

💫 or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles and mini series!)

"Good morning, new academic year has started. I am the new art history teacher, Kim Taehyung. Nice to meet you all." He said with a slightly deep voice.

He looked around the room, scanning the faces of his new students, and soon, his gaze stopped on you. His heartbeat quickened a bit, and a smirk spread across his face as he made eye contact with you. He knew exactly who you were and couldn't help but find it amusing that you didn't recognize him.

He took a few steps closer toward the row of desks, his eyes never leaving your face.

He leaned on one of the tables with his hip, arms crossed over his chest. A small smirk still played on his lips as he continued to stare at you, his eyes studying you silently, enjoying the fact that you didn't recognize him yet.

"Let's not waste time." He commanded with a low and slightly deep voice.

He pushed himself off the table, walking slowly toward the front of the classroom, still keeping his eyes on you the entire time. He continued to speak, his voice firm and steady, but his eyes never leaving you.

"I want to make one thing clear." He said. "I am not one of those teachers that you can easily fool around with. I have no tolerance for bullshit."

He paused for a moment, looking at all the students, but then returned his gaze to you again. He could feel the slight excitement building up inside him at how you had no idea who he really was.

"My expectations are high, and I'm a very strict teacher." He continued with a firm voice, his eyes locked onto yours. "I will not tolerate any nonsense or distraction in my class."

He began to walk around the room, walking a little closer to you. He could feel his heart rate picking up a bit more as he neared you, the smirk never leaving his face.

"If you're here just to fool around and not take this class seriously, then this is not the place for you." His voice was slightly deeper in tone now, and a hint of playful challenge crept into his words.

He stopped in front of your desk, looking directly at you with a smug expression, clearly enjoying the situation. He leaned over a little, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spoke again.

"Do I make myself very clear?" He asked with a firm but slightly teasing tone, his gaze never leaving your face, watching for your reaction carefully.

He stayed there, leaning against the edge of your desk, his body close to yours, his eyes still locked onto you as he waited for your response. His mind was buzzing with excitement, secretly enjoying the fact that you had no memory of what had happened at the party, while he remembered it perfectly.

He waited for a few more moments, his smirk widening slightly as he saw the confusion in your eyes. The thought that you had absolutely no idea who he was was exciting him even more, but he tried to maintain his professional demeanor.

He pushed off from the desk, taking a step back, his arms still crossed over his chest. He looked around the room briefly before letting his gaze linger on you.

"I expect full attention and dedication from all of you." He said, addressing the rest of the students as well. However, his eyes always found their way back to you, still filled with mischief and anticipation.

As he continued to speak to the class, his mind wandered to the past night. He remembered every moment he spent with you, every touch and every word. He was having a hard time keeping up his serious teacher act when all he wanted was to tease you more, to make you remember.

The thought of you not knowing what he knew drove him crazy, in a good way. He wanted to see your reaction when you finally realized who he was, knowing that it would be a mixture of shock and confusion.

He tried to pay attention to the students, answering their questions and giving directions, but his gaze kept drifting back to you, his thoughts filled with curiosity and anticipation.

As the class continued, Taehyung found himself stealing glances in your direction more frequently. He had to focus; he was the teacher, but it was difficult when you were sitting right there, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the same person you had spent the wildest night with.

He couldn't help but let his mind wander back to that night, remembering the way your body felt against his, the sounds you made.

He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He knew he had to stay professional, but the thought of you sitting there, right in front of him, completely unaware of the past night's events, was driving him wild. He could feel the tension building inside him, a mix of anticipation and desire.

He forced himself to look away and focus on the other students, but his thoughts kept spiraling back to you, and he couldn't wait for this class to end so he could get you alone.

Soon enough, the class came to an end. The students started packing up their things, chatting in whispers, and preparing to leave. Taehyung stood at the front of the room, watching as everyone got up from their desks and started making their way out the door.

He saw you packing your bag, and his heart rate quickened. He watched you carefully, knowing that this was his chance to get you alone and have the conversation he'd been waiting for.

As the last student walked out the door, leaving you and Taehyung alone in the room, his heart started racing even more. He waited until the sound of the door shutting echoed throughout the empty room. He watched as you lingered, gathering the last of your belongings and placing them in your bag.

He took a moment to take in the sight of you before finally speaking up, his voice low and commanding.

"You're not leaving yet." He said, crossing his arms over his chest.

You looked up at him, confused by his words. Why was he asking you to stay? Weren't you supposed to be going to your next class?

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off before you could even get a word out.

"Sit." He commanded, nodding toward the desk he was leaning against.

You paused for a moment, a bit taken aback by his tone, but there was something in his commanding voice that made you not want to disobey. Against your better judgment, you made your way over to him, your heart pounding in your chest as you sat down in the chair in front of the desk.

You looked up at him, trying to read his expression, but his face was emotionless, giving nothing away about his intentions.

He watched as you obeyed his instruction, taking your seat in front of the desk. His eyes trailed over your body, slowly taking in your flustered expression, and he had to fight back a smirk that tried to form on his lips.

He pushed his hip off the desk, taking a few steps forward to stand directly in front of you. His gaze was intense, almost predatory, as he looked down at you.

He leaned against the desk, his arms still crossed over his chest. He looked you up and down, taking in your appearance for a moment. You were even more beautiful than he remembered, and he had to force himself to focus on the reason why he wanted you to stay.

He chuckled lowly in his chest before speaking again, his voice deep and smooth.

"We need to talk." He said simply, his eyes never leaving yours.

You swallowed nervously, feeling a knot in your stomach as you heard those words. You shifted a bit in your seat, trying to remain calm beneath his intense gaze.

"About what?" You asked, your voice coming out a bit shaky. You had no idea what he wanted to talk about, but his tone made it clear that this was going to be a serious conversation.

He observed your small reaction. The way your body shifted slightly in nervousness, the way your voice slightly trembled as you spoke. He could tell that you were intrigued, maybe even a little afraid. He couldn't deny the small thrill he got from it.

His eyes never left yours as he spoke again, his voice dropping an octave lower, almost dangerously.

"About last night." He said in a low tone, his eyes watching for your response.

Your eyes widened a bit as he mentioned last night. What did he want to talk about regarding the night at the party? You searched his face, trying to read his expression, but he was good at keeping his emotions under control.

You felt your heart race faster as you remembered the wild and carefree night, the alcohol and the hazy memories. You had a bad feeling about where this conversation was going.

"What... about it?" You asked quietly, trying to keep your voice stable.

He noticed the slight widening of your eyes and the way your body tensed at his words. He could almost see the memories flooding back into your head as you thought about the night before.

He pushed off from the desk, taking a step towards you so that he was standing directly in front of you, towering over you.

"You don't remember anything, do you?" He asked, his voice low and filled with a hint of amusement.

Your heart skipped a beat as he stepped closer to you, his tall frame towering over you. The way he asked that question, his voice dripping with amusement, it sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head slightly, your eyes looking up at him with a mixture of confusion and uncertainty.

"Not much..." You admitted quietly, biting your bottom lip nervously.

His smirk widened as he watched your nervous expression, the way you bit your bottom lip as you spoke. He could see the confusion and uncertainty in your eyes, and it was amusing to him.

He leaned in closer, his face now just a few inches from yours. He could see the way your breath hitched in your throat at his close proximity.

"So you're telling me..." He began, his voice low and smooth. "that you don't remember spending the night with me?"

Your head spun as he neared you, his close proximity sending a flutter through your chest. Your heart raced wildly as you processed his words, and then it hit you.

Your eyes widened as realization washed over your face. You remembered the hazy details of the night before, the way he had held you, the way he had kissed you, the way he-

"Oh fuck me.. Shit."

Your thoughts were interrupted as he spoke again, his voice now slightly smug.

"Oh, look who remembers." He chuckled lowly, his smirk widening.

You froze in your seat, your head spinning as the memories flooded back to you. It all came rushing back in fragments, the heat of his kisses, the feel of his touch, the low sound of his voice in your ear.

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you remembered the intimate details. You looked up at him, your eyes wide as you saw the smug look on his face, the smirk that told you he knew exactly what you were remembering.

"Y-you... we..." You stumbled over your words, embarrassment and realization crashing over you all at once.

He watched you closely, enjoying the way your face flushed with embarrassment and realization. The way your words stumbled, the way your eyes widened as you looked at him, it amused him. But even more than that, it excited him.

He chuckled, his smirk widening even more. "That's right." He confirmed, his voice low and smooth. "We fucked."

Your cheeks burned hotter as he so bluntly confirmed the truth. The way he said it so casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, it caused a fluttering sensation in the pit of your stomach.

He watched the color flood your cheeks as he bluntly confirmed what had happened. He could see the mixture of surprise and embarrassment in your eyes, and it amused him. He took a step back, giving you a little bit of space, but he didn't move too far away, still hovering over you.

He studied your face for a moment, his eyes tracing the contours of your features, his mind recalling the way you had looked last night. He chuckled again, a low and dark sound, before speaking again.

"Surprised?"

"Not really, You were begging to touch me."

He froze. He had not been expecting you to retaliate, and the look on his face clearly showed that. He blinked, staring at you in surprise for a moment, the words replaying in his mind.

He let out a huff of breath, caught off guard by your bold response. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at you.

"Begging?" He repeated, his expression a mixture of amusement and slight disbelief.

You smirked as you saw his reaction. The look on his face was priceless, and you couldn't help but enjoy it. You leaned back in your chair, trying to play it cool, despite the fluttering feeling in your chest.

"Yeah." You replied nonchalantly, tilting your head to the side. "You were practically pleading for it."

He narrowed his eyes at you, his smirk growing wider. Your boldness and confidence was both frustrating and intriguing to him. He had expected you to be a stuttering mess, but here you were, sitting there with a smirk on your face, telling him that he had been the one begging.

He took a small step towards you again, the distance between you shrinking once more.

"Is that so?" He asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. "And what exactly was I begging for?"

Your heart fluttered as he stepped closer to you again, the space between you shrinking once more. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, his gaze locked onto you.

You kept your smirk in place, refusing to back down. Your mind replayed the night before, the way his voice had sounded, how he had looked at you.

"Oh, all sorts of things." You replied bluntly, your voice low. "You were desperate."

"I dont beg." he said.

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest as he leaned in even closer, his face now mere inches from yours. You held his gaze, not backing down, the heat between you both rising.

You noticed the way his eyes flicked down to your lips and then back up again, and you smirked, knowing that you had his attention.

"Oh, really?" You said, tilting your head to the side, pretending to look thoughtful. "Then I must've heard wrong. I could've sworn I heard you begging me last night. Please.. please.. Let me touch you, please.." you smirked.

He froze, his eyes widening slightly at your words. Your impression of him last night was spot on. Those were, word for word, the same things he had pleaded for. He could still hear his own voice, begging for you, pleading to touch you, desperate for your touch.

He clenched his jaw, his mind reeling. He had not been expecting this, and you had caught him off guard, again. He was not used to not being in control, and it was stirring something within him.

"Shut up." He hissed, his voice low.

Your smirk widened as you saw his reaction, the way his eyes widened and the way he clenched his jaw. You had him right where you wanted him, flustered and slightly off balance.

You raised an eyebrow at his command, feigning innocence.

"Shut up?" You replied, your voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Make me."

He gritted his teeth, his annoyance and frustration growing. You were testing him, pushing his buttons, and it was working. He could feel his control slipping, and it was both infuriating and... exciting.

He took a closer step, closing the already small distance between you. He leaned forward, putting his hands on the arms of your chair, effectively pinning you in place. His face was mere inches from yours, his voice a low growl.

"You really want me to shut you up?"

Your breath hitched in your throat as he leaned in even closer, his body invading your personal space. The way he had you pinned in place with his hands on the arms of your chair sent a shiver down your spine.

You could feel his breath on your skin, his closeness making your heart race. You held your ground, refusing to back down, even as he loomed over you.

You smirked again, lifting your head ever-so-slightly, so that your breath mingled with his. "I'd like to see you try."

Your smirk and your defiant tone were like gasoline, fueling the fire within him. He could feel his self-control slipping away, your challenge testing his limits.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at you. He was so close that he could count your eyelashes, your closeness making his head spin.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear, his voice now a low, dangerous whisper. "You asked for it. But not now, you can go now. Go."

You shivered as his breath hit your ear, the low, dangerous tone of his voice leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin. You felt a pang of disappointment as he commanded you to leave, his words leaving you hanging on the edge, desperate for more.

You let out a huff of breath, a mix of frustration and anticipation. You wanted to argue, to push him further, but you knew he was in control now.

You stood up from the chair, smoothing out your shirt. "Fine." You said, trying to sound unaffected. "I'm going."

He watched as you stood up, the way you smoothed out your shirt, how your cheeks were slightly flushed. You tried to put on a nonchalant act, but he could see the disappointment in your eyes, the way you longed for more.

He resisted the urge to reach out and pull you close again, his body already missing the feeling of you near him. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to maintain his composure.

"Good." he said gruffly. "And for the record, I don't beg."

You shot him a smirk as you heard his last comment, the way he tried to make it sound like he was still in control. You knew that he was just as affected as you were.

"Right." You replied sarcastically. "Sure you don't."

You turned to walk towards the door, pausing at the threshold for a moment. You couldn't help but glance back at him one last time. He stood there, tall and imposing, his arms crossed over his chest. Even in annoyance he looked unfairly attractive.

He watched as you turned to walk away, stopping at the doorway and glancing back at him once more. He could feel your gaze on him, and though he tried to maintain his cold, emotionless expression, he couldn't help but be affected by your eyes on him.

He wanted nothing more than to grab you, pull you back to him, and kiss that damn smirk off your face. But he stayed where he was, his arms still crossed, his body tense.

"See you in class." He said coldly, his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.

You couldn't help but smirk again as he spoke. The way he tried to maintain his cold demeanor, the way his voice betrayed the slightest hint of tension, it was all so amusing to you.

You nodded in acknowledgment, giving him a mockingly sweet smile. "See you then, professor."

With that, you left the classroom, leaving him standing there, alone with his thoughts and the overwhelming desire to grab you again.

He watched as you left the room, the door closing behind you with a soft click. The classroom was suddenly silent, the only sound his own racing heartbeat.

He stood there for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts of you. Your audacity, your confidence, it was driving him crazy. He tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on something else, but your image kept popping back into his mind.

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Goddammit..." He muttered to himself.

The thought of you was still lingering in his mind throughout the rest of the day. He tried to concentrate on his work, on grading papers and preparing lectures, but his thoughts kept wandering back to you.

The way you had looked, sitting in that chair beneath him, the defiant look on your face, and that damn smirk. It was driving him absolutely insane.

As the day went by, he found himself looking forward to the next class, the anticipation growing with each minute. He needed to see you again.

He entered the lecture hall, glancing around at the students as they took their seats, his eyes scanning over them. He had been on edge all day, his thoughts filled with you and the encounter from the previous day.

He tried to keep his expression stoic, composed, as he made his way to the podium at the front of the hall. But as his eyes landed on your figure, sitting in the same place as before, his heart rate quickened.

He tried to tell himself to keep his composure, to maintain his usual cold demeanor, but it was difficult. Seeing you sitting there, looking as effortlessly beautiful as before, it stirred something within him.

He took a deep breath, clearing his throat before speaking. "Good morning, class." He began, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.

His eyes flickered in your direction momentarily, the sight of you in that same seat making his heart skip a beat.

The class began, and he tried his best to focus on his lecture, but he found it increasingly difficult as the minutes ticked by. His eyes kept straying toward you, stealing glances, taking in your every movement.

He couldn't help but notice the way you sat, how you twirled the pen in your hand, the way you listened intently. It was maddening to him how unaffected you seemed, while he was struggling to keep his desire in check.

The class went on, and he managed to get through the lecture without making a fool of himself. But the whole time, his mind was flooded with thoughts of you. He wondered if you were aware of the effect you had on him, if you knew how crazy you were driving him.

Finally, the class was over, and the students started packing their things, getting ready to file out of the hall. He watched as you packed your bag, your every move making his heart thump erratically in his chest.

As the last of the students left the hall, he waited for the room to empty, his heart pounding with every passing second. He knew he should let you go, let you walk out of here without saying a word, but he couldn't. The need to be near you, to have you within touching distance, was too strong.

He waited until the last student had disappeared through the doorway, and then he called out to you. "Wait."

You had just hoisted your bag onto your shoulder when you heard his voice, deep and commanding, echoing from the front of the hall. You paused, surprised to hear him calling after you.

You turned around to see him standing there, his eyes fixed on you, and a shiver ran down your spine. "Yes?" You asked, your voice a little higher than usual.

He swallowed, taking in the sight of you, the way you stood there looking so damn good, and he had the sudden urge to cross the distance between you and pull you against him.

He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. "Come here." He said, his voice a low command, gesturing for you to come closer.

Your heart thudded in your chest as he ordered you to come closer. The sound of his deep voice ordering you to obey sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't help but find the authoritative tone somewhat attractive.

You tried to act nonchalant, pretending like his command hadn't affected you. "Why?" You asked, lifting an eyebrow in question, refusing to give in that easily.

The way you questioned him, challenging his authority, only made him want you more. He clenched his jaw, his patience thinning.

"Just come. Here." He said again, emphasizing the last word, his voice still authoritative but with a hint of irritation. He beckoned you forward with a wave of his hand, his eyes narrowing at your resistance.

The firmness in his voice, the way his eyes narrowed as he gestured for your to come forward, sent a wave of excitement through you. You tried to hide the effect he was having on you, but damn, it was hard.

You took a deep breath, feigning reluctance as you slowly made your way towards him, closing the distance between you. "Fine." You said, coming to a stop in front of him.

A small sense of satisfaction washed over him as you finally complied, coming closer with an air of reluctant obedience. He let his eyes rake over you, taking in your form, the way you stood there, a few inches shorter than him, looking up at him with those mischievous eyes.

He wanted nothing more than to push you against the wall and pin your wrists above your head. Instead, he kept his hands clenched at his sides, trying to control the overwhelming desire within him.

You stood in front of him, your heart racing as he scanned you with those intense eyes of his. You could practically feel the electricity in the air between the two of you, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

His gaze felt like a physical touch on your skin, and you had to bite your lip to keep from shivering. You tried to maintain a cool exterior, to not let him see the power he had over you.

"What do you want?" You asked, your voice a little breathier than you would've liked.

The way you bit your lip, trying to suppress your reaction to him, driving him crazy. He wanted to reach out and press his thumb against that lip, to feel the softness of it against his skin.

But he resisted the urge, his mind still on the game of power between you. "You." He replied simply, his voice low and husky. He took a small step closer to you, closing the gap between you to mere inches.

Your heart skipped a beat at his answer. The way he admitted so casually that that he wanted you, it sent a rush of heat through your body.

The closer he got, the more aware you became of how big he was. His frame towering over you, the way he seemed to dominate the space around you, it made you feel small, vulnerable, and incredibly turned on.

You couldn't stop yourself from glancing down at his lips, the thought of how they would feel pressed against yours suddenly very prominent in your mind.

He noticed the way your eyes flicked down to his lips, the way your breath hitched, and he knew you wanted him just as badly as he did you.

He couldn't resist any longer. The desire to feel your body pressed against his was driving him crazy. Without warning, he took another step forward, closing the space between you until your body was flush against his.

His hand came up, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head back to look up at him.

Your breath hitched as he pulled you towards him, your body colliding against his with a jolt. The feel of him so close, the press of his body against yours, it made your heart race even faster.

And then he took your chin in his hand, tilting your head back so your eyes met his, and your knees almost buckled. The dominant gesture made you weak, and you couldn't help but let out a soft gasp as you looked up at him, pinned under his intense gaze.

The sound of your gasp, the way you looked up at him, eyes wide and lips parted, drove him crazy. The power he had over you, the way he made you react to his every move, it was addictive.

He kept his grip on your chin, his fingers firm but not too tight. He let his thumb run over your bottom lip, his touch gentle yet possessive.

"Look at you..." He murmured, his voice a low growl. "So damn beautiful."

Your knees trembled as he caressed your bottom lip with his thumb, his touch setting your skin on fire. The possessive way he held your chin, the way his voice sounded, the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour you.

Your mind was a mess, completely overcome by the overwhelming desire he stirred in you. You tried to remember how to form words, but all you could do was gasp out a soft, "God..."

The sound of your soft gasp was all he needed to hear. He could see the desire in your eyes, the way your body was responding to him, and he couldn't resist any longer.

He released your chin, his hand moving to the back of your neck, pulling your head back further, exposing your throat to him. He leaned down, his lips hovering just above the sensitive skin of your neck.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he pulled your head back, exposing your neck, the feeling of submission washing over you. Your breath caught in your throat, anticipation coursing through your veins.

Then, you felt his lips just above your neck, his breath hot on your skin, so close but not quite touching. Your body arched towards him, silently begging for more, silently yearning for the feel of his mouth on your skin.

"Come to my house after school, I'll send you the address by e-mail."

Your heart skipped a beat as he spoke, the way he ordered you to come to his place making heat pool between your thighs. You could barely nod, barely manage a simple, "Okay," the word leaving your lips in a shaky exhale.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes studying your face. He looked almost smug, knowing how he was affecting you, and a small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

He released your neck, stepping back slightly. "Go. Before I do something I shouldn't."

You took a shaky breath, trying to collect yourself, but it felt nearly impossible. You looked at him, your eyes still a little dazed, your body craving his touch.

You knew you should leave, knew you should go, but it took every ounce of restraint you had to not just wrap your arms around him and press against him again.

You forced your legs to move, tearing your gaze away from him, and managed to utter a quiet, "See you then." before heading out of the room.

As he watched you leave, his eyes raking over your retreating form, a sense of satisfaction filled him, mixed with a strong desire for more.

He waited until you were out of sight before he let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. He needed to gather himself, to regain some composure before the rest of his classes.

But the image of you, the way you had looked at him, the way you had submitted to his orders... it was already seared into his mind, making it hard to focus on anything else for the rest of the day.

The day passed in a blur. You tried to concentrate on your classes, but your thoughts were continuously pulled back to him, to the way he had taken control, to the promise of what was to come later.

You found yourself fidgeting, checking your phone every few minutes, waiting for the email he had promised to send. Every notification that popped up on your screen sent your heart racing, hoping it was from him.

Finally, as the last class of the day came to an end, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket.

You quickly took out your phone, your heart racing as you opened the notification. There it was, the email from him with the address for his house.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves and excitement that were starting to bubble up inside you. You knew what you were walking into by agreeing to go to his place, but the anticipation was driving you crazy.

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you headed out of the school building, already planning your route to his house.

The walk to his place felt both too long and too short. The whole time, your mind was filled with thoughts of what might happen when you got there. Would he be as intense as he had been in the classroom? Would he take control again? Or would he be different outside the walls of the university?

You felt a shiver run through your body as you finally reached the door of the address he'd sent. You took one last breath, trying to steady your nerves, before ringing the doorbell.

You heard the echo of the doorbell through the door, and soon after, the sound of footsteps approaching. The door swung open and there he was, standing in the doorway, wearing casual clothes that made him look so damn good.

He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed as he looked at you with that same intensity, those same dark eyes. "You came." He said, his voice just as deep and commanding as before.

Your heart raced as you saw him, the familiar intensity in his eyes making your breath catch in your throat. You nodded, trying to act nonchalant even though you felt anything but.

"You told me to." You replied, your voice coming out a little shakier than you would've liked. You were trying to maintain the same air of confidence you'd had in the classroom, but being alone with him outside university walls was a different story altogether.

He smirked at your response, pushing off from the door frame to step aside and let you in. "That I did." He said, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"Come on in." He gestured for you to step inside, his eyes drinking in your form as you walked past him.

You felt his gaze on you even as you entered, the heat of his stare making your skin tingle. You took in his home, the modern decor, the tastefully chosen furniture. The whole place screamed luxury and style.

He followed you in, closing the door behind him. He watched as you took in his home, a mix of curiosity and appreciation on your face. He stepped up behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, but not quite touching.

"You like it?" He asked, his voice low, his breath brushing against your neck.

His breath on your neck sent a shiver down your spine, his proximity making your heart race. You turned your head slightly to look at him, seeing the way he watched you with that small, knowing smile on his face.

You swallowed, trying to keep your composure. "It's beautiful." You replied, your voice almost a whisper. He was so close, the memory of his commanding presence and the promise in his eyes only fueling your desire.

His smile widened at your words, his hand reaching out to rest on your hip as he stepped even closer, his body pressing against your back. His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, his voice a low, seductive whisper.

"I'm glad you like it. Just wait until you see the rest of it." He murmured, his fingers tracing a small circle on your hip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you.

You couldn't hide the sharp intake of breath at his touch, the way your body responded to his closeness. His fingers on your hip felt like small bursts of static, and you had to resist the urge to lean back and press against him.

Your eyes closed for a moment, the heat between you both almost overwhelming. You managed to open your eyes again, looking back at him with a slightly unsteady breath. "The rest of it?" You asked, your voice coming out a little breathy.

He chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. His hand on your hip slid around to the small of your back, pulling you even closer to him. His other hand came up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek.

"Mhm." He hummed, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "Why don't you let me...show you?"

Your breathing quickened, your thoughts a mess as he held you close, his lips close to your ear. The way he talked to you, the way he touched you, it was enough to make your brain short circuit.

You couldn't help but lean into him, your body giving in to the intoxicating effect he had on you. You managed to nod, your voice barely above a whisper. "Yes..." You breathed out, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his lips on your ear.

He smiled against your skin, the satisfaction of having you like this, under his touch, showing in the way his fingers tightened on your back.

He stepped back, his hands sliding down to grasp your hand. "Come with me." He said, leading you deeper into his home.

You followed, feeling almost in a daze, your heart racing with anticipation. The heat of his hand in yours felt like an anchor, grounding you even as your mind was a whirlwind of emotions and desires.

He led you through the house, taking you to his bedroom. The room was dimly lit, a large bed taking up most of the space.

He turned to face you, his hands reaching up to rest on your waist, pulling you closer. He leaned in, his breath hot on your neck, his lips brushing against your skin.

You gasped, your body responding to his touch instinctively. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the firmness beneath his shirt. You were practically pressed against him, your breathing coming heavy.

"What-" You started, trying to form a coherent thought, but his closeness, the heat of his touch, was making it incredibly difficult. "-are we..." You couldn't finish the sentence, your mind clouded with desire.

His hands slid down to hold your hips, his grip firm as he pulled you even tighter against him. He nipped at your neck, his lips teasing your skin.

"Shh." He murmured, his voice low and husky. "Just... feel." His hands moved lower, sliding under the hem of your shirt, his touch burning against your bare skin.

The sound of his voice, the feel of his lips, his hands on your skin, it was almost too much. A soft moan escaped your lips as he touched you, his hands feeling like fire on your skin, making your senses go haywire.

"Taehyung." You breathed, your hands gripping his shirt tightly. The intensity of the moment was almost overwhelming, "Stop stop.. Don't. I need to talk to you."

You felt him freeze at your words, his hands stilling on your waist. He pulled back slightly, looking down at you, his eyes meeting yours.

His face was a mask of cool collectedness, but you could see the fire of desire still in his eyes.

He stared at you for a moment, his dark eyes searching yours. "Speak." He said, his voice controlled despite the obvious tension between you both.

You swallowed, your chest rising as you took a slow, deep breath. You had to take back control, you had to try to regain some semblance of composure.

"I just... need to clear some things up." You managed to say, pulling his hands away from you. You stepped back a little, creating some distance between you.

He leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed as he studied you. He seemed a bit taken aback by your sudden need for conversation. "Alright." He said, his tone serious now. "What did you want to clear up?"

He maintained eye contact, his gaze steady, waiting for you to speak.

You took another deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. You were still reeling from the way he had been touching you, the way your body had responded to him.

"I know we fucked,but I was so drunk.. But now, I am not. I want some things to be different."

He nodded, his expression serious. "Like what? What do you want, Y/N?" He asked, using your name for the first time since he brought you to his place.

There was a part of him that was annoyed by this sudden conversation, but another part was intrigued. He wanted to know what you were thinking, what you wanted from him.

"I don't want to just be your drunk hookup." You said, your voice firm. "If we're going to do this, if we're going to keep doing this, I want more."

You held his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady, even though your heart was racing. You wanted him, more than just physically, and you needed him to understand that.

He let out a breath, his eyes searching yours. He was surprised by your honesty, by the strength in your voice. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quieter now. "Is that what you think?" He asked, his eyes boring into yours. "That you're just a hookup for me?"

You hesitated, a bit taken aback by his question. "I don't know." You replied honestly. "But I want to be more."

You held his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. You had laid it all out, your desires, your needs, and now it was up to him. Would he accept your conditions or dismiss them? Would he leave, or stay?

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle but firm.

"Then be more." He said, his voice a low whisper. "Be more for me."

Your heart swelled at his words, your breath hitching in your throat. You didn't expect him to accept your conditions so readily, to reciprocate your feelings. You didn't expect him to *want* more, just as much as you did.

"Taehyung." You breathed, your hands reaching up to cover his on your face. "I want dates, flowers, chocolates, little surprises."

He smiled then, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Is that all?" He asked, teasingly. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours. "I can do better than that."

He pressed his lips against yours, his kiss soft and gentle.

You melted into the kiss, your hands sliding up to clasp behind his neck, pulling him closer. It was sweet and tender, filled with promises and emotions that were stronger than lust, deeper than physical attraction.

He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours. "You want more than just a hookup?" He whispered, his eyes meeting yours. "Then you've got it, baby."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "Promise?" You asked, teasingly. You could barely believe it, that he wanted exactly what you did.

He chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "I promise." He replied, his voice sincere. "No more drunk nights, no more hookups. Just us, getting to know each other, growing... together."

You nodded, your eyes shining with happiness. "That sounds... perfect." You said, your heart fluttering with the possibilities.

You kissed him again, your lips lingering just a little longer. You were ready for this, whatever it might bring.

"So..." You began, smiling at him. "What was that you were saying about your bedroom?"

He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer as he started backing towards the bed.

"Oh, that." He said, his voice low with teasing promise. "I think it's time for a more... hands-on demonstration."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up in your chest. You let him guide you towards the bed, your heart light and happy.

"You know," You said, teasingly. "I might need some tutoring in... Human anatomy."

He raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. "Is that so?" He asked, his hands sliding under your shirt, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"Mhm." You hummed, your breath hitching as his fingers traced the skin on your back. "I think I'm a visual learner."

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. "Think you can teach me, professor?"

His breath caught, his eyes darkening with desire. Your words, the way you whispered in his ear, it was driving him wild.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. The heat between you was almost tangible, the tension palpable.

"Oh, I don't just teach, baby." He said, his voice a low growl. "I... demonstrate."

You smiled, a thrill coursing through you at his words. "Then demonstrate, professor." You said, your voice teasing and provocative.

You reached up, fingers running through his hair as you leaned in, your lips hovering just a breath away from his. "Educate me."

His heart pounded in his chest, his desire building to a fever pitch. His lips hovered inches from yours, almost close enough to taste. His hands cupped your face, holding you in place.

"Oh, I'll educate you alright." He murmured, his breath mingling with yours. "I'll show you everything you need to know, and then some..."

He leaned in closer, his lips almost touching yours. "Lesson #1, don't tease me."

You chuckled softly, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "But professor," You purred, your lips brushing against his with each word. "I thought you liked it when I teased..."

You ran your fingers through his hair, enjoying the feeling of it between your fingers. You could feel the tension, the desire building. You wanted him, every part of him.

"What's lesson #2?" You asked, your lips hovering just above his.

A small, low growl escaped him, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. His grip on your face tightened, pulling you closer until your lips were almost touching. His gaze was intense, filled with desire and frustration.

"Lesson #2." He rasped, his breath hot on your lips. "Is that you never talk back to your professor."

He closed the gap between you, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

You moaned into the kiss, your body responding instantly to his touch. You felt him pull you closer, his arm slipping around your waist, his hand sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing over your skin.

His lips were demanding, almost possessive, leaving you breathless and wanting more. The lessons were definitely more enjoyable when he demonstrated like this.

His tongue teased your bottom lip, demanding entrance. You granted it, your tongue tangling with his in a passionate dance. The kiss was hot, fiery, filled with pent-up desire and longing.

His hands explored your body, roaming over your back, your waist, finding their way to your hips. He held you there, pulling your body flush against his, leaving no doubt as to how much he wanted you.

You pressed closer to him, your arms wrapping around his neck as your fingers tangled in his hair. Your body was on fire, every touch of his hands, every stroke of his tongue against yours sending pleasure coursing through you.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. He groaned, his voice low and rough, "Lesson #3."

You gasped, tilting your head back to give him better access. His lips on your neck felt incredible, every kiss sending shivers down your spine.

"Lesson #3?" You managed to ask, your voice breathless. You knew he was trying to teach you a lesson, but at this moment, you were too consumed with desire to care.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly. He sucked on the spot, his lips and tongue working in sync to tease you, to drive you wild.

"Mhm." He hummed, his lips trailing up to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Never... interrupt..." He continued, his words interspersed with kisses along your neck. "...the professor during...demonstration."

You moaned, your fingers gripping his hair as he continued to tease your neck. "Taehyung." You breathed, the way he was touching you, the way he was teasing you, it was almost too much.

He smiled against your skin, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. He liked hearing you say his name like that, liked seeing you like this, lost in the moment, lost in him.

"Yes, baby?" He murmured, his lips finding your neck again, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling you even closer.

You let out another soft moan, your body pressing against his. The way his nickname for you rolled off his tongue, coupled with the way he held you, it sent pleasure coursing through you.

"Nothing. Just, never thought I'd enjoy this class so much." You said, your voice a soft rasp.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Good." He murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "If you're a good student..." He nibbled on your earlobe, his teeth gently teasing it, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "I might give you extra credit."

His words sent a thrill through you, the promise in his voice stirring something deep inside you. You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

"I'll do my best, professor." You said, your voice filled with desire and amusement. "But how can I concentrate in class when our professor is so...distractingly attractive."

He grinned at your words, his ego clearly pleased by your compliment. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, his gaze filled with desire.

"Is that so?" He murmured, his hand sliding down to your thigh, his fingers tracing slow circles on your skin. "Maybe you need to stay after class for more... one on one teaching."

You shivered at his touch, your body responding to his words, to the promise in his voice. You tried to keep your teasing tone, even as your heart raced in your chest.

"And what exactly would we be studying during these one on one sessions, professor?" You asked, your hand gliding down his chest. "Anatomy?"

He laughed then, the sound rumbling in his chest. His hand on your thigh moved higher, his fingers tracing closer to your center. "Precisely." He said, his eyes darkening with desire. "Human anatomy, specifically."

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, his voice low, filled with promise. "An in-depth study of the human body, its reactions, its responses, its... desires."

You swallowed, your breath catching in your throat, your body quivering under his touch. You knew what he was implying, and the thought of it, of what he was offering, was intoxicating.

You managed to regain your composure, your hand still resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath your palm. "That does sound, mmm, educational." You said, your voice breathless from the anticipation.

He smiled, his lips finding their way back to your neck, his lips and tongue teasing the sensitive skin there. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight.

"I promise you..." He murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "It'll be the most enjoyable lesson you've ever had."

You couldn't hold back the moan that escaped you, your body melting into his, his words only increasing the desire burning within you. You needed him, needed to feel him take control, to feel him touch you in ways that no one else ever had.

"Taehyung..." You breathed, your body pressed against his, your eyes fluttering shut. "Please... don't tease me any more."

His breath caught at the sound of your plea, your words and the raw need in your voice sending a bolt of desire through him.

He pulled back, "Our one-to one lesson for today is over."

You blinked, surprised by his sudden withdrawal. "W-what?" You managed to stammer, your body still humming with need. The way he had been building you up, just to stop suddenly, it was frustratingly hot.

He chuckled, his eyes glinting with satisfaction at your reaction. He loved seeing you like this, flushed and wanting.

"I told you I don't just tease." He said, his voice low and husky. He stepped back slightly, putting some distance between you. "Patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait."

The library was quieter than usual, the only sound the soft rustle of pages as you turned them, your mind a million miles away.

You couldn't stop thinking about last night, about how close you had been, about the way Taehyung had teased you, pushed you to the edge only to pull back.

You tried to focus on your book, but the memories of his fingers on your skin, his lips on your neck, they kept pulling your attention away. You found yourself rereading the same paragraph over and over, your thoughts consumed with him.

"Y/N."

You jumped, your head snapping up, your eyes meeting Taehyung's. He stood by your table, his books in his hand, a small smile on his lips.

"Sorry." He said, the smile growing wider at your surprised expression. "Did I startle you?"

You quickly shook your head, trying to hide your surprise and the fluttering of your heart. "No, I was just... lost in thought." You said, trying to act casual, as if the memory of last night wasn't replaying in your mind.

You closed your book, giving him your full attention. "What are you doing here?" You asked, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to hide the effect he had on you.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not fooled by your casual act. He put his books down on the table, pulling out a chair and sitting next to you, his knee brushing against yours.

"Just grabbing some books." He replied, his gaze never leaving your face.

His closeness made it difficult to focus, his body heat, the scent of him, making your body hum with desire. You shifted slightly in your seat, trying to maintain your composure.

"Is... there something you needed, Professor?" You asked, trying to keep a professional tone, even as your heart was beating faster just from having him next to you.

He smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Well, you looked so focused, I just wanted to make sure you were okay." He replied, his knee brushing against yours under the table.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the subtle contact, your body already so sensitive to his touch. You tried to keep your thoughts in check, tried to remember where you were, that this was a public place.

"I'm fine." You assured him, your voice slightly breathy, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just studying for...um, next week's class."

He nodded, his gaze tracing over your face, your reaction to him clearly not escaping his notice. "Good." He replied, his voice low, his knee pressing against yours again. "I wouldn't want my favorite student to fall behind."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But if you need any... extra help, you let me know."

Your cheeks flushed at his words, at the implication behind them. The reminder that you were his student, the reminder of the taboo aspect of this, it only added to the excitement, to the thrill of it all.

You couldn't help but press your knee against his a little in return, wanting more of that contact, more of that electricity that seemed to spark between you.

He didn't pull back, letting his knee rest against yours. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "My office, this afternoon." He said, his voice a quiet whisper that only you could hear. "Lesson #4."

His hot breath against your ear, his words sending a shiver down your spine, it was almost too much. You could only nod, your mind already imagining what the afternoon held.

He pulled back, a smile playing on his lips as he saw your reaction. He stood up, his hand resting on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. "I'll see you then." He said, his voice normal now, his hand squeezing your shoulder gently.

With that, he walked away, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your mind racing, your body humming with anticipation. You couldn't wait for this afternoon.

As you approached his office, your heart pounded in your chest, the tension and anticipation building with each step. You knocked on the door, waiting for his voice to ring out through the wood.

"Come in." He called, his voice low and smooth. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before you turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

His office was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single lamp casting a warm light over the room. Taehyung was sitting at his desk, his eyes focused on a book in front of him. He glanced up as you entered, a small smile spreading across his face as his gaze met yours.

"You're here." He said, setting the book down and standing up. He rounded the desk, his steps slow and deliberate, each step making your heart beat faster. "Perfect timing. Let's begin lesson #4."

You swallowed, trying to keep your nerves from showing. You had no idea what he had in store for you, but the anticipation was almost too much to bear.

"Lesson #4?" You asked, your voice a little shaky. You took a small step closer to him, unable to help the small smile that tugged at your lips. "What's the topic for today, professor?"

He stopped in front of you, his hands reaching out to rest on your hips, pulling you closer to him. "The topic for today," He murmured, his eyes locked on yours, "Is human reaction to stimuli."

His fingers tightened on your hips, his body pressing against yours, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "Specifically, how your body reacts to my touch."

You gasped at his words, at the sudden closeness, at the feel of his body against yours. His touch, his words, it was electric. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in the air palpable.

"And how do you plan to..." You started, your voice trailing off as his lips grazed your ear. "Teach that lesson?"

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His hands slid to your lower back, pulling you even closer, your bodies now pressed flush together.

"Well," He murmured, his lips moving to brush against your neck, his words a low whisper against your skin. "First, we'll explore. See how your body responds to certain... stimuli." His lips moved lower, his tongue tracing a slow, hot path along your neck.

A moan escaped your lips, your body reacting instinctively to his touch. Your fingers gripped his shirt, holding onto him, needing him to keep you steady. His lips, his tongue, it was too much, too good.

"And then?" You managed to ask, your voice breathless, your body trembling with desire. You wanted more, needed more, needed him.

He paused, his lips hovering over that sensitive spot on your neck. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes full of heat, full of desire.

"Then we take note of your reactions." He said, his voice a low growl, his breath hot against your skin. "See how you respond, what makes you squirm, what makes you beg."

You groaned at his words, the raw desire in his voice only adding to the tension building within you. You could feel your body responding to his words, your heartbeat quickening, your breath coming faster.

"Taehyung," You breathed, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest, your fingers gripping his shirt. "You're not being fair."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. His hands moved, sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you up and sitting you on his desk, his body pressed between your thighs.

"Is that so?" He asked, his mouth finding your neck again, his lips trailing a path of hot kisses up to your ear. "I thought we were past 'fair'."

You gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer. The feeling of him between your thighs, his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips, it was overwhelming.

"Taehyung." You moaned softly, your hips grinding against him, your body taking over, unable to control your reactions. "You're... driving me crazy."

He pulled back, his lips leaving your neck, his eyes meeting yours. The heat in his gaze was intense, almost primal.

"Good." He murmured, his hands moving down to grip your thighs. "That was part of my plan."

With that, his lips found yours, his kiss demanding, passionate. His tongue teased your lower lip, demanding entrance, which you willingly gave, your tongue tangling with his.

You moaned into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His kiss was electrifying, just like the rest of him. Your bodies moved against each other, the friction sparking a fire in your veins.

His hand moved to your waist, his fingers pushing up your shirt, his bare hand touching your skin, making you shudder.

He broke the kiss, his lips moving to your jaw, your neck, finding that spot that made you gasp. His hand on your bare skin was sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

"Your body is so responsive." He murmured against your skin, his lips tracing a slow, hot trail down your neck. "Like it craves my touch."

You could only moan in response, your body arching against his, desperate for more. Every touch, every kiss, it was fuel to the fire burning within you.

"Yes," You breathed, your voice a plea. "Yes, I crave your touch. I crave you."

He groaned, the sound low and gravelly, filled with lust. He pulled back, his eyes locking with yours. Your words, your body's response, it was driving him crazy.

His hand moved further up your shirt, his fingers tracing over your ribcage, sending jolts of pleasure through you. "Say it again." He said, his voice low, commanding. "Say you crave me."

You shivered at the tone of voice, the demand in his words. You wanted to be good for him, wanted to give him whatever he asked for.

"I crave you." You whispered, your eyes locked with his. "I crave your touch. I crave you, Taehyung. Please.."

He groaned, your words hitting him like a physical blow. The way you said his name, the way you looked at him, the need in your voice, all of it sent a rush of desire through him.

He grabbed your shirt, yanking it off over your head, his hands immediately finding your skin, touching, exploring. His mouth found your neck again, his lips, tongue, teeth teasing and nipping at your skin. "You're driving me insane, baby." He murmured, his fingers skimming over your skin. "I need more."

You groaned, his words and touch igniting a fire in you. Your body was on overdrive, the feeling of his hands and lips on your skin sending waves of pleasure through you.

Your hands found his shirt, tugging at it, needing to feel more of him. "Take it off." You breathed, your voice a desperate plea. "Want to feel you, need to feel you, please."

Your desperation, your need for him, it was driving him wild. He obliged, quickly shedding his shirt, the sight of his bare chest almost making you gasp.

He pressed closer, his skin against yours, the heat between you almost unbearable. His lips found your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "I'll give you everything you need, baby." He murmured, his hands moving down to your thighs, gripping them tightly. "Just let me take care of you."

You melted against him, the feeling of his skin against yours, the promise in his words, it was overwhelming. Your body was begging for more, but you knew this was his show, he was the one in control.

You nodded, your hands tracing over his chest, feeling the heat, the muscles of his body. "Yes, please. Take care of me." You whispered, your voice full of need.

He groaned softly at the feel of your hands on him, his body reacting instinctively to your touch. The way you submitted to him, the desire in your voice, it was driving him crazy.

"Get up, come on. Turn around. Bend over baby."

Your breath caught at his words, your body obeying without hesitation. You turned around, your hands braced against the desk, your legs slightly parted.

You could feel him behind you, the heat of his body so close. You waited, breathless, anticipating his next move.

His hands rested on your hips, his fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

His fingers sliding under the waistband, slowly pulling your pants down.

Your breath hitched, your heart racing as he pulled your pants down, his hands brushing against your bare skin. You could feel his breath on your neck, his presence behind you so intense.

"Beautiful." He whispered, his hands squeezing your hips. You could hear the roughness in his voice, the edge of control in his tone. "So damn beautiful."

His hands moved lower, down your thighs, his fingers tracing up the inside of your thighs. He was taking his time, exploring every inch of you. Your body quivered under his touch, the anticipation building with every stroke of his fingers.

His hands went back up, sliding between your legs, his fingers grazing against your clit. You let out a soft moan, your hips arching in response. He chuckled darkly, his fingers circling your clit, teasing you.

Your grip on the desk tightened, your breathing growing shallow as his fingers worked you, your body responding to his touch. You could feel his satisfaction, his smugness, even without looking at him.

His fingers moved lower, sliding into your wetness. He moaned, feeling how ready you were, his own desire growing. "So wet for me, baby." He murmured, his voice thick with lust. His fingers curled inside you, applying pressure to that sensitive spot.

You moaned louder, your legs quivered, pleasure shooting up your spine. The feel of his fingers inside you, the roughness of his hands on your thighs, it was overwhelming.

"Shh, need to be quiet." He murmured, his breath hot on your skin. You felt his fingers leave you, leaving you empty and wanting, and a small whine escaped your lips. "People can hear you."

Your mind was clouded with pleasure, your senses overwhelmed. You tried to quiet your moans, to hold back the sounds escaping you. But it was difficult with him doing that to you.

Your legs were trembling, your body begging for more. You felt his hands grip your hips, pulling you back against him. His hips pressed against you, his pants the only thing separating you. He was rock hard, the feel of him through the fabric making your mind spin.

You moaned, the feel of him against you adding to the tension building within you. You pushed back against him, grinding against his bulge, desperate for more contact.

His hands tightened on your hips, holding you in place. "Stay still." He commanded, his voice a deep growl. His hands moved up your sides, up your torso, pushing your bra aside. His hands cupped your breasts, his fingers rolling your nipples.

You moaned louder, the sensation shooting straight to your core. You needed more, you needed him inside you.

Your words were lost at this point, nothing more than moans and whimpers falling from your lips. You were putty in his hands, a quivering mess under his touch.

His hands left your breasts, sliding back down to your hips. He pulled away, the absence of his touch leaving you feeling cold and alone.

You heard the rustle of pants, the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your breath caught, your body tensing with anticipation. There was a moment of silence, and then you felt him against you again, skin to skin this time.

His hands gripped your hips again, pulling you back against him harder. He was hard and hot against your ass, the feeling making you moan.

"Taehyung." You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the desk.

He grunted at the sound of his name, your obvious desperation making him crazier. He let go of one of your hip, letting his hand slide up your back, fingers curling around the base of your neck. He pushed down, making you arch your back, your back pressing into his chest.

"You want this, don't you?" He murmured in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "You want me."

You moaned again, your head nodding eagerly. "Yes. Yes." You managed to gasp. You felt like you would disintegrate if he didn't touch you soon. His hand at your neck tightened, holding you in place as he pressed against your entrance.

He didn't give you a chance to adjust, just pushed forward, filling you in one quick, smooth thrust. The sensation made your eyes roll back, pleasure overwhelming you. You moaned loudly, unable to hold back.

He grunted in satisfaction, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size. But you wanted more, you needed more.

You tried to move, to get some friction, but his hand at your neck held you in place, keeping you still. He leaned down, his lips at your ear. "Be a good girl." He murmured, his voice filled with desire "And be quiet."

You whimpered, the command sending a shiver down your spine. Your body was throbbing, your insides clenching around him, greedy for more. But you obediently stayed still, your body trembling with the effort.

He groaned softly, the feel of you around him almost unbearable. "So damn tight." He murmured, his free hand moving back to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin. And then he moved, pulling back slightly before thrusting back in, harder this time.

You cried out, your fingers clawing at the desk. He kept his pace slow, deep, each thrust hitting you deep.

You moaned loudly, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk. The sound of your voice was loud, echoing in the small office. But you couldn't seem to be quite, not with the way he was making you feel.

His hand tightened on your neck, his grip almost possessively so. "Told you to be silent." He growled, his voice low and dangerous. He slid his hand up, his fingers pressing against your mouth. "Bite down."

You did as he asked, biting down on his fingers to muffle your moans.

He groaned at the feeling of your teeth on his fingers, the way you were obeying him turning him on even more. He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The desk creaked with each thrust, the sound filling the room.

His fingers pressed harder against your mouth, as if to remind you to keep quiet. You moaned and whimpered around his fingers, the sounds barely muffled. This only added to his pleasure, only made him more excited. He loved seeing you like this, loved knowing he was the one doing this to you.

His thrusts became relentless, the sound of skin slapping against skin almost obscene. The desk rocked under the force of his thrusts, threatening to collapse. Your body was on fire, the pleasure building, nearing its peak.

You moaned around his fingers, the sound muffled but still loud. His other hand held your hip in a steel grip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Your heart raced, your head was fuzzy, and the only thing you could focus on were the pleasure he was giving you and the way he was dominating over you.

His fingers pushed deeper into your mouth, muffling your moans as he continued to thrust into you. He was approaching his own peak, the feeling of you clenching around him almost sending him over the edge. Your body was shaking, your vision almost blurred.

He leaned forward, pressing his body against your back. His chest was pressed into your back, his breath hot against your ear. He was completely covering you, surrounding you, possessively holding you in place.

His hips pistoned at a brutal pace, each thrust hitting deep inside you. Your mouth was still filled with his fingers, keeping your moans from being too loud. His low groan was hot against your ear, adding to the pleasure coursing through your veins. "You're so wet, taking me so well." He growled, his words

The dirty words sent shivers down your spine, your body clenching around him. You moaned loudly, the sound still muffled by his fingers in your mouth. You were close, your body on the edge, ready to fall over.

His fingers moved away from your mouth, his hand grabbing your hip again. He increased the pace even more, his hips snapping against yours with each thrust. He was close too, you could tell from the roughness in his voice, the way his grip on you was almost painful. "Almost there." He grunted, his voice hoarse with pleasure. "Come on, baby. Come for me."

You moaned loudly, your body almost exploding with pleasure. The sound finally unrestrained, echoing in the room. You were on the brink, hanging by a thread, your body shaking with need.

He groaned, the sound low and guttural. "Come for me, baby." He repeated, his fingers digging into your hip, his thrusts becoming rougher, faster. "Come on my cock."

That final command, the roughness in his voice.

Your body convulsed as that string finally snapped. You let out a loud, strangled cry, your body tensing as your orgasm crashed over you. Your fingers dug into the edge of the desk, your legs trembling as your body was wracked with waves of pleasure.

He moaned, the sound low and rough, the feeling of you clenching around him pushing him over the edge. "Fuck." He moaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he grinded into you, his own release overtaking him. He held you in place.

The two of you stilled, both trying to catch your breath. Neither of you spoke for a moment, still trying to process what had just happened. You felt exhausted, your body aching and spent, but in the best possible way.

After a moment, he pulled out of you. You winced slightly at the feeling, your body oversensitive.

His hand rested on your hip, his other hand still on your back, holding you up slightly. "You okay?" He asked, his voice still a little raspy. The roughness of it sending shivers down your spine.

You managed to nod, too boneless to speak. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn't trust yourself to turn around, not yet. You were still trying to process everything that had just happened.

His fingers traced light patterns on your hip, soothing in a way that made you shiver. He leaned forward, his lips finding your neck. He pressed gentle kisses along the column of your neck, his tongue darting out to taste your skin.

His touches were softer now, the roughness from before gone. He continued to press light kisses along your neck, his hand still on your back, supporting you. He seemed to be taking his time, exploring your skin as if memorizing every inch.

You finally gathered the strength to turn around, turning to face him. His hands immediately moved to your midriff, holding you steady. He looked wrecked, his hair messed up, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes dark with unsatiated desire.

His eyes roved over your face, taking in your flustered state. His hands moved up to your jaw, his fingers tracing the contours of your face. He studied you, his gaze sharp, as if committing every detail to memory.

After a moment, he finally spoke, his voice soft.

"You did good." He murmured, his praise making you blush. "Good girl."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead before pulling back. He helped you stand, steadying you when you swayed slightly. He picked up your underwear, handing it to you. "Here." He said, his voice still soft. "Get dressed."

You took the underwear from him, a little embarrassed at the fact that you had been too overwhelmed to even remember that you were naked from the waist down. You quickly put them on, the silk feeling cool against your heated skin.

He moved to his pants, pulling them up and buckling his belt. He looked down at you, his gaze still sharp.

"What?" You asked, your voice soft. You weren't sure what to make of his intense stare.

He tilted his head, his gaze moving to your neck. "You need to cover that up." He said, his voice back to its usual firmness. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, reminding you of how you got the mark in the first place. "Unless you want everyone to know what we just did."

You blushed at his words, your hand automatically moving to your neck. You realized he was right, there was no way you could hide the mark from him.

You looked at him, a little unsure. He sighed, stepping closer to you. "Let me see." He said, his voice softer now. He tilted your head, exposing your neck to him, exposing the love bite he had left there. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he studied it. "Here." He murmured, pulling a leopard print scarf out of his bag handle. "Wear this."

He wrapped the scarf around your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin as he adjusted it. He didn’t move away when he was done, his hands staying on your shoulders, his gaze locked with yours.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he just shook his head. He let go of your shoulders, letting out a breath. "You should go." He said, taking a step back.

You nodded, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of loss at his withdrawal. You bent down, picking up your pants and putting them back on, trying to regain your composure.

Once you were dressed, you looked up, catching his gaze. He stood there, watching you quietly, his eyes full of conflicting emotions. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come.

After a moment of silence, you finally cleared your throat, ready to speak. "I should -"

Your words were cut off by the sound of a knock on the door. His head snapped to the door, his eyes widening slightly. He gestured for you to hide under the his desk, turning to face the door.

“Come in.”

You ducked under the desk, hiding just as the door opened. You could only see Taehyung's legs from your spot, your heart racing as you waited for whoever had entered to speak.

"Professor Kim?" A female voice asked. "I'm here for the book you promised to lend me."

You felt a flash of irrational jealousy at the sound of the female voice. You couldn't see her, but you didn't like the idea of Taehyung being alone with another woman. You touched his legs.

He jumped slightly at the sudden touch, his knee hitting the desk with a dull thud.

"Sorry, are you okay?" The girl asked, her concern evident in her voice.

Taehyung laughed nervously, the sound high-pitched. "Yes, I'm fine." He assured her. "Just bumped my knee."

You stifled a laugh, his obvious lie making you feel better. You trailed your fingers up his leg, feeling his muscles tense under your touch.

He coughed, trying to cover up his reaction to your touch. "I'll get the book." He said, his voice strained.

You were tempted to do more, to tease him even further, but the sound of the girl's voice kept you in check.

"Thank you, professor." She said, her voice pleasant. "I really need it for my essay."

"Of course." He managed to reply, his voice almost normal. You could tell he was struggling to maintain his composure, the slight twitch in his leg betraying him.

You couldn't resist the urge to tease him a little more, your fingers tracing idle circles on his thigh. You could hear him clearing his throat, the sound louder this time.

The girl didn't seem to notice anything amiss, her voice just as pleasant as before. "I can't thank you enough, professor." She said. "This book is really helpful."

"You're... welcome." He managed to respond, his voice more strained now. You could see his hand gripping the edge of the desk.

You smirked to yourself, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. Your fingers travelled higher, your fingertips just skimming along the inside of his thigh.

The girl was still speaking, oblivious to what was going on on the other side of the desk. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, professor?"

Taehyung was struggling now, his breath shallow, his body tense. "Uh... sure." He managed to say, his voice hoarse.

You were relentless, your fingers moving higher, teasing him in all the right places. He let out a barely noticeable grunt, trying his best to keep his cool.

The girl was still talking, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding beneath the desk. "I've been having trouble understanding one of the concepts in this chapter..." She began, her voice innocent and unaware.

You were loving this, the power you had over him. You could see him struggling, see how much he was trying to control himself. You could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to focus on the girl's words.

"Oh, uh... which concept?" He managed to ask, his eyes squeezing shut as your fingers continued their ministrations.

"Greek mythology." she said.

You could hear him take a shaky breath, his body tensing. He was barely able to maintain his composure, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the desk.

"Uh... what about it?" He managed to ask, his voice almost a growl. You could see his eyes flicker down, towards where you were hiding beneath the desk.

You smirked to yourself, knowing you had him right where you wanted him. Your fingers moved higher still, tracing the outline of his growing bulge through his pants. He let out a quiet, involuntary moan, quickly covered up by a cough.

The girl was still talking, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. "I just can't seem to understand the symbolism behind certain myths..." she said, her voice as sweet as ever.

Taehyung was struggling, his face flushed red as he tried to respond. "Well..." he managed to say.

He cleared his throat, trying to focus on the conversation, but it was getting more and more difficult with each passing second. You were relentless, your fingers teasing him in all the right places, making it almost impossible for him to talk.

"Which... which myths are you having trouble with?" He managed to ask, his voice strained, his eyes fluttering shut as he tried to focus on the girl's words, and not the way your fingers were moving.

You were enjoying the game, the control you had over him was exhilarating. Your fingers traced a slow, teasing path back down his inner thigh, just barely avoiding the part he wanted your touch the most.

The girl was still talking, completely unaware of the scene unfolding under the desk. "Uh... the Persephone and Hades myth..." She said.

Taehyung was struggling, his breath coming in sharp gasps now. "Uh... right..." He managed to say, his voice barely under control.

You could see his face was flushed, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the desk so hard. He was doing his best to control himself, to keep up the appearance of composure, but it was getting harder and harder.

The girl was still talking, completely oblivious to the chaos that was happening on the other side of the desk. "I just don't understand why Persephone had to spend half the year in the underworld.." She said.

Taehyung was struggling to respond, his eyes darting down to where you were, a look of desperation in them.

You smirked, your fingers tracing back up his inner thigh, stopping just short of where he wanted them most. He groaned, the sound barely audible, but his eyes were glued to you, pleading you to keep going.

The girl was still speaking, completely unaware of the silent conversation that was taking place beneath the desk. "It seems so brutal, to be forced to leave her mother behind like that..." she said, her voice filled with innocence.

Taehyung was nearly panting now, his head dropped back against his chair.

You were enjoying the power you had over him, watching him struggle to keep his cool while you were doing your worst - or your best, depending on how you looked at it. You could see the tension in his body, see the way his eyes were fixed on you, begging you for more.

The girl was still talking, completely unaware of the situation unfolding. "And yet, somehow... she ended up falling in love with Hades..." she said, her voice filled with awe.

You could tell he was nearing his limit, his body trembling with need. His hands were gripping the edge of the desk so hard, you thought they might break. He was trying to keep a neutral expression on his face, but he couldn't control the way his eyes kept darting down to where you were.

The girl was still talking, completely oblivious to the fact that he was barely able to process her words anymore. "It's just so... romantic..." she said, her voice soft and dreamy.

The girl continued talking, but Taehyung's world had narrowed to just you. His breathing was ragged, his heart was racing, his body was on fire under your touch. He was struggling to control himself, trying to keep a straight face despite the way you were teasing him.

"Yeah..." he managed to reply, his voice hoarse, strained. "Romantic... that's... one way to put it. Ah I am so sorry, I need look at exam papers. Can we talk tomorrow?"

The girl was slightly surprised by his sudden change in demeanor, but she nodded nonetheless. "Sure professor, tomorrow then." She said, her voice slightly confused but not suspicious at all.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Taehyung let out a groan that was half relief, half frustration. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire.

"You..." he managed to say, his voice thick with longing. "God damn it..."

He pushed his chair back slightly, giving you more room to move. His eyes were filled with desire, almost feral. "Come here." He said, his voice stern.

You followed his command, crawling out from under the desk. You could see the way he was watching you, his eyes hungry, like he wanted to devour you.

The moment you were out from under the desk, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you onto his lap, his lips crushing against yours. The kiss was rough, demanding. He kissed you like he hadn't seen you in years, like he was starved for your touch.

"Baby.. Go now, see you later."

You could feel his need, his hunger, in the way he kissed you. He was desperate, hungry for your touch, and you responded in kind.

He pulled back, resting his forehead against your for a moment. "Go," he repeated, his voice strained. "Before I lose control completely again and without getting caught."

You were slightly reluctant to go, wanting nothing more than to stay with him, but you knew he was right. If you stayed, who knows what would happen.

You reluctantly pulled away, standing up from his lap. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips, as if he didn't want to let you go. "Go," he muttered again. "Quick."

You took a step back, your body already missing the feel of his touch. He let out another low groan, but he let go of your hips, reluctantly releasing you.

You gave him one last look, taking in his disheveled appearance, before forcing yourself to turn and leave the room. As you closed the door, you glanced back one last time, seeing him slumped back in his chair, looking wrecked.

Taehyung was left sitting in his chair, trying to regain his composure. His heart was still racing, his body still thrumming with desire. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, the way you had teased him under the desk.

He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his messy hair. He needed a cold shower - a very cold shower.

He pushed back his chair and stood up, his legs feeling slightly wobbly. He walked to the small attached bathroom, turning on the faucet and letting the water run cold. He leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The man that stared back at him looked wild - his hair was disheveled, his eyes were dark with arousal, his lips were swollen from your kiss. He let out another groan, his head dropped forward.

He splashed some water on his face, trying to cool himself down. But the image of you, crouching underneath the desk, your hands on him, your touch driving him crazy, was replaying in his mind like a broken record.

It had been a close call, that much was clear. If the girl hadn't shown up, god knows what would have happened. And the worst part was, he still wanted more.

He turned the water temperature even colder, letting the cool water run down his face and neck. The chill helped to clear his mind, if only slightly.

The memory of your teasing, of your hands on him, was burned into his mind. And the fact that you had been willing to take such a huge risk - to risk getting caught, to push his limits so boldly... it was the ultimate turn on.

He shut off the faucet, drying his face with a towel. But he couldn't get you out of his mind. He wanted more. Needed more.

He checked his watch. It was almost time for his next class. He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself. He could do this. He was a professional. He could act normal, at least for the next hour.

He buttoned up his shirt, his hands still slightly shaky. He checked his reflection in the mirror one last time, trying to look presentable.

He took one last deep breath before leaving the bathroom. As he walked down the hallway, he mentally reprimanded himself. He could not think about what had happened earlier. He needed to focus on his next class.

As he entered the classroom, he plastered on a professional smile, hoping nobody could see the storm raging behind his eyes.

He went through the motions, greeting his students and starting the lesson. But his mind was only half in it. The other half was still replaying the scene from earlier over and over again.

He could hear your voice, your little gasps and moans echoing in his ears. He could still feel your fingers tracing paths of fire across his skin. He clenched his hands at the memory. Get a grip, he scolded himself.

The lesson was going by slowly, painfully slowly. He couldn't concentrate. He found himself stealing glances at the clock every few minutes, willing the time to pass faster.

Finally, the class was coming to an end. The students were packing up their things, talking amongst themselves. He forced himself to focus on the last few minutes, giving them some last minute instructions.

But all he could think about was seeing you again, feeling you again - soon.

He watched the students leave, forcing a polite smile on his face. As the last student left, he let out a long breath, collapsing on his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind already racing towards you.

He checked his watch. His next class was an hour away. He had an hour to kill. An hour, alone, with nothing but his thoughts of you to keep him company.

You were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts drifting to Taehyung. The way he had looked, so disheveled, so undone, it was etched into your mind. You could feel your body reacting just thinking about him.

But you knew he had more classes, that he wouldn't be able to break free for hours.

You let out a sigh, rolling onto your side. You were bored, restless. The day seemed to be going by excruciatingly slowly.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the silence. You reached for it, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the name on the screen. Taehyung.

You swiped the screen to pick up the call, your heart racing. You brought the phone to your ear, your voice betraying a hint of eagerness when you spoke.

"Hey." You said softly, your voice just above a whisper, hoping he couldn't hear the needy note in it.

"Hey." His voice was low and gruff, a hint of something that sounded like hunger in it. You immediately felt your body reacting, the neediness coursing through you.

There was a pause, then he spoke again.

"Are you alone?" he asked, his voice taking on a more serious tone. You could tell he was somewhere public, maybe the corridor between classes, his voice just barely above a whisper.

You sat up, the sheets shifting around you. "Yeah." You replied, your voice soft and low. "I'm alone."

He let out a low breath, and you could picture him running a hand through his hair, a habit of his when he was feeling impatient. "Good." He said simply, the hint of hunger in his voice more pronounced now. "Listen, I can't talk long, I'm between classes."

You could imagine him looking around, making sure no one was near. "But I needed to hear your voice."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. You leaned back on your bed again, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Yeah?" You asked teasingly. "Already missing me, professor?"

He huffed, a sound that was a mix between a growl and a laugh. "Don't play coy with me, baby." He said, his voice dropping an octave. "I can't even focus on my class. All I can think about is you."

Your cheeks flushed at his confession, a small shiver running down your spine. You loved it when he got like this, when he let the dominant side of him show.

You bit your lip, feeling a familiar heat pooling between your legs. "Tae-" you started, but he cut you off.

"Shh, don't. Not now." He said, his voice taking on a commanding tone that made your breath catch. "Just listen, alright?"

Your heart rate was rising, your body already reacting to his tone of voice. You closed your eyes, listening intently. "Yeah, okay. I'm listening." You whispered, your voice a little breathless.

There was a moment of silence as he seemed to collect himself, clearly trying to maintain control. "I just..." he started. "I can't get your voice from earlier out of my head." He said, his voice rough. "The way you sounded, the little noises you made-"

Your cheeks flushed even more, the memories from earlier flashing through your mind. You could hear the strain in his voice, the need, and it sent a rush of heat through you.

You could almost hear his breathing getting heavier, his own body reacting to the memory. "God damn it." He muttered, more to himself than to you.

There was a pause, as if he was trying to control his thoughts. But his next words made it obvious that he was struggling.

"The way you sounded, baby, it was..." he exhaled, his voice ragged. "I can't get it out of my head. I need to have you again, I need to touch you, to taste you. I need-" He stopped himself, as if remembering where he was.

Your entire body was overheating at his words, your body craving his touch as much as he seemed to need it. You could hear people talking in the background, cars honking in the distance. You knew he was still out in the open, struggling to maintain control.

You decided to test his restraint, to see just how much you could push him before he snapped. You whispered his name, your voice barely audible. "Taehyung."

You could hear him curse under his breath, his breathing becoming even more ragged. "Don't..." he groaned, his voice strained. "Don't say my name like that, not now. I'm trying to hold it together here."

He sounded like he was fighting a losing battle."Let me cook for you tonight."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. He wanted to see you tonight. He wanted to be alone with you just as desperately as you did. You bit your lip, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

But you wanted to tease him a little bit more. "Hmm." You hummed, feigning disinterest. "And what if I have plans already?"

He let out a low growl at your words, his patience obviously thinning. "Cancel fucking them." He said, his voice brokering no argument.

You couldn't help the gasp that escaped your lips. He was clearly at the end of his rope, the need in his voice making heat coil in your stomach.

You pretended to consider his request for a moment, making him wait. "And why should I do that?" You asked, pretending to sound nonchalant. "Maybe I have a date with someone else."

You could almost feel the anger radiating from him through the phone, his jealousy flaring. "Don't even joke about that." He said, his voice low and dangerous.

You felt a rush of satisfaction at his reaction, loving how possessive and jealous he was. But you wanted to push him even further, to see just how much you could get away with.

"Why not?" You asked innocently, your tone just a little too sweet. "Maybe I found someone more fun."

It was like you threw gasoline on the fire that was his anger. His next words were almost a snarl. "You have exactly three seconds to stop talking." He said, his voice rough and deep. "I swear to God, if you don't stop playing with me-"

The sound of the bell rang in the background of the call, interrupting his threat.

You could hear him let out a frustrated huff as the bell rang, his attention being pulled away for the interruption. "Damn it." he muttered, sounding like he was struggling to compose himself. "I gotta go. My next class is starting."

You feigned disappointment, playing along with his game. "Aww, so soon?" You said, your voice whiny. "I was enjoying listening to your threats."

You stood in front of Taehyung's door, your heart beating fast. The drive over had felt like an eternity, the anticipation building with every passing minute.

You raised your hand, knocking on the door lightly. You heard footsteps approaching, the door opening to reveal Taehyung. His expression was almost feral, his gaze burning into you.

You managed a little smirk, your voice teasing. "I thought you'd be cooking dinner by now."

He sees you in a deep red dress—fitted at the top with thin spaghetti straps and sheer, long mesh sleeves that add a soft, elegant touch. The fabric of the dress is smooth and slightly clingy, flowing down your legs in a clean, uninterrupted line.

Your small red glasses match the dress perfectly, giving the look a sharp, stylish accent. The long, straight black hair falling over the red makes the color stand out even more.

You watched as his eyes roamed over your body, taking in your outfit. His expression was one of pure desire, his fingers twitching as if they were itching to touch.

"Later." He said in a low voice, pulling you towards him, inside the room. He closed the door behind him, his arms wrapping around you. "Dinner can wait."

His lips found yours, hot and hungry. You gasped against his lips, your hands moving to his chest, fisting his shirt for balance. His hands were on your waist, pulling you close, molding your body against his.

"You knew exactly what you were doing when you picked that dress." He growled against your lips, his eyes dark with desire. "And those glasses..."

"But I am hungry.. And still sensitive." you smiled. "Feed me."

He smirked, his hands moving down to your thighs. In one smooth move, he lifted you up, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

You gasped in surprise, your hands moving to his neck for balance. The feeling of his hands under your thighs, holding you against him, was intoxicating.

"And what do you want to eat first?" He murmured, his lips trailing down to your neck, nipping and sucking on your skin."My lips? My dick?"

You let out a moan at his words, your body responding eagerly. You trailed your fingers down his chest, your nails scratching lightly against his shirt.

You pushed him away slightly, just enough to look at him. "What's on the menu?" You asked sweetly, teasingly.

He smirked, a slow, sensual smile that made your heart race. He started walking, carrying you into the kitchen. He placed you on the counter, your legs dangling off the edge. He stood between your legs, his hands on your waist, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Let's see..." He hummed, his voice a low rumble.

"I have... ramen." He said, his hands trailing up your sides. "I have cheese and eggs." He added, his fingers brushing over your ribs, sending shivers down your spine.

His hands moved to your hips, drawing you closer, his lips hovering over yours. "But I think I'm in the mood for..." His lips brushed against yours, "something sweet." He murmured.

His lips crushed against yours, the kiss hot and hungry. His hands moved down to your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter.

You gasped against his lips, your hands moving to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. His body was so close to yours, you could feel every inch of him against you.

You pulled away slightly, taking a moment to just look at him. He was so handsome, his eyes dark with desire, his lips swollen from kissing. You take it off your glasses.

You tossed it aside, your hand moving to his chest. His clothes felt rough beneath your fingers, a stark contrast to the softness of his skin that you knew lay beneath.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his neck, kissing down to his collarbone. He let out a low groan, his fingers digging into your thighs. He lifted you off the counter.

Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist, your arms going around his neck. He carried you into the living room, his lips never leaving yours.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were out of breath. He lowered you onto the couch, his body following yours. He leaned down, about to kiss you again, when the sound of the doorbell cut the air. He cursed under his breath, pulling away.

"Who the hell-" He muttered, getting up. His cheeks were flushed, his hair disheveled. He looked gorgeous, and you couldn't help but smile. He gave you a playful glare before heading towards the door, straightening his clothes as he went.

"I'll be right back." He said, disappearing into the hallway.

You took the opportunity to catch your breath, your heart still racing. You heard him open the door, his voice low and deep as he spoke to whoever was there.

"Jimin, what are you doing here man?" he asked.

You heard a familiar laugh, and then Jimin's voice chimed in. "You haven't seen our groupchat? Everyone's going out for drinks. I came to drag you with us." he said. His tone was light and teasing as he continued. "But you don't look very dressed for a bar dude... Were you planning on staying in? Whats going on? Someone is here? Ahh I knew it."

You bit your lip, smiling to yourself. You wondered if Taehyung was going to tell him about you, or if he was going to make up an excuse.

You heard a sigh from Taehyung, followed by the sound of him opening the door wider, letting Jimin inside. "Alright, but not too long, okay?" he said. "I kind of have plans..."

"Plans?" Jimin echoed, clearly curious now. You heard footsteps as they came into the living room. The look on Jimin's face was priceless as he took in the scene, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

Taehyung just shrugged, trying to act casual despite the situation. He pointed at you, lying on the couch, your hair disheveled and your lips swollen from kissing. "Well..." he said.

Jimin laughed, the sound bright and amused. "I see you've been... busy." He said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Guess I'm interrupting something. My bad."

You blushed, feeling a little embarrassed at being caught in such a compromising position. But you couldn't help but laugh at Jimin's reaction. He was always so lively, always ready to tease.

Taehyung rolled his eyes at his friend, but his body was relaxing visibly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "Alright, we'll go." He said, giving in. "Just give us a minute to get ready."

Jimin nodded, his hands raised in surrender. "Sure, take your time. I'll be outside waiting." He gave you a wink as he turned to leave, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Have fun getting ready." He added, before disappearing out the door.

Taehyung sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry about that." He said, looking at you apologetically. "That's Jimin for you, always interrupting at the wrong time. Ahm.. Do you wanna come with us? They were cool guys. "

You smiled, already getting up from the couch. "Sure." You said, looking forward to the evening. You were a little disappointed that your plans with Taehyung had been interrupted, but you also knew Jimin was right - a night out with friends could be fun.

"Let me change my outfit. Stay here. And wear that glasses again." he said.

You nodded, feeling a thrill of excitement at his request. You watched as he disappeared into his room, his footsteps soft on the floor. You could hear the rustling of clothes as he changed, the sound of drawers being opened and closed.

You made your way over to the mirror, fixing your hair and makeup. You put on a fresh layer of lip gloss, giving your lips a pouty, kissable look. You put your glasses on.

When Taehyung reappeared, he looked even hotter than before. He had changed into a tight black tank top, the fabric highlighting his toned body. He had put on a leather red jacket, red leather pants and his hair was slightly messy, adding to his ruggedly good looks.

"I wanted to match with you. " He smiled.

You could feel your heart beat a bit faster at his words, at the way he looked at you. You could see the desire in his eyes, the way he was trying to hold himself back.

You walked over to him, your hips swaying just a little. You reached up, fixing his collar, your fingers brushing against his neck. "You look good enough to eat." You said softly.

He groaned, catching your wrist in his hand. His grip was firm, his eyes dark with want. "Baby, we have to go." He murmured, but his body was saying something else entirely.

He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "But later..." He whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Later, you'll be all mine."

You shivered at his words, your body responding eagerly to his touch. You knew he was right, though - you had to go, you couldn't keep his friends waiting.

You nodded, giving him a small, teasing smile. "Alright." You said, taking a step back. "But don't drink too much." You suggested, your voice light. "I don't want you getting too tipsy for our plans later."

He smirked, his eyes dark with desire. "Don't worry about that." He said, his voice low. "I'll have you on my mind all night."

You smiled at his words, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the way he was still so eager for you. You leaned in, giving him a quick peck on the lips, before backing away. "Good." You said, a playful glint in your eyes. "Because you're going to need all your energy later."

You smiled at his words, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the way he was still so eager for you. You leaned in, giving him a quick peck on the lips, before backing away. "Good." You said, a playful glint in your eyes. "Because you're going to need all your energy later."

The night went by in a blur of laughter, music and good company. You met Taehyung's friends, all of whom were welcoming and friendly, if a little surprised to see you there.

You could feel Taehyung's gaze on you throughout the night, his eyes following you as you chatted and laughed. He kept touching you, small, lingering touches that were both comforting and maddening.

As the night progressed, you could see Taehyung becoming more and more wound up. His touches became more insistent, his gaze more intense.

"Sorry guys, I need to go bathroom. Excuse me." you smiled.

You stood up, making your way towards the bathroom. You felt Taehyung's gaze on you as you walked away, and you couldn't help but sway your hips a little more than necessary, knowing he was watching.

You reached the bathroom and shut the door behind you, leaning back against it. You let out a soft sigh, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the effect you had on him.

You took a moment to check your makeup and freshen up, feeling a thrill of excitement at the thought of what was to come. You knew Taehyung was waiting for you, and the knowledge made your body tingle in anticipation.

You made your way back out, spotting Taehyung waiting for you near the bathroom. His eyes heated up as he saw you, and he didn't waste any time pulling you close, his lips brushing against your ear.

"How much longer do we have to stay?" He murmured, his voice low and hoarse. His hand was at the small of your back, his fingers tracing small circles against your skin.

You could see his friends watching you, a couple of them smiling knowingly. You leaned into Taehyung, your lips brushing against his ear. "A little longer." You said softly, your voice teasing. "Patience, Taehyung."

He groaned, his grip tightening on you. You could tell he was struggling to maintain control, and the thought made you smile. You slipped your hand into his, giving it a squeeze.

"Come on, let's go back to the table." You suggested, your voice light. "We can't leave your friends hanging." You could hear the amusement in his voice as he replied.

"Fine." He said, his tone playful. "But I think my friends here already know what we're planning on doing."

You laughed, feeling a sense of joy at the thought. You led the way back to the table, your hand still in Taehyung's. His friends greeted you with smiles, their eyes sparkling with amusement.

You sat back down, Taehyung taking the seat next to you. He draped his arm over the back of your chair, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder. You could feel his gaze on you, burning into you, but you pretended not to notice.

Time seemed to drag on, but finally, the night was coming to an end. You stood up, thanking everyone for the wonderful evening. Taehyung's friends were quick to say their goodbyes, shooting him not-so-subtle looks of amusement.

"Have fun, you two." Jimin said, winking at you. The others echoed his words, teasing Taehyung about his 'plans'.

You could see Taehyung's patience wearing thin, his grip on your waist tightening. You could sense his need for you, and it made your body tingle with anticipation.

"Ready?" You asked softly, your voice filled with promise.

"More than ready." He replied, his voice low and rough.

He practically dragged you out of the bar, his body tense with need. You could feel his arousal, the way his body was thrumming with anticipation.

When you finally reached his car he didn't waste any time, pulling you close and crushing his lips to yours. He kissed you like he was starving for your touch.

He pushed you up against the car, his body pressed against yours. His lips were hot and eager, his hands roaming over your body.

"Get in the car." He murmured, his voice a low growl. He opened the door for you, helping you into the passenger seat. His hands lingered on you, his eyes filled with need.

You could see the tension in his body as he walked around to the driver's side. He looked like he was on the edge, barely able to control himself.

He started the car, the engine roaring to life. He pulled out of the parking lot, his gaze straight ahead. But you could see the way his hands gripped the steering wheel, the way his knuckles were white with tension.

You reached out, resting your hand on his thigh. You could feel the muscle tense under your touch, his body straining under the effort of keeping control.

You could see his jaw tense at your words, his body thrumming with need. He glanced at you, his eyes filled with wanting.

"The parking lot is too open." You murmured, your voice low and breathy. "People could see us."

He grunted, his foot pressing down on the accelerator. He looked wild, his hair ruffled, his eyes dark with desire.

"Where do you suggest we go?" He asked, his voice rough. You could tell he was struggling to focus on driving, his mind clearly preoccupied with other things.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. "The club has a storage room, right?" You said softly. "And a back alley. I think those would be perfect."

You could see his body tense at your words, his breathing quickening. He pulled onto the nearest side street, his foot pressing down on the brake.

He looked at you, his eyes burning with desire. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek.

"Come here." He murmured, his voice strained. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. It was a gentle kiss at first, his lips soft and pliant against yours.

But he soon deepened it, his tongue sliding into your mouth. You could taste him, feel the desire in his kiss. You responded eagerly, your body pressing against his, your hands tangling in his hair.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His eyes were dark and wild, his body tense. "I can't wait any longer." He murmured, his voice thick with need. "Sit on my lap."

You did as he commanded, your body eager to please him. You straddled his lap, his hands gripping your waist. He pulled you close, his lips finding yours again.

You could feel his need, his body straining against you, his mouth hungry on yours. You responded eagerly, your body moving against him, your moans of pleasure echoing in his mouth.

"Grind on me."

You did as he asked, moving your hips against his. He let out a low moan, his hands tightening on your waist. He broke the kiss, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"Oh God, baby." He gasped, his head falling back against the headrest. His hips moved against yours, his body straining for more. "Fuck.."

You could see the look on his face, the way his eyes were filled with fire. You wanted to see the same wild, hungry look in them that you saw earlier. You wanted to see him let go completely.

You leaned in, nipping at his bottom lip. "What do you want, Taehyung?" You whispered. His eyes darkened even more at your words, his body tensing beneath yours.

"You." He said simply, his voice raw with need. His hands gripped your hips tighter, his body pressing against yours. "I want you."

You could hear the urgency in his voice, feel it in the way his hands roamed over your body. "How do you want me?" You asked, your voice soft, teasing.

He let out a low growl, his need palpable. You could feel your own body responding, the fire inside you roaring to life. He let out a low groan as his hand moved down to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. It was your time.

He groaned again as you traced your tongue along the outline of his lip, before you pushed inside his mouth, your tongue stroking his. His hands gripped your hips harder, his whole body pushing up against yours. He let out soft hums as his hand moved from your hips and underneath your dress. Fingers brushing over the soft skin of your bare thighs.

You broke away, breathing hard. You could see the fire in his eyes, feel the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles. But you weren’t done yet.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. "Tell me what you want, Taehyung" you whispered, your voice low and husky. 

"I told you what I wanted." He said, his voice a mere groan. His hands tightened on your hips, his hips pushing up against yours. You could feel the weight of him, the need in his touch.

You let out a low chuckle, your hand moving to his chest, tracing patterns on his skin. "Specifics, Taehyung. Details. You are professor. Give me all details."

He let out a low groan again, your words clearly driving him wild. "Your hands, baby…" he said, his voice rough. He reached for your hand, guiding it towards his belt. "I want your hands..''

You smirked, tugging his belt slightly. You could see his pupils dilate, his breath coming in faster. "My hands…" You echoed, your voice soft as you traced a finger along his belt. "My?"

You looked up at him, trying your best to look innocent, your fingers continuing to tease. "I'm here to help, sir." You murmured, your voice sweet. "Show me."

His eyes flared with need, his breath coming in short pants. He reached for your hand, guiding it towards his belt once again. "Your hands on me." He said, his voice low.

You smiled, your fingers toying with the buckle. "Here, Taehyung?" You asked, your voice low. "You want my hands here?"

His body was so still, so taut, like he was waiting for you to make the next move. His eyes were so dark, so hooded, filled with want. "Yes." He breathed, his voice barely audible.

You let out a low hum, as you slowly undid the buckle of his belt. The sound of it was loud in the quiet of the car, the tension in the air between you almost palpable.

You could see his reaction, the way his breath hitched, the way his body seemed to lean into your touch. You could feel him twitching in anticipation. You moved your hand down, your fingers trailing over him. He let out a shuddery breath, his hand tightening on your hip. He was already at his edge, his body hot and wound up.

You could feel the roughness of his leather pants, the way they barely contained him. You ran your fingers over the fabric, tracing the outline of him. He inhaled sharply, his hands tightening on your waist.

"You're so worked up already, professor." You murmured, your fingers tracing a circle right over the tip. He inhaled sharply again, his body going even tauter.

He moaned, his hands moving to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh.

"Jesus…" He muttered, his voice strained. You could feel him twitch under your touch, your fingers still tracing lazy circles over him. "You're killing me." He groaned, his hands clenching tighter on your thighs.

"I'm just getting started, professor." You murmured, your fingers sliding down to his zipper. You could feel his breath hitching, his body tensing in anticipation.

You slowly, agonizingly slowly, pulled down the zipper. You kept your touch light, barely grazing over him. He let out a strangled sound, his hips pushing up towards your hand.

“F-Fuck…” he groaned, the swear word sounding almost reverent coming from his mouth. His hands moved to the curve of your ass, pulling you even closer.

You let out a low laugh, continuing your slow torture. "Patience, baby" You murmured, your fingers still lingering on the zipper of his pants. He was hard, so hard, the outline of him clearly visible through his boxers.

He let out another low groan, his hands pressing into your ass. You could practically feel his need, his frustration. He was so pent up, he was practically vibrating. But you were enjoying holding the power for a change. You took his hands, removing them from your ass.

”I don’t think you know how to be patient” You murmured, your fingers finally sliding under the waistband of his boxers. He inhaled sharply, his hands twitching on your thighs. "Watch me."

You pulled his boxers down his hips, freeing him from the confines of the fabric. He moaned, his head falling against the headrest. You could see the tension in his face, the way he was struggling to keep it together.

You wrapped your fingers around him, and he let out a low groan, his hands gripping your thighs. He was hot in your hand, already leaking. You gave him a slow stroke, spreading the pre-cum with your fingers.

"Ah, f-fuck…." He hissed, his head tilting back, his hips pressing up into your touch. His fingers dug into your flesh, trying to hold himself together.

You started to stroke him, matching the speed of your hand to the rise and fall of his chest. You could hear his breathing, roughened, heavy, needy. You twisted your wrist just right, and he let out a strangled moan, his hips bucking up into your hand.

"God… F-fuck…" His hands gripped your thighs, his body shaking. "You're gonna make me lose my mind."

You smirked, increasing the speed of your hand. His breathing was coming out in gasps now, his body trembling.

"So close…" He moaned, his fingers digging into your thighs. He was so close, so close. You could see the desperation in his eyes, the need to let go.

You leaned in, your breath hot against his ear. "Not yet." You murmured, your hand slowing its pace. He groaned, his head rolling back again.

"Goddamn it." He growled, his hands tightening on your thighs again. He was so close, the coil of pleasure so tight, all it would take was one more push.

"I'm so close." He moaned, his body taut, tension in every muscle.

"I know." You murmured, your hand slowing down even more. You could feel his body straining to hold back, the need building. You knew he was right on the edge, and oh, you were going to make him fall.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Open your mouth. Open your mouth."

He was too far gone, too lost in the pleasure. He was desperate, his eyes burning bright. "Open your mouth." He repeated, his voice rough.

You leaned down, your mouth closing around him. He let out a guttural moan, his hands flying to your hair, fingers burying in your hair.

"Oh god… Oh god.." He chanted, his hips snapping up. You could feel him twitching, the pleasure building. You flattened your tongue against him, taking him in deeper. He moaned louder, his hands gripping your hair tighter. His breaths were coming out in sharp gasps.

You could feel him throbbing, his body at its limit. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper into your mouth, the pressure building. He let out another strangled moan, his fingers tightening in your hair.

"Oh god… Oh f-fuck, I’m gonna- I'm gonna-" He moaned, his voice breaking. His head was thrown back, his eyes shut shut. You could feel him trembling now, the tension coiling tighter and tighter. He was right on the edge.

He was too far gone, his body teetering on the edge. And then he finally snapped, his hands yanking at your hair.

"Oh god… Coming.. I'm coming.. " He moaned, the sound echoing in the car. "Oh god… You look so hot with my cock in your mouth.." His words spurred you on, your tongue working him faster. He growled, his hips grinding up against your mouth.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck.."

His body suddenly tensed, his hands tightening in your hair. His back arched off the seat, his cock shooting down your throat as he came. His moans were guttural, his eyes squeezed shut, your name like a prayer.

"Swallow every fucking drop."

You swallowed around him, milking him for all he was worth. His hands relaxed their grip in your hair, his body going lax against the seat. He was panting, his chest heaving.

"Jesus." He muttered, his hands carding through your hair. "That was…" He trailed off, his voice breathless, rough. He looked wrecked, his hair messy, his clothes disheveled. He was a mess, and you had done that, you had put him in this state. You were proud of yourself, the power you had over him.

You sat back up, a satisfied smile on your lips. You could see the aftermath of what you had done, the way his body was still shaking. He was trying to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with pleasure.

He lifted his hand, his fingers touching your chin. "Come here." He murmured, his voice hoarse.

You leaned in, your face mere inches from his. He reached out, his fingers tangling in your hair again, pulling you closer. His other hand found your waist, and then suddenly you were straddling his hips again, your bodies pressed tightly together.

His lips found yours, his kiss hot and needy, his hands roaming over your back, fisting the fabric of your dress. He was a different person now, more demanding, more feral.

He kissed you with a possessiveness that made your head spin. His hands were rough, his fingers digging into your skin. He moaned against your mouth, his chest rumbling beneath your hands.

He pulled away, his hands moving to the hem of your dress. "Off." He said, his voice rough, firm.

You complied, lifting your arms so he could pull the dress off. He tossed it aside, his hands immediately back on your body, his palms scorching your skin.

He murmured something incoherent, his eyes roaming over your half-naked body. He reached for your bra, his fingers quick and efficient, unhooking it. He tossed it away, his hands immediately cupping your breasts. He moaned, his thumb circling your nipple. He leaned down, his mouth joining his hands. He sucked on one nipple, while his hand squeezed the other. You moaned, your hands finding his hair, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him tightly against you. His tongue flicked against your nipple, sending a shiver through your body. He repeated the movement, and you moaned again, louder this time. He pulled off your nipple with a satisfying pop, and moved to the other one.

His mouth immediately latching onto the other one. He moaned against your flesh, his hands coming down to your hips, holding you in place as he suckled on your nipple. He licked and nipped at it, not letting go, his tongue working you into a molten mess. You moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him against you. He finally let go, his lips trailing up to your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin.

"Oh God." You moaned, your body arching your back, pressing into him. "Taehyung."

He growled against your neck, his hands sliding down to your ass, squeezing it harshly. He lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist.

"You're so damn soft." He murmured, his hands stroking your thighs. His lips were back on your neck, his mouth hot and wet against your skin. He licked a trail up to your ear, biting down on your earlobe. "Fuck,I am so hard again."

You moaned, the sound hitching in your throat as he bit down on your earlobe. "Already?" You managed to say, huskily.

His hands tightened on your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Yeah." He growled, his teeth still on your earlobe. He lifted you up, pressing you back against the seat, your back hitting the leather. He pushed you down, his weight pinning you to the seat. His mouth was on yours again, hot and impatient.

His hands moved to your legs, spreading them widely. His hands ran up your inner thighs, stopping right at your panties. He looked down, his eyes darkening at the sight of you. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulling them down roughly. You lifted your hips, helping him get them off. "Jesus." He muttered, his eyes roaming over your body appreciatively. He leaned back, his eyes roaming over your body hungrily. He let out a low groan, his hands reaching out to touch you.

His hands were rough, his fingers callused but soft. He ran his fingers over your stomach, down your side, then your hip, to your thigh. He lifted your leg, resting it over his shoulder. He leaned in, his mouth finding the inside of your thigh. He licked a trail up your thigh, his lips hot and wet against your skin. He bit down on your inner thigh, and you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.

He gave the bite a parting lick, before moving to the other thigh, repeating the process. His hands were still on your legs, spreading you even wider. You could feel him right there, his breath hot against your core.

He looked up at you, eyes burning with need. "I am going to taste you baby." He murmured, his fingers spreading your folds open.

His tongue dipped inside you, and you moaned, your head falling back against the seat. His hands held your legs open, fingers digging into your skin. He was relentless, his tongue sliding in and out, circling your clit. You were writhing beneath him, your fingers tangled in his hair, hips trying to grind against his mouth.

"Oh god." You moaned, your legs trembling. You could feel his thumb pressing against your clit, putting pressure right where you needed it. You gripped his head tightly, trying to push him deeper into you.

He groaned against your clit, the vibration sending shivers through your body. He added two fingers inside you, his tongue lapping at your clit. His fingers curled inside you, finding that sweet spot, and you cried out, your body arching off the seat.

He wrapped his mouth around your clit, sucking it hungrily. You were delirious with pleasure, your body trembling. You could feel your orgasm building, building, right at the edge. Your hands tugged at his hair, legs squeezing his head. "Don't stop." You moaned.

He didn't stop, his tongue and fingers working in sync, driving you wild. His mouth was relentless, his fingers hitting just the right spot inside you. You were moans, your body tightening as you neared the edge. He moaned against your clit, sending vibrations through your body. He added another finger, and you cried out, your legs shaking around his head.

"Oh god. I'm-I'm going to - " You moaned, the words broken and breathless.

"Come." He growled.

Your legs trembled, your body shaking as you obeyed. Your fingers fisted in his hair, holding his mouth against you as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body arching off the seat. He groaned, the sound muffled against your clit as he lapped up your release. Your hips spasmed forward, riding out the waves of pleasure.

You were panting, your chest heaving as you slumped against the seat. Your legs still draped over his shoulders, his hands still on your legs, holding you open. He lifted his head, his mouth shiny with your pleasure. He looked at you.

He moved up your body, his hands skimming over your body. He planted sloppy kisses along your stomach, your chest, your neck, until his mouth found yours again. He kissed you hungrily, his hands holding your jaw, his fingers digging into our skin. He tasted like you, and you moaned into the kiss, your hands running down his back.

His hands moved down to your hips, his fingers wrapping around your waist. He lifted you up again, his hands on the back of your thighs. He settled you back into his lap, your legs on either side of him. You could feel his hard bulge right against your core.

"Ride me." He murmured, his hands on your hips, urging you forward.

You obeyed, raising yourself up and then sinking down on him. You moaned as he filled you, his hands guiding you down onto his thick length. You rested your hands on his shoulders, your fingernails digging into his skin. He moaned, his head falling back against the seat.

"Fuck." He muttered, lifting his head up to look at you. He looked wrecked, his eyes dark with lust. "You feel so good."

You smirked, rolling your hips against him. His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you in place.

"Yeah?" You asked, your voice breathless. "You like that?"

He gritted his teeth, his hands guiding your hips in a slow, torturous rhythm. "Yes." He groaned, his fingers digging into your skin. "I like it a lot."

You leaned in, your hands moving to his chest, your fingers tangling in his shirt. You tugged at the fabric, wanting it off. He got the message, his hands leaving your hips to tug off his shirt.

You moaned at the sight of his bare chest, your hands moving to explore his skin. You ran your fingers over his chest, tracing the muscles of his abs, the dark trail of hair leading down below. His hands were back on your hips, his fingers biting into your skin.

He lifted you up, his hands on the back of your thighs, lifting you up and lowering you down again. You moaned as he entered you again, the sensation just as intense as before. You grinded down onto him, your hands sliding up to his shoulders.

His hands moved to your back, holding you firmly as he continued to move you up and down on his lap. You leaned in, your lips finding his neck, your teeth grazing over his skin.

He moaned, his hands pressing you down harder, increasing the pace. His breathing was laboured, his fingers digging into your back as he set the pace.

"So good." He slurred, his mouth hot against your neck. "You're so hot."

You moaned, your nails scratching down his back. You leaned in, nipping at his earlobe.

You could feel him twitching inside you, his pace growing frenzied. His hands moved to your waist, his fingers grabbing you tightly. He helped you move up and down at a brutal pace, his breath hot against your neck.

He was relentless, his mouth hot against your skin. His hands were tight on your waist, guiding you up and down his length. You moaned into his neck, your nails digging into his skin.

His mouth found yours again, his tongue sliding into your mouth, mimicking the movements of his hips. He moaned against your mouth, his hands leaving your waist to grip your ass, helping you ride him faster.

You moaned into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him close. You could feel him getting close. He broke the kiss, his hands back on your hips. He was growling, his fingers digging into your skin.

"I m-close." He groaned, his hips working harder.

You moaned, feeling him thicken inside you, his pace growing frenzied. You reached between you, finding your clit with your fingers. You needed more, needed that extra stimulation to get you there. You circled your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. You moaned against his neck, your nails digging into his skin.

"Oh god." He moaned, his hands tightening on your hips. "Oh fuck me baby."

You were close, so close. Your clit was swollen, your fingers moving faster. You bit down on his neck, the pleasure building in your belly.

"Yes. Yes. Yes." You moaned, your body on the brink of tipping over the edge. "Oh god, I'm - "

He grunted, his body tensing beneath you. He could feel you clenching around him, he could feel himself swelling inside you, getting closer. He kept up the brutal pace, his fingers gripping your hips harder.

Your clit was tingling, your body shaking. You could feel your orgasm building, building, right at the edge. Your toes curled, your body tensing. You were so close, right there -

"Come." He grunted, his voice insistent. "Come for me. I can feel you clenching around me. You're so close. I know you are. Come all over my cock."

You moaned at his words, your body responding to his command. You ground down onto him, your fingers rubbing your clit harder. You were so close, right there, ready to fall over the edge.

"Oh god." You moaned, your body teetering on the brink. "I'm so close."

His hands were on your hips, keeping you moving, grinding down on him. He was panting, his breath warm against your neck.

"Do it. Come." He bit out, his voice demanding. "Come on my cock. I'm so close, too.” He moaned the last part as he started to lose his rhythm. "Oh God. You feel so good." He groaned.

The sound of his voice, the way he said those words, pushed you over the edge. You moaned, your body shaking as you came, clenching around him. Your fingers kept moving, milking yourself through your orgasm.

You could hear him groan, his body tensing up beneath you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your skin as he came. He grunted, his hips bucking up as he emptied himself inside you. You moaned as you felt him fill you up, the sensation sending another shiver through your body.

Your body was buzzing, your muscles tense and loose at the same time. You slumped forward, burying your face in his neck, trying to catch your breath. His hands were still on your hips, holding you in place. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving beneath you.

After a few moments, he let out a long breath, his hands moving to your back. He ran his fingers up and down your spine, in lazy patterns.

"Goddamn." He muttered, his voice rough. You could feel his heart pounding beneath you, the steady thump against your chest. "That was… wow."

You lifted your head, looking down at him. He looked wrecked, his hair messy, eyes hooded. He met your gaze, a small smirk on his face.

"Wow indeed." You murmured, a smile forming on your lips. You reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

He hummed, his hands still tracing patterns on your back. "We should do this more often." He murmured, his voice sleepy.

You let out a laugh, your fingers continuing to brush through his hair.

"Is this how you treat all your students?" You murmured, your eyes on him.

He snorted, his hands tightening on your waist. "No." He said, his voice firm. "You're a special case."

You couldn't help the feeling of warmth that spread through you at his words. You felt special.

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm glad." You murmured, your fingers tracing his jaw. He hummed in response, his eyes closing. You could feel him softening inside you, his hands coming up to rest on your back again.

You could tell that he was spent, his breathing starting to even out. His hands were tracing lazy circles on your back, his fingers gentle. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

He opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused. "Maybe we should actually get going." He muttered, his voice low.

You hummed, not ready to leave the moment just yet. "Five more minutes." You murmured, resting your head on his chest again.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Five more minutes." He said, his hands sliding down to your hips again. You could tell he was still awake, his eyes still open. You stayed like that for a few more minutes, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing.

After a while, he shifted beneath you, his hands moving to your hips. "As much as I hate to, we really should get going." He said, his voice soft. You let out a reluctant nod, lifting your head to look at him.

You sat up, lifting yourself off him. You could feel the loss of warmth, the absence of him inside you. You let out a soft sigh, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. He returned the kiss, his hands sliding down to your waist.

You broke the kiss, your lips brushing against his ear. "You'll have to help me up." You murmured, your lips grazing his cheek. He chuckled, his hands moving to your thighs. "Yeah, of course." He replied, his hands helping you up.

You climbed off him, your body still buzzing. He sat up, reaching for his clothes, his movements still slow. You could tell he was still spent, his body tired. You reached for your clothes, starting to redress.

"I don't think I can leave you." You said softly, your words barely audible. You could feel his eyes on you, could feel his tension. He didn't respond, his hands stilling on his buckle. You reached for him, your hand on his arm. "I mean it." You murmured, your eyes on him.

He turned to look at you, his eyes dark. He reached for you, his hands pulling you closer. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes shut.

"What are you doing to me?" He murmured, his hands still holding onto you. You could feel his frustration, the way his body was trembling. He wanted you, that much was obvious.

You stayed like that for a few moments, your forehead against his. You could feel his breath against your face, the warmth of his body against yours. You reached up, your fingers tracing his jaw.

"I don't know." You finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel his eyes on you, his gaze searching. He let out a low sigh, his hands still on your waist. "I don't know either." He muttered, his eyes still closed. His hands slid down to your hips, his fingertips digging into your flesh. "By the way it was our lesson #5." he laughed

You smiled, your fingers still tracing his jaw. "I know." You murmured, your eyes on him. "I'm a fast learner." You let out a low laugh, your fingers tracing his lips. He kissed your fingers, his eyes still half-closed. "That you are." He breathed, his voice hoarse. You could feel his desire, his need. You could feel the way he was trying to hold himself back.

"Taehyung." You breathed, your fingers still on his lips. "I need to tell you something."

He opened his eyes, his gaze locking on yours. "What?" He asked, his voice soft. You could see the curiosity in his eyes, the vulnerability. You took a deep breath, your fingers tracing his jaw again.

"I like you." You said, your voice soft. You could feel his breath hitch, his body tensing beneath your touch. He didn't say anything, his gaze still on yours. You could see the surprise in his eyes, the softness. "I like you a lot." You repeated, your voice still soft. The silence between you was heavy, tense.

He let his eyes close again, his head dipping slightly. "I like you too." He murmured. You could feel his breath shudder, his body trembling. “I…I never planned on liking any of my students.” He murmured, his voice filled with emotion. “But…god, fuck. You are so different."

You let out a low hum, your fingers still tracing his jaw. He opened his eyes again, his gaze locking on yours. You could see the way he was looking at you, the way he was looking into your soul.

"This is against university policy, you know that right?" He murmured, his voice soft. “I could lose my job.”

"I know." You said, your voice gentle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "But I can't help it." He breathed, his voice soft. "I can't help how you make me feel. I can't help how you make my heart pound. Just from your kiss, touching you. This is our little secret."

You let out a low hum, your fingers tracing his lips again. He kissed your fingers, his eyes still half-closed. "This is crazy." He breathed, his voice soft. You could feel his fear, his uncertainty. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead."This is so fucking crazy."

You smiled, your hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "But it's true." You murmured, your eyes on him. "We like each other. We can't help how we feel."

He looked at you, his gaze searching. "What do we do?" He asked, his voice soft.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He returned the kiss, his hands sliding up to your waist. You broke the kiss, your lips brushing against his cheek.

"We figure it out." You murmured, your arms sliding around his neck. He let out a low hum, his arms wrapping around your waist. "God, you are such a bad influence." He said with a little laugh. You couldn’t help but join, the two of you giggling away."My little beautiful secret."

You smiled, your fingers tracing his jaw. "I like the sound of that." You murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. He let out a low hum, his arms tightening around your waist. "You better." He said, his voice soft. "I just broke a thousand rules for you."

You let out a laugh, your fingers tracing circles on his chest. "You're so dramatic." You murmured, your eyes on him. He let out a soft huff, his hand coming up to hold your fingers against his chest. "I'm serious." He said, his voice soft. "This is a big deal. I could lose everything."

You sighed, your eyes moving to his. "I know." You murmured, your gaze softening. "And I'm sorry." You let out a breath, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest. "If it's too much, if you want to stop - " He cut you off, his fingers covering your mouth.

Y/N’s boots scraped against the cracked pavement as she made her way toward the house, each step sharp and deliberate, echoing faintly in the quiet afternoon air. The world around her seemed distant, children’s laughter from down the street, the low hum of traffic, a dog barking somewhere far away. All of it faded to a dull murmur, as though the world itself was holding its breath. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting in the truck before she finally got out. Time had stretched, melted. She’d stared at the house so long it stopped being a house and became something else, a monument to everything she’d lost, and everything she’d tried to forget.

A light breeze shifted, bringing with it the scent of wisteria and citrus, soft and sweet. The smell hit her like memory itself, uninvited and inescapable. It wrapped around her, dragging her back to a time she’d buried deep, a life that refused to stay gone no matter how far she’d run. The house stood before her exactly as it always had in her mind, unchanged, unmoved, stubbornly permanent. It had waited for her, and now that she was here, she wished it hadn’t.

Her fingers ached when she finally realized she was still gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. She released it slowly, feeling blood return to her hands, her fingers stiff and cold. How long had she been frozen like that, trapped somewhere between past and present, watching the minutes crawl by as if through glass?

She didn’t know why she’d come. The drive had felt inevitable, a slow drift toward a place she’d sworn never to see again. Maybe she’d wanted closure. Maybe revenge. Maybe just proof that the past was real. But now that she stood here, she understood the truth, there was no going back. Whatever had pulled her here wouldn’t let her leave until it was done with her.

She started walking. The yard was the same, only older. A small red tricycle leaned on its side, one handlebar twisted at an odd angle. A beach ball lay deflated near the steps. A stuffed bear, missing an eye, sat slumped against the porch rail, its fur faded by sun and time. Every detail felt like a ghost of something pure that had been left to rot. These weren’t just toys, they were fragments of a life she had once been close to. A life that now felt obscene in its normalcy.

The mailbox read THE BELLS, the letters painted neatly in black. Through the front window, she could see picture frames lining the hallway. The light caught their glass, turning each one into a little mirror. She couldn’t see the faces clearly, but she knew them.

Jimin Park.

The name rose unbidden, heavy on her tongue. Her heart stuttered in her chest, a sharp, painful reminder that she wasn’t as hardened as she pretended to be. She could still remember him, his laugh, the warmth in his eyes when they were alone, the way he’d talked about his mother with quiet reverence. Before it all curdled. Before the betrayal. Before everything burned.

Her breath shook. She hated herself for feeling anything at all. Years of guilt and anger had settled in her bones like cement, and she’d carried that weight everywhere she went. She had told herself she was free of it. That she was over him. But standing here now, the truth hit her hard, some ghosts never stopped breathing.

The wind picked up, tugging at her hair, but she didn’t move. The house loomed over her, its soft pink paint peeling, the wood warped from rain and time. It looked harmless, but she knew better. It wasn’t a home, it was a tomb.

Her body moved before her mind caught up. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. She started up the steps. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but it wasn’t fear anymore, it was something sharper, colder. Purpose. She’d run long enough.

The door was old, the paint chipped, the brass handle dulled by years of use. She didn’t bother to knock. This place had been waiting for her, and she could feel it in the air, thick and electric. She raised her hand, her fingers trembling, not from fear, but from the muscle memory of violence. The silver ring on her finger caught the light as she pressed the doorbell.

Ding-dong.

The sound echoed through the house, bright and ordinary, mocking her. Inside, she heard movement, a shuffle, a voice she knew too well.

“Coming!”

Her breath caught. The doorknob turned. The door opened a few inches, then wider.

“Sarah, I can’t believe you’re early—”

Jimin Park stood in the doorway, framed by the sunlight behind her. He looked older, the boyishness stripped from him, replaced by sharp edges and quiet control. The white shirt, the rolled sleeves, the calm confidence, he looked like every suburban husband in every good neighborhood. But she saw past it. The tension in his shoulders, the flicker in his eyes, the predator still lived there, just buried deeper.

For a second, neither of them moved. His eyes locked on hers, recognition flaring like a struck match. The breath left his chest, and his composure fractured, if only for a heartbeat.

Y/N didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The silence between them said everything. Years of unspoken words, of pain and betrayal, hung in the air so heavy it seemed to press the walls inward.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. Whatever excuse or apology had formed in his head died before it reached his lips.

And in that small, suspended moment, she saw it, the flicker of memory in his eyes. The chapel. The blood. The laughter. His laughter. Her pain. The betrayal that had shattered everything. She saw him remember too.

Something inside her snapped.

Before Y/N even registered the decision, her body was already moving. The world narrowed, sounds warped, and time fractured into raw instinct. The door exploded inward as she slammed against it, the wood cracking under the force. They hit each other hard, two bodies colliding in a violent blur that sent them stumbling through the doorway. A lamp crashed to the floor, the bulb bursting in a spray of sparks and glass that scattered like shrapnel.

Her fist connected first, clean, hard, and deliberate. The sound of it meeting his jaw echoed through the house like thunder, deep and final. She didn’t think, didn’t feel. Every ounce of her rage, her grief, her years of silence poured into that single hit. Jimin staggered but caught himself, his face snapping back toward her, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

He shoved her, hard, but she didn’t give him space. She lunged again, driving him backward until his heel caught the edge of the coffee table. The wood split beneath their weight, the crash deafening. Splinters and shards shot across the room, littering the carpet like evidence of something that could never be undone.

Jimin’s elbow rammed into her ribs. Pain flared white-hot, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her next punch landed squarely against his cheek, her knuckles screaming as bone met bone. He grunted, blood flying from his mouth. For the briefest moment, she saw the recognition in his eyes, he knew she wasn’t holding back.

Then he kicked her. The blow to her stomach was brutal, precise. Air rushed out of her lungs in a single, strangled gasp. She stumbled back, clutching her side as a side table tipped and crashed, scattering unopened mail and a ceramic dish that shattered on impact. The house, once tidy, domestic, was now unrecognizable, a war zone built on memories.

But she wasn’t done. Y/N surged forward, slamming into him again with everything she had. The two of them hit the bookshelf with a hollow, metallic groan. The frame buckled and gave way under their combined weight. Books poured down around them, heavy thuds filling the room as pages tore and spines cracked. Photographs followed, frames hitting the ground, glass splintering, faces of a happy life falling face-first into the dirt.

Among them, one photo slipped free and twirled through the air like a leaf caught in wind. When it hit the floor, Y/N saw it.

His mother.

Her throat tightened. That black-and-white photo, the one he used to keep folded in his wallet, worn at the corners from how often he touched it. She remembered sitting with him years ago, back when they’d both still believed in something. He’d shown it to her late one night, voice low, eyes glassy. “She was fifteen when the soldiers came,” he’d whispered. “She didn’t make it out.” He had cried then, quietly, and she had held that photo for him until the shaking stopped.

Now it was split clean down the middle, the glass cracked through her mother’s face.

But the moment passed as fast as it came. The fight didn’t wait. The bookshelf gave one last groan and collapsed completely, sending both of them to the ground in a cloud of dust and debris.

For a breath, there was only stillness.

Y/N’s chest heaved, her pulse pounding in her ears. Jimin was beside her, blood on his lip, a deep bruise already forming along his jaw. Her fingers curled instinctively, brushing against the jagged edge of broken glass. She raised her hand to strike again, but before she could move, Jimin’s head snapped forward. His forehead slammed into her knuckles. The crunch was sickening. Pain shot up her arm, but she bit it down, forcing herself to stay upright.

He staggered back first, stumbling toward the kitchen, his movements jerky but purposeful. Y/N wiped at the blood trickling from her nose, the metallic taste flooding her mouth. She knew that sound before she heard it, the scrape of metal on wood, the hiss of a drawer opening.

He was arming himself.

Jimin reappeared in the doorway, breath coming fast, a butcher knife gleaming in his hand. The blade caught the light, its edge bright and cold, the reflection slicing across his face. His grip was steady. His eyes were not.

Y/N’s pulse kicked up, though her expression stayed calm. She’d seen worse. She’d survived worse. Slowly, she slid her hand under her jacket. The familiar weight met her palm, solid and reassuring.

Click.

The sound of the lock disengaging was soft but carried through the room like a heartbeat. She drew her SOG knife from its sheath, the blade whispering as it came free. The metal shimmered faintly, balanced perfectly in her grip. She gave it a single spin, not to show off, but to feel its weight, to remind herself that she was still in control.

Across the wreckage, Jimin watched her. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, his breath shallow and uneven. He looked like a man at war with himself, part of him still trying to be the husband, the father, the man who fixed things around the house. The other part, the one she knew too well, was the trained killer. The one who didn’t hesitate.

They faced each other in the ruins of their past. Shattered glass glinted beneath their feet. Blood smeared across the floor. Dust hung thick in the air. Between them lay the broken photo of his mother, the woman’s eyes staring up through the crack as though watching what they’d become.

Neither spoke. The silence was its own language, one made of grief, anger, and the ghosts that refused to die.

Then Jimin’s lips parted, and his voice came out low and raw. “Come on, bitch.”

He lunged. The knife sliced through air, close enough for her to feel the rush of wind against her neck. She leaned back, fluid, her movements practiced and precise. He swung again, a wide, desperate arc. She stepped aside, blade held close, her breathing steady.

He was slower now. Softer. Too careful. She wasn’t. Y/N moved like a shadow, every motion born of muscle memory, every strike an echo of survival. She could see the doubt in his eyes now, the regret that dulled his edge. And in that instant, she knew she would win.

She took a step forward, ready to finish it.

And then a sound split the air. A long, drawn-out hiss. Not a scream. Not a strike. Not the clash of steel. Air brakes.

Both froze, the noise cutting through their fury like a blade. Their heads turned almost in unison toward the window.

Outside, a yellow school bus rumbled to a stop in front of the house, releasing a final hiss of steam. The doors folded open with a creak, and a small figure stepped out, sunlight catching her hair. Noelle. She was humming softly, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders as she started up the walkway, unaware of the blood and ruin waiting behind the door.

Jimin’s expression changed instantly. The fight drained from his face, replaced by sheer panic. His hand trembled around the knife. His gaze snapped to Y/N, and in it she saw something that wasn’t fear for himself, it was for her. For the girl.

Please. Not here.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t have to.

Y/N’s knife stayed raised for one long, motionless second. Then her eyes met his, and something shifted, not forgiveness, not mercy, just recognition. A line drawn silently between them.

She exhaled, slow and quiet.

Okay.

The front door swung open, spilling sunlight into the wrecked living room. The brightness cut through the chaos like a blade, casting gold across broken glass and upturned furniture. It wasn’t just light, it was innocence, raw and unguarded, invading a place that had forgotten what it felt like.

“Daddy, I’m home!”

The voice was small and pure, the kind that made your chest ache before you understood why. A child’s voice. Soft, high, full of trust. It didn’t belong here, not in this house thick with blood, dust, and silence.

Y/N froze. So did Jimin. It wasn’t fear that held them still; it was something heavier, like time itself had stopped to see what they’d do. The air shifted, the violence retreating to the corners of the room, hiding beneath the wreckage like a wounded thing.

Noelle stepped inside, her sneakers squeaking against the floor. Her pink overalls were smudged with dirt, the knees green from grass stains. A cartoon monkey smiled from her pocket, the thread frayed and worn. In one hand she carried a plastic lunchbox, fingers gripping it tight, knuckles white. Whatever was inside, stickers, pebbles, treasures only a child could see, she held it like it was everything.

She took a few steps forward, eyes wide. The room swallowed her small frame. Her gaze drifted from the shattered lamp to the cracked TV, the table split in two, the couch half off its legs. A picture frame dangled crooked on the wall, another lay shattered on the floor, the image inside torn through the middle.

Something caught her attention.

Y/N followed her eyes and felt her stomach knot. Among the debris, half a porcelain dish lay face-up, its surface painted with a woman in a hanbok. The woman’s face was cracked clean down the bridge of her nose, one painted eye still visible, calm and unblinking, the other lost in the shards.

Noelle clutched her lunchbox tighter. Her shoulders tensed. The box was her armor, her small defiance. She took another step, and the air thickened until it felt like the whole house might collapse under the weight of it.

“Daddy…” Her voice trembled, barely more than a whisper. “What happened to you? And the TV?” The question landed like a stone dropped in still water. The ripples went out in every direction, touching everything. Y/N said nothing. Her knife hung loosely at her side now, no longer a threat, just a shadow in her hand.

Jimin’s breath came slow and deliberate. She saw the shift in him immediately, the way his shoulders straightened, the way his eyes softened just enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. The transformation was seamless. His voice came out calm, even friendly, the kind of tone he must have used every morning over breakfast.

“Oh, that good-for-nothin’ dog of yours,” he said with a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Got into the living room and acted a damn fool, that’s what happened.”

Noelle blinked, studying him. Doubt flickered in her small face, quick but unmistakable. “Barney did this?” she asked quietly.

Y/N’s gaze slid toward Jimin. Her face gave nothing away, but her silence said enough.

Noelle took another step, and Y/N’s voice broke the stillness. “Baby,” she said softly, steady but firm, “you can’t come in here. There’s glass all over the floor. You’ll cut yourself.”

The girl froze mid-step, her toes curling just above a shard. Her head lifted toward Y/N. Their eyes met. For a moment, everything else fell away.

Y/N felt that stare like a hand pressed against her chest, curious, unguarded, almost too knowing. There was no fear in it. Just… understanding. The kind children weren’t supposed to have. Noelle’s gaze traveled lower, tracing the blood smeared at Y/N’s lip, the dirt along her jacket. She didn’t recoil. Didn’t look away.

She was just trying to make sense of it.

Jimin moved first. His voice cracked slightly, then smoothed into something too quick, too controlled. “This is an old friend of Daddy’s,” he said, smiling again, his tone overly bright. “Haven’t seen her in years.”

Y/N lowered herself slowly, her knees aching, her ribs burning with every breath. She crouched so she was at Noelle’s level, careful to hide the knife behind her leg. Her movements were deliberate, precise, the way someone moves when they know one wrong twitch can destroy everything.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said quietly. The words came gentle, but her tone carried something else underneath, age, exhaustion, the echo of loss. “I’m Y/N. What’s your name?”

Noelle didn’t answer. She just stared, her wide eyes flicking between Y/N and Jimin.

Jimin filled the silence too quickly. “Her name’s Noelle,” he said, almost like he was afraid Y/N might say it first.

Y/N nodded, repeating the name slowly. “Noelle,” she said, letting it settle. “That’s a beautiful name. For a beautiful girl.” She gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How old are you, Noelle?”

Still nothing. The silence pressed close again.

Jimin’s jaw flexed. “Ellie,” he coaxed softly, but there was tension creeping into his voice now. “Y/N asked you a question.”

Noelle’s eyes moved from Y/N to him. The change was subtle, but it was there, something in her gaze hardening, a flicker of quiet resistance. Then she spoke.

“I’m four.”

Y/N blinked. Her expression didn’t change much, but something in her eyes did, a flicker, quick and deep, like a memory striking a nerve. Jimin saw it. He always noticed.

“Four years old,” Y/N murmured, voice thin, distant. “You know… I once had a little girl.” Her throat tightened around the words, but she didn’t stop. “She’d be about your age now. Maybe you two could’ve played together.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. It wasn’t empty, it was thick with grief and anger and everything they’d never said.

Jimin swallowed hard. His hand twitched once, curling and uncurling at his side like he couldn’t decide whether to reach for her or for something that might still keep him grounded. “Now, baby,” he said finally, forcing a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Me and Y/N have some grown-up things to talk about, alright? Why don’t you go to your room until I come get you?”

Noelle didn’t move. Her brow furrowed, small and uncertain, but not afraid.

“Go on, Ellie.” His voice sharpened as the facade began to crack. He snapped his fingers, one short, crisp sound that broke the air between them. “Now.”

The word hung there, cold and final.

Noelle blinked, her shoulders dipping under the weight of something she didn’t understand. She nodded once, her lips pressed tight, and turned away. Her Mary Janes tapped softly against the floor, the steady rhythm of her small steps almost unbearable in the silence. The lunchbox at her side bumped against her leg with each step, the faded Disney princesses scratched and dulled by time. Their pastel smiles looked tired now, like they, too, had seen too much.

She picked her way through the wreckage with delicate precision, careful not to step on the glass. The crunch beneath her shoes sounded almost normal, but it wasn’t. It was the sound of a home quietly breaking. She passed her father without looking at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark. She passed Y/N too, taking in the smudges of dirt, the blood along her chin. But she didn’t ask. She didn’t speak. She just kept walking.

At her bedroom door, she turned the handle slowly and slipped inside. The click of the door closing was soft, but it hit like a gunshot.

The silence she left behind was heavy, suffocating. It pressed down on both of them. Y/N’s hand tightened on the knife, not to strike, not even in threat, but as if holding it kept her from unraveling. Jimin exhaled slowly, the sound hollow and low, a man coming undone without wanting to show it. The mask dropped from his face, leaving him exposed, tired, older, and somehow smaller.

They stood there in the aftermath, motionless. She held the weapon that had defined her life; he held the weight of every decision that had brought him here. They faced each other not as enemies or allies, but as two people bound by the same ruin. The fight was over, but the wound it left behind still bled quietly between them.

Neither spoke. The walls, the broken furniture, the shards of glass scattered across the floor, those were their words now.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Jimin finally broke the silence. His voice was quieter than she remembered, almost fragile. “Want some coffee?”

Y/N blinked. Her fingers loosened around the knife, the smallest shift. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Sure.”

He moved toward the kitchen, each step deliberate, slow. She followed a few seconds later, their movements muted and strangely domestic. He slid the butcher knife back into its drawer without hesitation, as if shelving a weapon after breakfast. She sheathed her own blade with a faint scrape of metal against leather, her hand steady even though her ribs still ached. Neither of them looked at the carnage behind them. They just walked away from it.

Outside, the faint jingle of an ice cream truck drifted through the open window, bright, tinny, too cheerful for the weight of the moment. The world, it seemed, kept moving forward, even when they couldn’t.

The kitchen greeted them like a photograph, tidy, framed, pretending at normalcy. Ceramic frogs smiled from the windowsill, each wearing a tiny hat. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and bleach. The table was clean, polished to a shine that belonged to a life carefully maintained. Bananas rested in a bowl on the counter, their skins freckled and sweet with age.

Y/N sat down at the table. The chair creaked under her, its sound too loud in the quiet. Her hands rested flat on the surface, fingers spread wide, as though she needed to feel something solid beneath them.

Jimin moved through the motions like a man performing muscle memory. Mug. Mug. Coffee. Pour. It was the same rhythm he had probably done every morning for years. The small, practiced motions of a man who had learned to keep living even when the past clawed at his back. He didn’t tremble. Didn’t speak. Just poured.

Y/N watched him. Her gaze wasn’t angry, it was distant, searching, full of something that might have once been love or pity or both. He looked so much like the boy she’d known, and yet nothing like him at all. That boy had laughed easily. He had trusted her. They had survived together once, side by side, in a world that never gave second chances.

Now they sat in the ruins of what came after.

He turned and met her eyes for the first time since Noelle had left the room. “Cream and sugar?”

“Both,” she said quietly.

He nodded, stirring the cups with careful precision. When he placed hers in front of her, the faint clink of porcelain against wood felt almost tender. She wrapped her hands around it, though the heat didn’t seem to reach her skin.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

The kitchen looked ordinary, but the air between them wasn’t. It was thick with ghosts, the kind that didn’t haunt through sound or sight, but through memory.

Y/N sipped her coffee. It was strong, too sweet, the way she used to take it. The taste sat heavy on her tongue. Across from her, Jimin leaned against the counter, his arms folded, his gaze fixed on her like he was waiting for something he didn’t know how to ask.

The silence between them said everything.

They were both pretending this was just coffee. But they knew better. This was a wake. A final ritual for everything they’d destroyed together, and for everything that was still left to lose.

“How’s Loretta?” Y/N asked at last. Her voice wasn’t curious; it was weary. The kind of question that comes from needing to fill silence, not from wanting an answer.

Jimin blinked, and something flickered behind his eyes, quick, small, but unmistakable. He recovered fast, too fast. “She’s fine. Works too much. You know how she is.” The words came out smooth, almost practiced, but the rhythm was wrong.

Of course he was lying. She could hear it in the spaces between the syllables, in the way he didn’t meet her gaze. He wouldn’t tell the truth, not here, not now.

And in the quiet that followed, the old voice inside her stirred again, that familiar whisper that never really left her. It spoke in the language of dossiers and aliases, the kind of details that stick when you’ve spent too long living in shadows.

This man’s name is Marcus Bell. Suburban homeowner. Pasadena, California. Married to Dr. Loretta Bell, pediatric oncologist. Two cars. Clean mortgage. Good credit. PTA volunteer. Lavender in the yard. Kombucha brewing on the counter.

A picture-perfect life. One built to hide what he used to be.

But she knew better. Once upon a time, this man had been Jimin Park. Code name: Copperhead. And once, before the lies, before Loretta, he had been hers, not the way Yoongi was hers, but in that rare, unspoken way survivors belong to each other. They’d lived side by side in Taehyung’s compound in Mexico, bound together by blood and secrets and the constant hum of danger.

Yoongi had been her storm, her lover, her reckoning. But Jimin, Jimin had been her mirror. The one who could look at her and see everything she tried to hide. The one who carried the weight of her darkness when she couldn’t.

She remembered pushing him toward Loretta during that job in Los Angeles. Teasing him. “Go on,” she’d said, grinning, nudging his shoulder. “She’s gonna love you. Maybe you’ll finally stop sleeping with a gun under your pillow.”

He’d blushed, back then. Smiled that rare smile of his, boyish and dangerous. And he’d gone. And she’d let him. Because she cared, too much, maybe.

And now, years later, here they sat across from each other, drinking coffee in a house that wasn’t his, pretending they hadn’t both ruined each other in ways that could never be undone.

Jimin’s mug sat on the counter, a cartoon owl fading from too many washes. Y/N’s was chipped along the rim, its glaze dulled by time. They looked like relics from two different lives that had collided and broken in the same place.

The room around them wore normalcy like a costume. Ceramic frogs grinned on the windowsill, their paint chipped. The fridge hummed softly, plastered with crayon drawings and magnets shaped like fruit. A stick-figure family smiled from one page, a crooked sun shining over their heads. The kind of scene meant to make the world believe that everything was fine.

But Y/N could feel it, the rot underneath.

She set her mug down gently, her fingers still warm from the ceramic. The heat didn’t reach her chest. The air between them was thick, almost tangible. It wasn’t intimacy. It was tension, sharp and waiting. The kind that comes before something breaks.

Jimin stared into his coffee like it might offer him an escape. His reflection shimmered faintly on the dark surface, warped and small.

“Were you expecting me?” Y/N asked. Her tone was even, quiet.

Jimin leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a soft rhythm against the table. His gaze stayed low. “Yes and no,” he said finally. “Taehyung reached out after your… incident in Korea.”

Y/N didn’t react. That was Taehyung’s way of sanitizing things. To him, she was “unstable.” “Lethal.” Words that kept people at a distance. Words that stripped the truth of its humanity. He never understood her rage or her survival. He only documented it.

She said nothing, and the silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

Jimin exhaled through his nose, a long, heavy sound. “So I guess it’s too late for an apology, huh?”

Y/N’s eyes lifted to meet his. Her face didn’t move, but the corners of her mouth shifted just slightly. “You suppose right.”

For a second, they just looked at each other. The kitchen dissolved, replaced by another room, another time. The chapel. The betrayal. The strike that had sent her to the floor. The way he had looked at her, half sorrow, half conviction, as if hurting her had been a necessity, not a choice. That look had followed her through every night since.

“Even if I meant it?” he asked softly. There was no armor left in his voice now. Just the raw scrape of a man stripped bare.

Y/N’s lips curved, but it wasn’t kindness. It was something colder, sharper. “Oh, I’m sure you do mean it,” she said.

The words hovered between them like smoke. Then she let them fall, her tone cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Now.”

The sound of that single word broke something in him. Jimin’s jaw tightened; his composure faltered. For the first time, his voice lost the polished calm he’d been holding onto. “Look, bitch,” he snapped, his tone cracking into something raw, desperate. “I just need to know if you’re gonna start any more shit around my baby girl.”

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her eyes narrowed, calm and deliberate, her focus so precise it made him flinch. “You can breathe,” she said finally, her voice quiet but heavy enough to fill the room. “I’m not going to kill you in front of your daughter.”

Jimin barked out a short, broken laugh, no humor, just release. “That’s more rational than Tae made you out to be.”

Her head tilted slightly. “That’s because Taehyung doesn’t know a goddamn thing about me,” she said flatly. “Never has. Never will.”

Y/N leaned forward, the light catching in her eyes, turning them to something dark and reflective. “It’s not rationality I lack,” she said, each word deliberate, crystalline. “It’s mercy. Compassion. Forgiveness.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Neither of them moved. The air between them pulsed with quiet danger, thick enough to taste. Y/N’s voice, when it came again, was soft, too soft. The kind of softness that carried more threat than a scream ever could.

“I’ll wait,” Y/N said, her tone calm but final. “For now. I’m giving you the dignity of choosing where and when we finish this. Somewhere far from Ellie. You’ll hear from me again.”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, a subtle twitch that betrayed everything he was trying to contain. The silence between them stretched, the air too thick to breathe. He was still, but she could see it, the shift in his shoulders, the faint pulse in his temple, the way his hand trembled before he forced it still. She had always been able to read him, long before he learned to hide.

The clock on the wall ticked loud and steady, slicing through the quiet like a metronome marking time until someone broke. Y/N let it count a few more seconds before she spoke again.

“I could’ve just hit you,” she said, her voice level, unhurried. “But I didn’t. I expect respect for that.”

She leaned back slightly, her hands folding neatly on the table. The motion was smooth, deliberate, elegant even. But beneath it was the weight of danger, the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power she carried just by sitting still.

“Since this isn’t a hit,” she continued, her tone sharpening into something precise, “consider it a duel. And as two former Deadly Vipers, we’ll observe Viper protocol.”

The words hung between them, heavy and sharp. A ghost from their past that neither of them had said aloud in years.

“One-on-one,” she said. Her gaze fixed on him, steady and unflinching. “No help. No buckwhacking. One weapon of choice.”

Jimin’s breath stuttered, a near-silent catch that betrayed him. His eyes dropped for a second before he forced them back up. When he finally exhaled, it came rough, like it hurt to let the air go. His face, once sharp, charming, invincible, looked older now. Softer in the wrong ways. Tired.

He whispered her name. “Y/N…”

But she cut him off before he could find the right words.

“I’m not done.”

Her voice sliced through the air, and he went still again. She leaned forward, the light catching the edge of her cheekbone, her expression unreadable.

“Failure to keep our date,” she said quietly, “or any kind of duplicity…” She paused, then leaned in closer until their faces were inches apart. Her next words came soft, almost intimate. “…will result in me putting a hollow-point into the back of your skull. From a window across the street from Ellie’s elementary school.”

The room went still. The words didn’t echo; they just sank, heavy and cold. There was no rage behind them, no fire, just precision. A statement of fact.

Then she smiled. It wasn’t warmth or cruelty, it was colder than both. It was the kind of smile that preceded violence, practiced and patient.

“XOXO,” she murmured, sweet as poison.

She leaned back again, her arms folding loosely across her chest. The stillness returned, but now it had weight. The kind of quiet that crushes everything in it. She didn’t look at him like a woman anymore. She looked at him like judgment.

Jimin swallowed hard, the sound rough and dry. He leaned forward, his forearms on the table, his face drawn and hollow. For the first time since she’d arrived, the facade was gone. What was left was a man stripped bare, regretful, cornered, exhausted.

“Look,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “I know I fucked you over. Bad. I betrayed you in a way that can’t be undone.”

He didn’t make excuses. Didn’t try to soften it. The words just fell, heavy and raw.

“I wish to God I hadn’t. But I did. And if I could go back, if I could somehow fix it, I would. I swear I would. But I can’t.”

His breath shuddered on the exhale. The strength in his voice faltered. His hand clenched into a fist and opened again, a man wrestling with his own ghosts.

“All I can tell you is…” he said quietly, “I’m not the man I was back then.”

Y/N’s face didn’t move. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat. “I don’t care.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have. Jimin’s eyes flickered, the pain showing before he could hide it. He blinked rapidly, and when a tear finally escaped, he wiped it away with the back of his hand, quick and angry.

“Be that as it may,” he said, his voice cracking, “I know I don’t deserve mercy. Or forgiveness.” He hesitated, then forced himself to continue. “But I’m asking anyway. Not for me. For my daughter.”

Y/N’s voice came sharp and immediate, cutting him off before he could breathe. “Bitch, you can stop right there.”

He froze. His mouth hung open, the rest of his plea dying before it reached the air.

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table, her posture loose but lethal. She didn’t move like someone bluffing. She moved like someone who’d already made peace with what she was capable of.

Her eyes locked on his, steady and cold. The silence thickened again, pulsing between them. The hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock, it all faded until there was only the sound of their breathing.

Her next words came slow, deliberate, each one cutting clean. “Just because I decided not to kill you in front of your daughter doesn’t mean using her name is going to buy you even a second of mercy.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. His pulse fluttered at his throat.

Y/N leaned in closer, so close he could feel her breath against his skin.

“You and I,” she whispered, her tone a low hiss, “have unfinished business. And not a single goddamn thing you’ve done in the last five years, including knocking up your wife, is going to change that.”

Her words didn’t rise or break. They flowed, cold and controlled, every syllable heavy with truth. Rage lived in them, yes, but deeper than that, something older. Betrayal left to rot too long, finally finding its voice.

Jimin had always known this moment would come. He had seen that look in her eyes before, years ago, in the days when chaos had been their currency and violence their second language. But this time was different. There was something colder about her now, something finished. She wasn’t just dangerous anymore. She was untouchable.

He swallowed hard, the sound too loud in the stillness of the kitchen. His throat worked once, twice, fighting against words that wouldn’t come. His hands rose slowly, palms up. It wasn’t surrender. It was caution, the movement of a man who understood exactly what sat across from him. A predator who’d once shared his table, his trust, his war.

“You have every right to want to get even”

“Wrong.”

The single word cut him in half. His eyes snapped to hers, startled, but she didn’t give him a chance to breathe. Her voice came low and precise, stripped of warmth, the voice of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of restraint.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Jimin.”

She stood, slow and deliberate. Even the air seemed to bend around her as she rose. The light from the window caught her in pieces, her outline dark and sharp against the fading orange glow. The shadows stretched long behind her, like something alive.

“To get even,” she said, her tone cold and measured, “I’d have to kill you. Then I’d go into Ellie’s room, slit her throat. And when Loretta came home from the hospital, I’d kiss her on the cheek and blow her brains out with her daughter’s blood still drying on my hands.”

Her words didn’t rise or shake. They dropped like stones into still water, slow, heavy, final. There was no fury in them, only clarity. The kind that comes from living too long with ghosts.

“That,” she said softly, “would be even.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. The room itself seemed to shrink around her voice. The hum of the refrigerator faltered, the clock ticked too loudly, and the world outside the window faded to nothing.

Y/N’s eyes flicked toward the hallway where Noelle had disappeared minutes before. The doorway stood empty, a dark mouth swallowing what little innocence the house had left. When she spoke again, her tone was almost tender, but that softness was sharper than a blade.

“But no,” she murmured. “That’s not how this ends. Not for me. And not for you.”

Her voice carried grief now, grief buried so deep it sounded like steel being bent.

“My unborn daughter…”

She stopped. The air held its breath. She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The weight of what she didn’t say filled every corner of the room.

“…she’ll just have to be satisfied with your death at her mother’s hands.”

The words landed like a verdict. The kitchen went cold. Even the air conditioner seemed to hesitate, the hum of the house dying into silence. The room became a tomb, two ghosts seated across from each other, the light slicing through the blinds in fractured bars. The last breath of the sunset painted them in orange and shadow, like the aftermath of a fire that had long since burned out.

Jimin stared at her, pinned to the moment. There wasn’t fear in his eyes yet, just understanding. Recognition. This wasn’t a surprise. Somewhere deep down, he had always known it would come to this. He had made his choices long ago, built a life from them, and now he was finally standing in the rubble.

It wasn’t surrender out of fear. It was surrender out of inevitability.

The man sitting before her wasn’t Marcus Bell anymore. The careful suburban mask had slipped away, leaving behind the ghost of Copperhead, the killer she had once trusted with her life. And across from him stood Black Mamba, unflinching, cold-eyed, and patient.

“When do we do this?” Jimin asked finally. His voice was low, raw, stripped of everything but truth. He didn’t look away. He didn’t beg. There was nothing left to protect. “When do we finish it?”

Y/N didn’t move. Her eyes never left his face. When she finally spoke, her tone was quiet, almost casual. The kind of voice people use when they’ve already made peace with the outcome.

“That depends,” she said. “When do you want to die? Tomorrow? The day after?” Her lips curved slightly, not a smile, but something like it. “That’s about as long as I’ll wait.”

The words hit him hard, not because they were cruel, but because they were certain. The end had already been decided; all that was left was the scheduling.

Jimin’s chest tightened, his breath catching as if the air had thickened around him. His hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles whitening with the effort to stay calm. The muscles in his forearms trembled. His jaw locked, the vein in his temple beating slow and hard, a countdown neither of them could stop now.

Something broke inside him, a wire snapping deep in the dark, the sound of restraint giving out. His last thread of patience unraveled all at once. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and sharp, the edge of a snarl undercut by something raw and trembling.

“How about tonight, bitch?” he said.

Y/N’s mouth twitched, just enough to bare the hint of a tooth. It wasn’t a smile, not really. It was colder than that, an acknowledgment of what was already written.

“Splendid,” she murmured, her voice slow and silken, every word stretched like wire about to snap. “Where?”

There was no hesitation. He already knew. He’d known from the moment she walked in. The plan had been forming behind his eyes the whole time, the same way old habits come back when you wish they wouldn’t.

“There’s a baseball diamond,” he said, his tone too calm. “Little league field. About a mile from here. Two-thirty in the morning. We wear black. You tie your hair up. We bring knives.”

He said it the way someone orders a drink, casual and detached, his voice too steady for what he was promising. The mask of Marcus Bell had cracked completely now, Copperhead had crawled out from underneath, stretching old muscles that had never really gone soft.

“We won’t be bothered,” he added.

Y/N didn’t react. She just watched him, quiet and still, as he moved through the kitchen like a man pretending the world hadn’t just ended. The contrast was almost absurd, the hum of the fridge, the faint ticking of the clock, and him reaching for a cabinet like any husband fixing breakfast before work.

His movements were careful, automatic. Open the door. Reach in. Find the bowl. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. Just lifted a small plastic cereal bowl decorated with cartoon astronauts smiling against a sea of blue. The kind of thing a father picks without thinking.

“I have to fix Ellie’s cereal,” he said.

The words landed flat, small and final. He set the bowl on the counter. The sound of it touching down was soft, but in the quiet, it felt like a door closing.

Y/N’s eyes stayed on him, unblinking. Her coffee had gone cold, a thin film darkening on the surface, forgotten like everything else between them. Her fingers brushed against her jacket, feeling the hilt of her SOG knife beneath the fabric. She didn’t draw it. Not yet.

“Tae told me once,” she said finally, her voice low but clear, “that you were one of the best he ever saw with a blade.”

Jimin’s hand froze mid-motion. The tension in the air shifted, thickened. He didn’t turn to face her. His jaw twitched. Then he reached for another cabinet, pulling open a door lined with cereal boxes, bright colors, cartoon faces, fake cheer. He grabbed one with a red background and a grinning clown plastered across it: Kaboom!

He set it down with a hard thud.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, not looking at her. “He didn’t qualify that shit, and you know it. You can kiss my motherfucking ass, Black Mamba.”

His words were sharp, but there was no strength behind them. Just exhaustion wearing the mask of defiance. He tore open the box, the cardboard ripping like a scream in the quiet.

“Black Mamba…” he repeated, almost to himself. His laugh was bitter, hollow. “I should’ve been fucking Black Mamba.”

But his hand wasn’t after cereal. He reached deeper, past the sugary loops and garish colors, fingers brushing metal instead of cardboard.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but edged with something knowing. “Weapon of choice?” she asked. “If you’re still hung up on that butcher knife, I won’t stop you.”

His laugh came again, short, rough, broken. “Very funny, bitch,” he said, almost fondly. “Very funny.”

Then the world detonated.

The gunshot tore through the air, deafening and close, the flash bursting from the Kaboom! box like lightning from a storm cloud. The sound was enormous, violent, final. The bullet screamed across the kitchen, shredding the quiet into pieces.

Y/N didn’t think. Her body just moved. The mug in front of her shattered as the bullet hit, splattering cold coffee and ceramic shards across her face. She was already in motion, diving sideways, hitting the ground hard but rolling through it. Her ribs screamed, her shoulder burned, but she kept going.

Another shot cracked, splintering the tile where she’d just been. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder and burnt linoleum.

Jimin’s grin split across his face, wild, feral, unhinged. The pistol was in his hand now, gleaming faintly in the fractured light. His eyes were too bright, feverish, the look of a man who’d stopped pretending to be sane.

Y/N ducked under the table, her body fluid, automatic. She kicked out hard, sending the table crashing forward. The wooden edge slammed into his chest, pinning him against the counter with a heavy crack. Magnets fell from the fridge. A drawing of a stick-figure family fluttered to the floor, the paper smudged by grease and time.

Jimin grunted, the wind knocked out of him, but the gun stayed in his grip. His breath came ragged.

Y/N’s hand shot to her belt. Her fingers curled around the handle of the SOG. One clean pull, one breath, one motion, and the blade was free.

The sound it made cutting air was quiet, but it was enough.

The knife found him. The impact was dull and wet, followed by a gasp that tore through the air like a dying engine. His body seized. His legs buckled. He hit the ground hard, the gun clattering beside him.

For a second, everything was still. Then the blood came, dark and thick, spreading across his shirt, soaking the linoleum in slow, widening pools. His breaths came shallow and wet. He tried to speak, but nothing made it past his lips. His hand twitched, not toward the gun, not toward her, just out.

Y/N stepped closer, her movements measured, her face unreadable. Her pulse hammered, but her breath was steady. There was no triumph in her expression. No relief. Just quiet.

She crouched beside him, her knees bending with slow control, her shadow falling over his face. The knife dripped in her hand, the sound soft as rain.

Their eyes met, and for a single heartbeat the years between them disappeared. The world around them, the blood, the wreckage, the ghosts, fell away. They weren’t Black Mamba and Copperhead anymore. Not killers. Not enemies. Just two people who had once shared the same sky, the same dust, the same scars. She could almost see it again, the heat of the Mexican sun, the quiet evenings when they sat side by side, passing a bottle between them, trading laughter that never reached their eyes.

Now, staring down at him, Y/N could still see traces of the man he’d been, the one who had pulled her out of the dirt, who had made her laugh when she thought she never would again. It was all still there, just buried under time, lies, and the choices that had ruined them both.

Jimin’s lips moved, his eyes glassy, searching for her face. His breath came shallow and uneven, a wet rattle that made each word a struggle. “Sorry…” he rasped, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “’Bout the bushwhack.”

His hand twitched, fingers scraping weakly against the tile. It wasn’t clear if it was an apology or surrender, or if he even knew the difference anymore.

“Please don’t…” His voice cracked. “Don’t…”

Y/N didn’t pull away. She reached down, taking his hand. Her grip was steady, firm, not gentle but not cruel either, just real. The kind of touch that existed when there was nothing left to say.

Her voice came low, almost a whisper, but weighted with grief. “Do to your daughter what you did to mine.”

Her fingers tightened once, final and sure. “I won’t.”

His chest rose once, then again. Then it stopped.

The stillness that followed was deafening. Jimin’s eyes stayed open, his face slackening into something almost peaceful. The man she’d known was gone, leaving behind only a hollow shape, a body cooling on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the fragments of the life he had built to hide from what he was. Copperhead was dead.

She stood over him, breathing slow, steady. It didn’t feel like victory. It didn’t even feel like closure. Just the quiet ache that came after too many goodbyes. He had mattered, and that made it worse.

The refrigerator hummed in the corner, oblivious. Its steady mechanical whir was the only sound, filling the silence with something too normal for the moment. The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. A machine humming along in a room that had just turned into a tomb.

Jimin’s death hadn’t come with the violence she’d expected, no cinematic final stand, no blaze of glory. It was a whisper. A slow, inevitable unraveling. The kind of death that didn’t burn but settled deep, dull and heavy.

He had been so many things to her once, comrade, shield, friend. The man who made her laugh when laughter was dangerous. The one who held her together when the rest of the world had fallen apart. And now he was just another ghost. Another body on the long road she’d been walking for years.

Y/N straightened. The leather of her coat creaked softly as she moved. Her fingers brushed the handle of her SOG knife, still slick with blood. She pulled it free, the sound of steel sliding from its sheath low and wet. It was the sound of endings.

She didn’t look away as she wiped the blade clean with the old white handkerchief she kept tucked inside her coat. The stitched initials, T.A.E., were faded now, the corner forever stained a dark brown. She dragged the cloth along the edge of the knife until it gleamed silver again, streaked faintly red in the weak kitchen light.

Grief stirred in her chest. Not the burning kind that had consumed her when Yoongi died, but something deeper, quieter, an ache that settled and stayed. The silence pressed down until it almost hurt. Then came the faint sound of porcelain shifting on tile, followed by a small creak.

Y/N turned, every muscle tightening.

In the doorway stood Noelle. Barefoot. Small. Wearing mismatched socks. She held a stuffed rabbit in her arms, its fur worn thin and patchy from years of love. Her eyes, dark, wide, and much too old, fixed on Y/N. She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. She didn’t even look at her father’s body. Her gaze stayed locked on the woman standing over it.

Y/N’s chest constricted. She reached into her coat, pulling out the same handkerchief she’d just used. Her hands moved on instinct, slow and deliberate, wiping the last traces of blood from the blade.

Her voice, when it came, was rough and low. “It wasn’t my intention to do this in front of you.” She paused, her throat tight. “For that, I’m sorry.”

The knife slid back into its sheath with a click that echoed too loud in the quiet.

“But take my word for it,” she said, her tone flat and final. “Your father had it coming.”

Y/N stepped forward. The soles of her boots crushed ceramic and spilled cereal beneath them, the sounds small but sharp. Her shadow stretched across the floor and over the child, long and thin under the cold kitchen light.

Noelle didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Y/N stopped in front of her and knelt, the stiffness in her knees matching the weight in her chest. Up close, the girl’s face was heartbreakingly young. But her eyes, those eyes, belonged to someone who already knew too much about loss.

“When you grow up,” Y/N said softly, “if you still feel raw about it…” She held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’ll be waiting.”

Y/N stood again. Her legs felt heavier than before, her breath thick in her chest. She turned toward the side door, her hand closing around the handle. The metal was cold against her skin.

When she opened the door, the world outside hit her all at once. The air was too clean, too bright, as if it hadn’t just absorbed what had happened inside. The sky stretched wide and blue, perfectly untouched. Birds sang from somewhere unseen, their small voices cutting through the stillness like nothing in the world had changed. A sprinkler ticked down the block, its rhythm steady, mechanical, almost mocking. The scent of jasmine drifted on the breeze, sweet and alive, a cruel reminder that life went on, even here.

Y/N stepped out, boots landing heavy against the driveway, leaving faint smudges of blood in the dirt. Each step was slow, deliberate, as if she were testing the ground beneath her feet, making sure it still existed. She walked past a tricycle tipped on its side, one wheel bent, past a sun-bleached plastic dinosaur half-buried in the lawn. Ghosts of a normal life. A family. A home that had never really been hers.

Her truck sat where she’d left it, unapologetic, ridiculous, the same bright yellow beast she’d driven across deserts and through hell. Pussy Wagon blazed across the tailgate in garish pink cursive, still loud, still defiant. It was absurd and out of place in this quiet Pasadena street, yet it fit her perfectly. The sight of it stirred something bitter and familiar. She almost smiled. Almost.

Instead, she climbed into the cab. The heat inside wrapped around her immediately, pressing close, clinging to her skin. It smelled like sweat and leather, old smoke and oil, home, in its own way. She shut the door, the solid thunk echoing in the silence like a punctuation mark.

Her gaze dropped to the glove box. She reached out, opened it, and pulled out the battered spiral notebook resting inside. The edges were bent and worn soft from years of use. She didn’t need to look at the cover; she knew what it said.

DEATH LIST FIVE.

She flipped it open. The first few pages were filled with names. Some crossed out in thick black lines, others still waiting. She touched the first one, tracing the letters out of habit. She didn’t need to read it to remember. Snow, silence, Yoongi. The ache of his name lived somewhere deep, a wound that had never healed. She looked down the page.

Jimin Park – Copperhead.

Her chest tightened. For a moment, she just stared. The name looked harmless now, just ink on paper, but it carried the weight of an entire lifetime. The laughter they’d shared, the battles they’d fought, the betrayal that had broken them. He’d been a friend once. Then an enemy. And now, nothing. Just another line on a page.

She uncapped the black marker, the smell sharp and chemical. Her hand didn’t shake. The line she drew through his name was dark and final, slicing through years of history with a single stroke.

2. Jimin Park – Copperhead.

She sat there for a moment, staring at it. The silence inside the truck was thick, the only sound her own breathing and the faint tick of the cooling engine. Then she turned the key.

The engine roared to life, loud and alive, rattling the frame around her. It filled the emptiness with sound, vibrating through her chest like a heartbeat. She gripped the wheel, shifted into gear, and pressed the accelerator.

The truck rolled down the street, its tires scraping the pavement, engine growling in protest. The suburban world around her stayed eerily calm, rows of sleeping houses, neatly trimmed lawns, the faint flicker of TV light behind closed curtains. Pasadena slept peacefully, unaware that death had just passed through.

The last of the sun had bled away, leaving behind a bruised orange glow that lingered along the horizon. It painted the rooftops in fading warmth, a dying light over a perfect world. Sprinklers hissed, their arcs cutting silver lines through the air. She passed by manicured lawns, potted plants, fences wrapped in fairy lights, small illusions of safety that had nothing to do with the truth.

A child’s toy lay overturned in a driveway. A pink flamingo stood crooked in a patch of grass, its paint faded to a pale ghost of what it once was. Y/N’s jaw tightened. This world had no idea how fragile it was, how easily it could break.

Tomorrow, these people would wake up to their routines. They’d sip coffee, walk their dogs, wave to their neighbors. None of them would know what had happened a few doors down. None of them would ever know.

She passed the park, the one where the Little League diamond sat in its perfect square of green. For a heartbeat, she almost looked. Then she didn’t.

Somewhere behind her, an ice cream truck rolled through the neighborhood, its jingle light and cheerful, the kind of sound that used to mean summer. Children’s laughter drifted faintly through the open windows of her truck, carrying a note of innocence so pure it made her chest ache.

The Pussy Wagon thundered past, its ridiculous pink lettering glowing under the streetlights like a taunt. It was loud, crass, impossible to ignore, like her. The sound of it cutting through the quiet felt obscene, but it was real, and it was hers.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. The street behind her blurred into distance, the houses, the ice cream truck, the laughter. All of it fading, swallowed by the dark.

She pressed her foot down harder, the truck surging forward, engine rumbling deep and steady beneath her. The houses gave way to open road. Streetlights thinned until there were none. Pasadena fell away behind her, shrinking into the kind of memory she’d learned not to look back on.

The highway stretched ahead, long and empty. Somewhere down that road waited Hawthorne. Then Texas. Then Namjoon.

The night swallowed everything but the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of her breath. The road ahead shimmered faintly in the heat, endless and open. She didn’t know what she’d find at the end of it. She only knew she had to keep driving.

Loretta sat alone in the small interview room, its walls a dull gray that seemed to close in the longer she stayed. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead filled the silence, mixing with the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant that clung to everything. She could still smell it, Mark’s blood. It was dried into the fabric of her blouse, dark and stiff against her skin. She hadn’t changed. She couldn’t. The idea of washing it off felt like erasing him completely, as if letting go of the last trace of him that still existed on her.

Her hands rested in her lap, trembling so badly she pressed them together to make it stop. It didn’t. Her fingers felt foreign, her body hollowed out, as though she were watching all this from somewhere far away.

When she finally spoke, her voice came out thin and brittle, scraping against the quiet. “He must have been attacked,” she said. “Someone broke in. Someone who knew him. Or thought they did.” She swallowed hard, forcing the words through the dryness in her throat. “Mark must’ve tried to fight back. I didn’t even know he had a gun. He never told me. We didn’t keep one in the house, not with Noelle around. He wouldn’t.”

The detective across from her didn’t say anything, just watched her over folded hands. The silence pressed against her chest.

Loretta kept going, her thoughts tumbling faster now, trying to make sense of what refused to make sense. “He must’ve known something was wrong. Maybe he saw someone outside, or maybe he let them in, God, why would he let them in?” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she bit her lip to keep from breaking down again.

She covered her face with her hands for a moment, trying to steady herself. When she looked up again, her eyes were red, her skin pale and waxy under the harsh light. “Noelle said it was a man,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “A tall man with a beard. She said he looked like he knew Mark, but she didn’t remember his name. Or his voice. Just that he looked… disappointed. Angry, but not like a stranger.”

The detective nodded slightly, jotting something down in his notebook. The scratching of his pen filled the silence.

“She said Mark told her to go upstairs. Told her I was coming home soon. That he needed to talk to the man.” Loretta’s words came slower now, careful, fragile. “She said she heard a gunshot. And when she came back down…” Her voice faltered. She took a long, shaky breath. “He was already on the floor. And the man was gone.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.

“She told them all of that,” Loretta went on softly. “They showed her pictures, everyone we know. Friends, coworkers, neighbors. Even the delivery drivers. She didn’t recognize any of them.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “None of them were the man she saw.”

She leaned back in the metal chair, her body sinking under the weight of exhaustion. Her gaze fixed on the cold surface of the table, the scratches in the steel forming lines that led nowhere. “I don’t understand,” she said finally. “Mark was good. He was kind. He’d give his coat to a stranger if they needed it. Who could hate him enough to do this? Who could walk into our home and…” She stopped herself, her voice breaking apart before the words could finish.

The detective’s pen stilled. He closed the notebook slowly, setting it aside. The sound of it hitting the table was small, but Loretta flinched.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier. Every question felt like a blade turning in her chest.

Days blurred after that, endless interviews, police cars outside the house, neighbors whispering through fences. She barely ate. She barely slept. At night, she sat awake in Noelle’s room, her daughter’s small body curled up in bed beside her, trembling through restless dreams. Sometimes Noelle woke screaming, crying about the man with the beard, the man who looked at her father “like he was sad.”

Loretta would hold her until the sobs faded, brushing hair from her damp forehead, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe now.” But she wasn’t sure she believed it.

And every time the girl spoke, something inside Loretta twisted. The details never changed, the tall man, the beard, the voice that sounded almost familiar, but deep down, Loretta knew. There was something off about the way Noelle told it, the way her eyes darted when she said his name.

Loretta never said it aloud, not even when the police pressed her. But the truth lingered in the back of her mind, cold and undeniable.

Her daughter was lying about who had really been in that house.

The air in the room felt thick, almost alive, like it had decided to stop breathing. Incense burned slow in the corner, the scent of green tea curling through the air, soft and calm, trying and failing to hide the darker undertone beneath it. Gun oil, steel, and something sharp enough to cut through the quiet. Outside, thunder rolled far off over the city, the kind of distant rumble that promised a storm was coming. Inside, the silence was heavier than any sound could be. Shadows flickered across the walls from the candlelight, stretching and twisting, never sitting still, as if the room itself was restless.

Taehyung sat in the center of it all, surrounded by weapons laid out with almost obsessive precision. Pistols. Blades. A rifle, half-cleaned. Every piece gleamed under the low light, their metal reflecting back his face in warped fragments. He worked with slow, steady hands, wiping down the slide of a pistol like he was handling something sacred. It wasn’t just maintenance. It was ritual. A kind of prayer for men like him, the only one that ever seemed to matter. The smell of sandalwood mixed with the metallic tang of oil and metal. Holy and profane, both at once.

Light filtered through the half-closed blinds, slicing across the room in narrow stripes. The shadows landed across Taehyung’s face like bars on a cell. He looked carved out of the dimness, calm, unreadable, the faintest flicker of movement in his eyes the only thing betraying thought.

“If Yoongi was the first,” he said quietly in Korean, his voice low and even, “then unless she’s playing games, Park Jimin is second.”

It wasn’t a guess. It was certainty, cold and absolute. The way he said it left no room for argument.

Across from him, Jungkook leaned against the wall, a dark shape half-swallowed by shadow. His arms were crossed, muscles tense beneath his shirt, the faint rhythm of his jaw moving as he chewed a piece of gum. Every snap of it broke the silence like a warning. He wasn’t fidgeting; it was control, tight deliberate control.

Taehyung kept talking, voice smooth, detached, almost thoughtful. “She and Yoongi were close. Closest. That’s why she started with him. Or maybe because he would’ve seen her coming. And if he had…” His voice trailed off, unfinished, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

He looked up then, eyes meeting Jungkook’s. They were calm, but not soft. Deep, black, unblinking. Eyes that had seen too much and didn’t bother pretending otherwise. “You don’t just walk into Yoongi’s territory and make it out alive,” he said finally. “Unless you’re willing to die for it.”

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The gum popped once between his teeth, a sharp, dry sound in the stillness. “Where is Park Jimin?” His voice was low, flat, stripped of anything human.

Taehyung tapped the butt of his knife against his knee twice, the sound a soft, steady rhythm that filled the space where words didn’t. He smiled faintly, a thin, dangerous thing that never reached his eyes. “Los Angeles,” he said. “Pasadena. But she won’t stay there. She never does. If she’s smart, and she is, she’ll be holed up near the airport. Somewhere cheap. Somewhere quiet. Hawthorne.”

The silence that followed stretched long enough to make the air hum. Even the storm outside seemed to hesitate, holding its breath.

Then, pop.

The gum snapped between Jungkook’s teeth, loud and clean, like the breaking of a bone. He grinned, slow and crooked, the kind of grin that didn’t reach his eyes. It was amusement, but it wasn’t joy. It was the thrill of something inevitable. “California, huh?” he said, the words lazy but his tone sharp enough to cut. “Guess it’s time to pay a visit.”

The grin lingered for a second, then faded. What replaced it was colder. Focused. Dangerous. He pushed off from the wall, his movements fluid, almost graceful, like a predator shifting from rest to motion. The floor creaked once under his boot, a quiet protest, and then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound.

Taehyung didn’t move. The incense burned lower, the smoke curling in lazy spirals. Somewhere outside, thunder rolled again.

The night air wrapped around Jungkook as he stepped out onto the street, heavy with the weight of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The city was still awake; distant traffic murmured somewhere beyond the alleys, lights flickered against the damp pavement, but it all felt far away, muffled, as if the world was holding its breath. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the glow from the screen washing his face in cold blue light. One name stared back at him, Kiko.

He pressed call.

The line barely rang before her voice slid through, smooth and low, with a hint of static cutting through it. “Still breathing, huh?” she teased, her tone somewhere between affection and challenge.

Jungkook’s mouth curved into a slow smile, sharp at the edges. “You know me,” he said, his voice steady but roughened by something darker. “Got a job to finish.”

Kiko laughed softly, a sound like silk tearing. “You’re a monster, Kookie,” she purred, the nickname curling off her tongue like smoke. “But you’re my monster.” There was a pause, a flicker of silence that felt heavier than words. “What’s the plan?”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the empty street, neon bleeding into puddles at his feet. “I’m heading to California,” he said. “She’s been running too long. This time, she won’t make it far.”

He didn’t have to say her name. Kiko already knew who he meant. His voice dropped, quieter now, raw at the edges. “She killed my brother, Kiko.” He swallowed hard, the ache in his throat barely contained. “He took care of me when no one else did. He’s the reason I’m still breathing. And now…” His breath caught, the sentence hanging unfinished. The silence after said everything.

Kiko’s voice returned, dark and velvety. “You know how I feel about revenge,” she murmured, her tone laced with pleasure. “You don’t need to ask twice. I’m in. Let’s make her disappear.”

Her words hit him like a spark thrown onto gasoline. That familiar rush, rage, grief, anticipation, pulsed through his veins, igniting something feral. Kiko was the only person who could match him, the only one who didn’t flinch when things got ugly. Together, they didn’t just survive the fire. They became it.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, his grin widening, sharp and wolfish. “Good,” he said, his voice low. “Book the flight. I’ll handle the rest.”

“I already am,” she replied, that dangerous playfulness threading through every syllable. He could hear her moving on the other end, the soft clatter of a keyboard, the click of a lighter. “You’ll have your seat by midnight.”

He stopped at the corner, watching headlights sweep past. His pulse thudded hard in his chest, a steady drumbeat of purpose. “Don’t take too long,” he warned. “She’s already moving. And I don’t plan on chasing her forever.”

Kiko chuckled, soft and dangerous. “Relax, my love. I wouldn’t keep you waiting.”

The line went dead.

Jungkook slid the phone back into his pocket and raised a hand to hail a cab. The city felt smaller now, shrinking around him as the first drops of rain began to fall. When the taxi pulled up, he climbed in without a word.

“Gimhae International,” he said. His voice was flat, unfeeling. The driver nodded, and the cab rolled away from the curb.

As the lights of the city blurred past the window, Jungkook leaned back, his reflection staring back at him in the glass, tired eyes, clenched jaw, the faint smirk of a man already halfway to war. This wasn’t a mission. It was something personal.

By the time he reached the airport, Kiko had already worked her magic. The ticket was waiting for him, a single seat on a midnight flight. No crowds. No questions. Just silence and distance.

He passed through the terminal like a ghost, the world around him a blur of polished tile and fluorescent light. The smell of disinfectant and fast food hung in the air. He grabbed something to eat, a burger, a handful of fries, but the taste didn’t land. He chewed out of habit, not hunger. His mind was already somewhere else, tracing old memories that hurt to touch.

When his phone buzzed again, Jungkook didn’t need to check the name. He lifted it to his ear, already knowing who it was. “Still with me?” Kiko’s voice was soft, teasing, the kind of tone that could disarm you if you weren’t careful.

“Always,” he murmured.

They talked for hours while he waited to board, their words flowing easily, aimlessly. Music. Old movies. Stupid memories from nights that blurred together in smoke and laughter. She made him laugh once, really laugh, an unguarded sound that startled him as much as it seemed to please her. It felt foreign, that kind of warmth, like something borrowed from another lifetime. Kiko never asked about his brother, or Yoongi, or the crew. She didn’t need to. She understood that some silences weren’t meant to be filled.

Their bond wasn’t born out of comfort. It was built in the wreckage, two people who knew what it meant to lose everything and still stand there, bleeding, daring the world to take more. They didn’t fix each other. They just didn’t flinch at what the other had become.

Kiko had seen him at his worst. She’d seen him drunk, furious, reckless. She’d cleaned the blood off the floor when things got out of hand, patched up his knuckles when he split them open against someone’s face. She’d watched him fall apart and hadn’t tried to stop him. She didn’t want to save him; she wanted to witness the fire. And maybe that was what made her dangerous. She didn’t see his destruction as a flaw. She saw it as art.

But this time was different. There wouldn’t be blood on their floor or broken glass in the sink. This wasn’t another night gone wrong. This was purpose. A hunt. And Kiko, in her own twisted way, loved him most when he had purpose. Revenge, after all, had always been her favorite kind of love story.

As the clock ticked closer to boarding time, neither of them mentioned it. The airport hummed around him, voices over loudspeakers, the shuffle of people, the clatter of rolling suitcases, but in his world, there was only her voice. The calm before everything went to hell.

When his boarding group was finally called, Kiko’s voice softened, a smile hidden somewhere in the words. “Bring me a souvenir, Kookie.”

He smirked faintly, sliding his phone into his jacket. “She’d like some pictures.”

He stood, adjusted his coat, and started toward the gate. Outside, the storm that had been threatening all night finally broke, rain streaking down the glass in long, slow lines. The engines of the waiting plane rumbled like distant thunder. Jungkook moved with quiet certainty, carrying nothing but ghosts and a promise that would not go unfulfilled.

In first class, he sat back, legs stretched, his posture loose in a way that suggested control rather than comfort. He didn’t belong to any particular class, not the polished elite or the lost souls in the back. He existed somewhere in between, in that strange gray place where rules blurred and morality didn’t apply. His clothes reflected it too: a layered polo that pretended at respectability, a soft gray V-neck that whispered of luxury but not pride. Faded jeans that clung like old regrets. And the white Converse, battered, frayed, stained in ways that couldn’t be explained without telling too much truth. Those shoes had been places that left marks deeper than the leather could show.

He looked like a man born into privilege who had decided one day to spit it out, to choke on the taste of it and trade it for something real. A man who’d seen his future paved and shining, and chose instead to burn it down just to see the smoke. The rebellion suited him. It clung to him like the faint scent of cologne on his skin, expensive, reckless, unrepentant.

When the plane touched down at LAX, the morning light hit him like a slap. California sunlight was different, too bright, too alive, like it was trying to burn away the night. Everything outside the window was drenched in gold, but not the kind that felt warm. It was harsh, raw, almost sickly, as if the world had turned up its brightness just to blind him.

Jungkook didn’t rush off the plane. He never rushed. His movements were slow, measured, like each step was choreographed. The crowd seemed to part around him without realizing it, pulled aside by something they couldn’t name. He didn’t glance around for directions or check his phone; he didn’t need to. He moved like a man who already knew the ending.

The air outside hit him thick and dry, the city already sweating under the sun. He found his way to the car lot in Van Nuys, a graveyard of forgotten machines baking in the heat. The asphalt cracked beneath his shoes, the air humming with the metallic scent of rust and gasoline. A salesman appeared, too tan and too eager, all grin and desperation. He started talking fast, torque, horsepower, fuel economy, but Jungkook wasn’t listening. His eyes were already locked on what he wanted.

Convertible. Red. The kind of red that didn’t ask for attention; it demanded it. It was bright, violent, unapologetic. The salesman followed his gaze, words faltering. Jungkook didn’t say a word. He just nodded once. That was enough.

Minutes later, the engine roared to life. The car fit him like it had been waiting, like it knew it was being chosen for something more than just a drive. He tore through the Hollywood Hills, the wind screaming past him, the sky cracking open with light. His laughter cut through it all, sharp, wild, untamed. It wasn’t happiness. It was release. The kind of sound that made the world pause for a moment to listen.

By the time he reached the city, his pulse was still racing. The adrenaline clung to him like sweat, thrumming in his veins. He wasn’t running from anything anymore. He was chasing. And for the first time in a long time, he felt alive.

Somewhere across the city, Kiko would be watching. Tracking flights, checking names, waiting for his signal. They were getting closer. Closer to her. The woman who had started it all. The one who had taken everything.

Jungkook didn’t rush to the hotel. There was no need. The day was still young, the air warm and restless, buzzing with that unmistakable Los Angeles energy, the kind that made everything feel just a little too alive. The city pulsed around him, loud and chaotic, but not in a way that bothered him. He had time to spare, and for once, nothing to chase. Not yet. There would be time for revenge later, but right now, he was content to just exist, to breathe the same air as strangers and let the city move him wherever it wanted.

The hotel was sleek and modern, all glass and chrome, sunlight flashing off the windows like knives. Inside, it smelled faintly of perfume and polished floors. He checked in without paying much attention to the lobby or the smiling receptionist. His thoughts were already outside, with the noise and motion waiting for him beyond the doors.

Upstairs, he dropped his bag on the bed and left it untouched. He wasn’t here to settle in. The room was just a place to leave things behind. He grabbed his Polaroid camera, an old, beat-up thing that hung comfortably from his shoulder, the strap worn smooth from years of use. He liked the immediacy of it, the way it captured moments without pretense. No filters, no edits. Just truth, frozen in time. Kiko would love that. She liked things raw, unpolished. The real kind of beautiful, the kind you couldn’t fake.

The thought of her made him smile, faintly, almost without realizing it. She’d laugh at the pictures he’d take, he knew that. She’d pin them to the wall or tuck them into a drawer, keeping pieces of him close in the way only she could. Maybe it would stop her from worrying so much. Maybe it would stop him from drinking so damn much when he got back.

Outside, the sunlight hit him hard. The city looked different up close, less glamorous than the postcards, more alive. Everything shimmered under the heat, a mix of glass and grit, the kind of beauty that came from being a little broken. The air tasted like smog and coffee and something sweet from a food truck down the block. He breathed it in and kept walking, no direction in mind.

He let the streets take him where they wanted. Past the billboards, the palm trees swaying too lazily for how fast the traffic moved, the endless lines of tourists craning their necks for something worth remembering. Jungkook didn’t bother with the usual sights. He aimed his camera at what most people ignored: graffiti tucked into alleyways, a cracked bus stop with someone’s story scribbled across it, an old man feeding pigeons beside a trash can. Click. The photos slid from the camera warm and faintly chemical, curling in the sunlight as they came to life.

He wandered farther, down Sunset, the light shifting as the day started to fold into evening. The sun had turned everything gold, that kind of burnished glow that made the world look softer than it really was. He stopped for a moment, leaning against a railing, camera in hand. He framed the skyline through the lens, the sprawl of buildings and power lines, the halo of sunlight just before it gave up to dusk. Click. Another snapshot, another quiet moment trapped in time.

For a second, he let himself forget. Forget why he was here. Forget what was coming. The city around him hummed with life, and he felt, strangely, at peace. But peace never lasted long. Not for him. The memory of Kiko’s voice, the plan that waited beyond this small pause, crept back in like smoke curling under a door.

He snapped one last photo of the sunset bleeding into the horizon, then slung the camera back over his shoulder. His fingers lingered on it for a moment, gripping the worn leather strap like it was an anchor.

By the time he turned toward the street again, the city had changed. The heat of the day had given way to something cooler, but no less alive. Streetlights flickered on, the smell of food and exhaust filling the air. He passed a small market, the sound of sizzling oil and laughter spilling out from behind open stalls. He caught the scent of roasting meat, the sweetness of grilled onions, the spice of something fried and heavy. It hit him all at once, the hunger, the noise, the motion. This city was a living thing, all pulse and rhythm, and for once, he didn’t mind being swallowed by it.

He lifted the camera again, snapping a picture of a street vendor laughing with a customer, of a couple walking close together, their fingers brushing, of a stray dog weaving through the crowd. The couple’s photo developed in his hand, the colors blooming slowly. The girl’s head was tilted back mid-laugh, the guy looking at her like the rest of the world had gone quiet. Jungkook stared at it for a moment longer than he should have.

Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe it was just the quiet recognition that moments like that, real and fleeting, didn’t last in cities like this.

He slipped the photo into his pocket and kept walking, disappearing into the crowd as the last light of day gave way to night.

Jungkook’s pace slowed as he weaved through the crowd, watching people move around him like a living current. Everyone was chasing something here, fame, love, redemption, maybe just survival. The air itself seemed charged with want, thick with dreams both dying and newly born. It was the kind of city that promised everything and delivered only to a few. He wondered, absently, how many of these people would still be here in a year. How many would disappear without anyone noticing.

His hand brushed the worn leather of his jacket, grounding him. A reminder of where he came from, of what he’d left behind. The scent of grilled corn and roasted peanuts caught his attention, rich and smoky. He stopped at a street vendor, handed over a few bills, and bit into the corn, its sweetness cutting through the heat of the day. Around him, Los Angeles moved with a rhythm that felt almost alive, car horns, laughter, music bleeding from open windows. Tourists wandered by with cameras and wide eyes; locals passed them with practiced indifference. And above it all, rising from the hills like a mirage, the Hollywood sign watched over them.

Even from this distance, it was impossible to ignore. The sun hit it just right, making the white letters gleam like something divine. To most, it was a symbol of arrival. Of success. But to Jungkook, it looked more like a warning, something bright and hollow that stood too high above everything else. He felt it tug at him anyway, that strange pull of curiosity or defiance. Maybe both. The thought came without meaning to: Come see for yourself. See what it’s really made of.

He hadn’t planned to go, but plans had never meant much to him. So he started walking.

The further he got from the city center, the thinner the crowds became. The noise softened, fading into the hum of distant traffic and the steady sound of his boots on pavement. The air shifted too, cooler, sharper as he climbed. Buildings gave way to winding roads and low hills, the asphalt bending in long, lazy curves that seemed to lead nowhere and everywhere at once. For a moment, it almost felt cinematic, the way the late afternoon sun painted everything gold.

He caught himself smiling at the thought. Visiting the Hollywood sign, it was cliché. Almost laughably so. But there was something right about it. Like closing a loop he didn’t realize had been open. He wanted to stand there, to look out over the city and know he had seen it with his own eyes. Not as a tourist, not as an outsider, but as someone who had earned the right to be here.

The road stretched on, the sun dipping lower, shadows growing longer across the hills. He lifted his camera, snapping a photo of the narrow trail ahead. The picture whirred softly, sliding out into his hand, the colors slowly bleeding to life as he kept walking. The rhythm of his steps settled into something meditative, the climb pulling him into a quiet trance.

Each step closer to the sign felt heavier, as if he was moving through layers of meaning, ambition, failure, decay. The city’s noise had fallen away entirely now, replaced by the whisper of wind and the faint rustle of dry grass. The letters loomed ahead, bright and pale against the darkening sky. From a distance, they had seemed flawless. Up close, they were anything but. The paint was chipped, the metal rusted in places. Time had left its mark.

Jungkook stopped a few feet from the base of the first letter, tilting his head back to take it all in. The sign was massive, almost absurdly so. A monument to everything people chased and everything they lost in the process. He snapped a photo, the camera clicking in the quiet like a heartbeat. The film developed slowly in his hands, the image ghostly at first, then clearer, a perfect symbol of what the city really was: beautiful, broken, and trying too hard to stay relevant.

The closer he looked, the more he saw it for what it was, a relic. Not of hope, but of the cost of wanting too much. To most, the sign was a promise. To him, it looked like a tombstone. A grave marker for dreams that had burned too bright and died too fast. He could almost hear them, those echoes of ambition and desperation that lingered in the dry wind.

He stood there for a long moment, hand stuffed in his pocket, eyes tracing the jagged edges of the letters. His mouth curved, not a smile, exactly, but something close to it. A smirk, maybe. The kind that carried more understanding than amusement. For the tourists below, snapping selfies and pretending they were close enough to touch it, this place was sacred. But for Jungkook, it was proof of everything he already knew: that fame rots, beauty fades, and every light eventually burns out.

The sun slipped lower, the sky turning the color of blood and smoke. He lifted his camera one last time, framing the sign against the dying light, and pressed the shutter. The click echoed softly in the stillness. He didn’t watch the photo develop. He just slipped it into his pocket, where it joined the others.

That one wasn’t for him. It was for Kiko.

Jungkook stood outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre with an oversized cowboy hat balanced crookedly on his head, the brim too wide, the crown slouched like it had given up halfway through the day. It looked ridiculous on him, but he wore it like it mattered, like it was armor instead of cheap felt bought off a street vendor. Maybe it was. He’d bargained for it, flashed that easy grin of his until the vendor dropped the price, and now it was his. A souvenir. A joke. A small claim on a city that didn’t belong to anyone.

He crouched beside the faded handprints of Roy Rogers, spreading his fingers wide over the old cement, pretending to measure the space like it was something worth comparing. Someone nearby laughed and raised a phone, and Jungkook turned toward them, grinning for the picture, tossing up two finger guns in a playful, exaggerated pose. For a heartbeat, he looked like he belonged there, just another tourist chasing ghosts down Hollywood Boulevard. But the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

The tourists loved it. They always did. The swagger, the grin, the effortlessness that came from years of knowing exactly what people wanted to see. They didn’t know him, didn’t recognize the edge under the smile, and that was fine. He wasn’t performing for them. Not really. But it was amusing, watching them believe in the version of him they wanted to photograph.

He made his rounds like he was following a script. Posing for another picture beside a forgotten actor whose glory days were long behind them. The man’s smile was strained, the kind of expression polished by years of trying too hard. Jungkook slung an arm around his shoulder anyway, laughing like they were old friends, two veterans swapping stories about battles fought under brighter lights. The cameras flashed. Jungkook tilted his chin just slightly, eyes half-lidded, all practiced ease and subtle detachment. To anyone watching, it looked spontaneous. To him, it was precision. Every movement, every smirk, a calculated note in the larger composition he was writing.

When he drifted behind the velvet ropes at a movie premiere, he blended in without effort but somehow still drew the eye. His suit wasn’t the sharpest, but it didn’t need to be. He carried himself like he owned the space, or like he was there to steal it. The red carpet shimmered under the flash of cameras, all those perfect smiles and gleaming faces. Jungkook’s smile cut through them, quieter but more dangerous. The photographers didn’t know who he was, but they snapped his picture anyway, pulled by that spark that couldn’t be faked. It didn’t matter that no one asked for his name. They would, eventually.

The night bled into chaos, lights, noise, music that felt too loud and too empty. Somehow, between it all, he ended up strapped into a roller coaster, metal bars locking him in place as the machine lurched forward. He didn’t remember buying a ticket. Maybe he hadn’t. The climb was slow, the city sprawling below him in a sea of neon and smog. When the drop came, he threw his hands into the air, not in joy but defiance. The wind tore at his face, but he grinned through it, teeth flashing like a dare. The camera caught him mid-fall, laughing, unflinching, the perfect image of someone who didn’t care if the ground ever came.

Disneyland came after, bright and hollow, the smell of sugar and nostalgia thick in the air. A plastic dream made real, polished to perfection. Jungkook knelt beside Captain Hook for a photo, one knee bent, the camera dangling from his wrist. His eyes moved constantly, over the crowd, the exits, the angles. He didn’t believe in magic anymore. The rides, the music, the forced smiles, they were all part of the same illusion. He smiled for another picture, this time with Chip and Dale, his arms draped across their oversized costumes. The grin on his face looked convincing enough, but his eyes were ice. Empty. Detached. It wasn’t joy he felt, it was observation.

He watched people move, studied them without really meaning to. Parents wrangling kids, couples holding hands, teenagers pretending not to care. Every one of them caught up in the show, and none of them seeing what was underneath it. Jungkook saw it all, the cracks in the paint, the exhaustion behind the laughter, the desperation in the way people clung to happiness. He wasn’t here for the spectacle. He was here for the pattern. For the architecture of it all.

If someone asked, they’d call it sightseeing. He could even play along, pose for a few pictures, wear the wristbands, buy the shirts. But beneath the surface, he was taking notes. Each flash of the camera, each practiced smile, each place he lingered, they weren’t souvenirs. They were coordinates. Markers. The city was a puzzle, and he was mapping it piece by piece.

By the time he got back to his hotel, the day’s weight sat heavy in his chest. The room was dim, the neon outside spilling in through the window. He tossed the cowboy hat onto the bed, watching it land upside down like a punchline. For a moment, it almost made him laugh. Almost.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes, and pulled out his phone, a battered old Nokia, scratched and unremarkable, but reliable. The screen blinked to life, and there it was: Kiko’s name. One new message.

BM otw 2 LA.

He stared at the words for a long moment, the letters settling in his gut like stones. It wasn’t a surprise; he’d known it was coming, but reading it made the air in the room shift. The game was moving forward now. He typed back two quick words:

Thx <3

Then he set the phone down beside him and leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the city’s hum pressed against the windows. Somewhere out there, people were still chasing stars. Laughing, drinking, believing in something that didn’t exist. He could hear it faintly, the echo of their dreams.

But Jungkook wasn’t chasing anymore. The time for pretending was over. The city wasn’t a playground. It was a stage.

And soon enough, Black Mamba would walk right into the spotlight.

With a smile playing at the corner of your lips, you drop your clothes on the floor and, taking his hand, step into the shower. 

The water, pouring from a waterfall showerhead, is divine: hot, stark. Taehyung steps back to let you have the bulk of the stream. As it runs over you, it warms the chill you haven’t been able to shake since you found yourself outside last night, and eyes sliding shut, sigh into the sensation. 

You feel the roughness of his fingers brush against your face, tugging a stray lock out of your eyes. You open yours. 

“Hi,” Taehyung says, searching your face. 

“Hi,” you whisper back, arms coming to wrap protectively—from the cold?--around your torso. “Is this allowed?” 

“Of course it’s allowed,” Taehyung responds. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“I dunno.” You take a step forward and trace a finger up his chest, collecting beads of water. Watching the water run down the broad planes of him is much easier than looking him in the eye when you say this next thing: “Here we are taking a shower together—when we were once in love. Don’t you remember?” You give him a teasing grin, trying to hide the sharp truth of your words that lays just beneath the surface. 

Taehyung only hesitates for a moment. “How could I forget?” A softness tinges his voice. He takes your elbow in his hand as you continue to trace lines across his chest, flattening your hand against him. 

“Does that make all of this strange?” You ask quietly. 

“You tell me if taking a perfectly utilitarian morning shower with your ex is strange—when the rest of the house is fucking or falling—” He stops himself. “Well, you know.” 

“Do I know?” You ask, brushing away the water falling into your eyes. 

“If you don’t, you will soon.” Again, that cheeky grin. “C’mere.” Taking a clean wash cloth, he holds your hands in his and gently washes them. He does not scrub at them like you did—it’s more of a caress. Then he takes you by the shoulders and spins you around, allowing his touch to rove over your back. He is gentle with you as he washes you, the kind of care that only comes with years of love. You hum in satisfaction as the warm water encompasses you and his touch brings a shiver to your skin. 

“Maybe this is a little strange,” he murmurs when he’s done, turning you around to face him again. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Well, I’ve never been a stranger to strange.” 

“That—I know is true.” 

Standing in front of him, looking into his eyes, it feels like you are looking back through time, to that first moment he stood under the awning to your apartment and dawdled so long, that it took you turning the knob and beginning to step inside for him to grab your hand, pull you back, and kiss you. Back then, his hair flopped into his eyes in a similar way it does now, dripping with water. Back then, his eyes held the same kindness you see now. Back then, they held the same desire you see burning behind his iris. 

You look away from him, your gaze trailing to the floor. 

He tilts your chin up. “Wherever you’ve just gone…let go.” 

“What?”

“Whatever it is you’re holding so tightly to, you can let go of it.” His words are soft, kind. What is it you’re holding onto, after all? Is it what the two of you once had? What you’ve had between the two of you since then—tension, moments of uncertainty, and other moments of intense proximity? Or are you simply holding onto a veil of distance that has long since unfurled between you?

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. You nod, and, using the finger beneath your chin, tilts you towards him. “This all feels different than before,” he says, hesitating, stalling. 

“I think it feels the same,” you whisper back, eyes flicking down to his lips. 

“I mean, you feel different.” 

And then he kisses you. 

His lips are kind, soft, against yours. He is cautious almost, but only in the sense that you can feel him testing your edges—waiting for you.

With the cold air at your back, you find yourself chasing his warmth. Your hands slide around his torso as you press yourself close to him. Together, you find a rhythm—mouths moving in synch—that feels old and new all together. When he feels you chase him, he lets go of any hesitation, one hand coming to cup the side of your face, his other hand wrapping around your waist and pulling you even closer. 

As you gasp against each other, he carefully takes a step forward, pushing you back, but never releasing the divine nearness of your bodies. Gently, he presses you against the cold tile wall with a sigh against your lips. With the wall at your back, the water streaming over both of your bodies you dive in even closer, your hands roving over his body. 

You’re chasing his warmth: the hard shape of his body, the sweet, dark brown of his eyes which flutter open for a moment, the feeling of his attention on you, yours—again—finally. It’s more than pleasure though. There’s something building in your chest. It sings clear and sweetly and—

His fingers are between your legs. 

You gasp, arch against him. 

“Missed this,” he says, that youthful smirk dancing at the corner of his lips, and suddenly you are both young again and dumb and fumbling in the dark for each other’s bodies for the first time. 

As he touches you, your body rises to meet his. You chase his touch. And as pleasure builds in your body, so does that lush warmth in your chest, it has you chasing more than just the delightful sensation of his fingers against you—it has you chasing him. 

Through the valley of your memory. Through the space that’s between the two of you. You lean towards him to capture his lips and the kiss is rushed and deep and wanting. 

You almost jolt back from him when you realize it: the love is still there. It still feels as young as when you were in a relationship, and yet, there’s something aged, more there. The friendship built over years. The trust. The care. It radiates out from the center of you like the sun would. It almost comes to your lips, easy, so careless.

Instead of speaking it, you kiss down his neck to where his pulse hammers with desire. You say his name with desperation, and he locks eyes with you as his fingers take you to the edge and let you descend into pleasure. As you call out, he smiles with that knowing smile, like you’ve just given him the best gift at Christmas. 

“I’ve been waiting so long to get you alone,” Taehyung says, kissing your forehead as you come down from your high. “And now I only want more.”

When he touches you, it feels like an undoing, the years apart untangling between the two of you, your body unwinding beneath his touch, his voice—the one for months you knew only over the phone—toppling something hard and firm in your chest. 

You gasp against his neck. 

When you left each other it was with the understanding that the two of you, when fit together, didn’t quite add up to one whole. But now it’s been years. Now you’ve grown from adult by name to adult by trade, growing into your skin, your identity—your voice. When he hums against you, that deep tenor vibrating through you, you find a new body on the other side of the kiss. His—knowing, known. Yours—speaking back.

—

He comes up behind you as you’re tugging on clothes for the day. You’re yearning for something warmer today: thick, sturdy. Something that will hold you. After all, there’s a growing chill in the air. 

The dirt has been scrubbed out from under your nails, Taehyung removed a leaf from your hair earlier, and now there is little left on your body from the strangeness of the night before—other than the cold that still lingers in your bones. 

“Where did you go last night?” he whispers as the warmth of your kiss in the shower still pulses through you. 

Coughing in frigid air. On your knees, soft earth beneath them. Dirt, smudged into the lifeline of your palms like you’ve been praying on the forest floor all night. How did you get there? How did you get here? The forest pushed you. Urged you back towards the warmth. 

“I don’t know,” you respond. You wonder if you should tell him more. “Ever since we arrived here—I swear, there is something so strange about the forest outside this house.” 

Taehyung nods knowingly. “I agree,” he says, his voice low in a whisper. 

Your eyes widen. “You do?” 

He nods. 

“You see it too?” you find yourself whispering too. 

“Yes,” he says. 

You grab his arm and grip him tight. “Oh my god—” you gasp. “Oh my god. I’ve been thinking I was totally crazy this whole time. I should have just said something.” 

He laughs. “Yes, you should have!” Something relaxes in your chest. Oh my god. Oh my god. You can’t believe it. Taehyung, too, has seen the ever-going forest, the trees that sprawl on and on—he’s seen the road, eaten up by the forest, maybe he’s even seen the dreams—“Jin keeps teasing me because I won’t shut up about how far the trees go.” 

“Yes!” you exclaim, clutching at him. “Yes, exactly. It goes and goes, and it swallows up the whole world.” 

Taehyung nods. “It’s especially strange when the sun is setting, and you stand where you can see the peaks and valleys of the mountain range. Living in the city for so long, I forgot what it’s like to be surrounded by so much nature. But god, when the sun rises in the morning—to see the sunrise hit the town and turn it pink and orange. That is just idyllic.” 

The breath in your lungs freezes. “What?” you whisper. 

“The town—It’s beautiful to watch, nestled in between the forest and mountains.” Your stomach drops. Your hands fall away from him. “I will never get used to this view, or what it’s like to stare into the unending wilderness in the middle of the night.” He faux shivers. “Especially when you know there are things looking right back at you.” He grins and ruffles your hair. “Hey, don’t be so serious about it. You’re safe—here in the house with us.” 

He squeezes you, kisses your cheek, and with a whispered promise of all the things he still wants to do with you, disappears back into the bathroom to finish getting ready.  

—

You slip out of Taehyung’s bedroom while he’s still messing with his hair, and make your way to the kitchen where Jungkook is cooking up a storm. There’s a dozen bowls out, all filled with a mysterious liquid. There’s the sound of swearing and pots and pans clanking. There’s even a little bit of smoke. 

“Jungkook?” you say tentatively, as you step into the large room. He hardly glances up at you. 

“You took your time,” he notes. “Busy with Taehyung?” He says it as if it’s just another day. Your cheeks are still warmed from your conversation—and ensuing activities—in the shower. 

“Yes—no—I mean—” 

“So you didn’t have sex,” Jungkook observes. 

“...No.” 

“Goddamn that’s surprising. Hasn’t it been like, two million years?” 

“More or less,” you say.

“And here I was thinking that the two of you would be the first to hook up out of all of us. Aren’t you just dying for it?” 

“Jungkook, you were the first.” 

He shoots a shit eating grin over his shoulder. “Hell yeah I was.” Something sputters and spits from the stove, over which Jungkook is still thoughtfully hunched. He curses. “You know, I realized something very important while making breakfast,” Jungkook says over his shoulder as he stands at the stove. 

“Something important? What’s that?” 

“Well, in the middle of making that goddamn hollandaise sauce, the sauce broke. Tried googling how to fix it, re-emulsify it, whatever, and realized.” 

You laugh gently. “What did you realize, Jungkook?” 

He tugs you against his chest, your bodies pressed closely together.

“That I’d much rather lick the sauce off your body than feed it to everyone else at breakfast.” 

Jungkook swipes his hand through some jam and dots it on your nose. 

“What—” 

And then he licks it up. 

It doesn’t take long before your joking devolves into kissing, and then into stripping down to your bare skin, and then Jungkook pulling down your sweatpants until they pool around your ankles and getting to his knees.

“What the hell is taking so long with breakfast?” Yoongi’s voice sounds from the front of the kitchen. Your head snaps up to find Yoongi looking very disgruntled. Hangry, even. He doesn’t look one bit surprised to find Jungkook kneeled between your legs as you lean back against the counter. “Jeez, we charge you with making breakfast one time and you decide instead to pursue your vendetta of fucking our good friend as many times as humanly possible in the kitchen? The one space in this house that is supposed to be some mild level of sanitary? Are you trying to force feed the rest of the house your come?” He eyes a bowl of unnamed contents suspiciously. 

Jungkook looks flustered. 

“Sounds like a consent issue to me,” you whisper to no one in particular. 

“Sorry hyung,” Jungkook begins. “But the sauce broke. And then I got distracted.” 

“I’ll say,” grumbles Yoongi. He steps into the kitchen, tosses some bacon in a pan, and gets to cooking. “Stop all that. And clean up.” 

“But hyung—” 

“Don’t you worry,” Yoongi says. “I have a better idea, anyhow. Better than eating cold hollandaise sauce—disgusting by the way—off those tits.” 

“Hey!” you hiss. 

Yoongi looks you in the eye. “Darling, I would never call your tits disgusting." He nods to Jungkook. “That young man, however, I’d call him a lot of things.” 

Jungkook wriggles out from between your legs and steps up to Yoongi. He plants a kiss on the back of the older man’s neck. From the counter, you can see Yoongi flush with surprise. 

“What?” 

“Our friend is no appetizer anyways, Jungkook. If anything—the main damn course.” 

And that’s how you start the day, laughing, and kissing your two friends in the kitchen. Thank god no one except Taehyung shows up looking to be fed. He grins as he bites into his bacon, watching the three of you giggle and find pleasure in each other. 

It all almost entirely clears the fog that’s been following you the last few days. It almost makes you forget that there’s one invitation you haven’t yet responded to: Namjoon’s offer. 

As Yoongi wraps an arm around your waist and whispers into your neck the dirtiest of promises, you hear Namjoon’s voice in your head.Stay. Stay.

← || series m.list || →

(hi sweet reader. if you'd like to subscribe to this series, please follow me on AO3 to receive updates direct to your email. also, if you liked this chapter, i'd love to hear from you. see you next chapter!)

(p.s if you would be interested in getting chapters earlier, i am looking for a beta reader or two to discuss the next few chapters with. bouncing ideas around has always helped me get these chapters together quicker. if you're even slightly interested, feel free to dm me!)

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly. 

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank). 

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored. 

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that. 

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was. 

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment. 

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage. 

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction. 

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!” 

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?” 

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks. 

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding. 

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone. 

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still. 

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him. 

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident. 

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way. 

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture. 

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you. 

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture. 

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt. 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat. 

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk. 

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence. 

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away. 

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door. 

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice. 

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off. 

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note. 

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you. 

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole. 

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero. 

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation. 

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you. 

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”? 

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot. 

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly. 

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute. 

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night. 

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. 

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?” 

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically. 

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying. 

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason. 

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching. 

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding. 

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly. 

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face. 

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you. 

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text. 

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time. 

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy. 

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense. 

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him. 

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement. 

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him. 

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same. 

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray. 

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes. 

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him. 

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream. 

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name? 

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers. 

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform. 

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?” 

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful. 

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything. 

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight. 

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom. 

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through. 

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do? 

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought. 

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift. 

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance. 

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage. 

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology. 

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years. 

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here. 

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts. 

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug. 

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache. 

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor. 

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well. 

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song. 

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers. 

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten. 

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him. 

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him. 

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick. 

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses. 

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer. 

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you. 

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears. 

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant. 

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder. 

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back. 

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky. 

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought. 

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster. 

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one. 

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook. 

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind. 

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you. 

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs. 

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again. 

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out. 

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you. 

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent. 

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix. 

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it. 

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow. 

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles. 

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter. 

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope. 

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that. 

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it. 

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears. 

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer. 

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too. 

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers. 

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare. 

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind. 

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class. 

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel. 

But you do know, the universe responds. 

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond? 

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing. 

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation. 

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat. 

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance? 

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air. 

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.  

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.