#bumble writes

** indicates mature content

Echos | JJK Soulmate AU

Meet OC! Part One Part Two Part Three

Part Four Part Five Part Six. Part Seven

Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen** Part Nineteen Part Twenty

Part Twenty-One Epilogue

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Soft Places to Land | MYG Soulmate AU

This is a spinoff of Echos but can be read as a standalone

Meet OC! Part One Part Two Part Three

Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen** Part Nineteen Epilogue

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The Things We Carry | PJM Soulmate AU

Prequel to Echos and Soft Places to Land but can be read as a standalone

Meet OC! Part One Part Two Part Three

Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen Part Nineteen** Part Twenty

Part Twenty-One Part Twenty-Two

Part Twenty-Three Part Twenty-Four

Epilogue

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So I Won’t Forget | KNJ

Soulmate AU

My soulmate universe-but can be read as a standalone

Meet OC! Part One Part Two Part Three

Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

When you walked into the lounge, there wasn't one square inch of you that resembled the woman that was laid up on the couch an hour ago. Where your bonnet had sat was now a head of freshly-styled hair. Where sweat pants had clung to your form was now a body dressed to the nines—full and on display for anyone to see. You smelled inviting and looked like a present that needed to be unwrapped.

But in your chest, your heart pounded with a mix of anxiety and recognition.

It had been forever since you’d gotten out of the house to have some real fun, and while it was anxiety-inducing to say the least, you didn’t entirely hate that fact that you were dragged from your couch. You were ready for whatever tonight brought, ready to have even the smallest bit of excitement.

Your friend, Reneé, walked in beside you—dressed to kill. She was a ball of energy already, flashing her smile at every man that looked too long and strutting like she ran the room. A dark red off-the-shoulder dress clung to her deep skin, practically blending into it. It fit over her curves like it was sewn on, and it fell to the middle of her thighs—not too short, not too long.

The thigh tattoo she got a few years back—a half-sleeve of pink, red, and purple roses—peaked out from beneath the dress, throwing an array of colors at every man who stared too close. And down her long legs, rested a silver anklet—demure in size—and a pair of Louis Vuitton’s—expensive and eye-catching.

You two looked like walking temptation, and you moved about the room like you were ready to make it everyone’s problem.

That was the thing about Reneé. She always brought out the side of you that was ready to have a good time and get into some shit. She never pushed too hard, never prodded beyond what you could handle, and you appreciated her for how daring she made you want to be.

The lounge was hushed—dimmed golden lights, soft jazz, the scent of smoke and dark liquor curling in the air.

In a dark corner, barely visible to the rest of the establishment, the couple sat side by side. Their thighs touched in the dark, fingers ghosting each other’s as they watched the room carefully. They needed to have some part of their person touching the other, even in the strangeness that was their pursuit; They always needed to be grounded—especially now.

For a room like this, dense in rich men and fat wallets, they tended to find escorts, sugar babies, and mistresses through more official channels. Notable men liked to have some verifiable information on the women they entertained that included a long track record of who she was and what other rich men she’d been with. Of course they would never turn down a pretty woman when they saw her at a lounge like this, but it just wasn’t always the first choice for something more in-depth.

But Smoke and Annie weren’t fans of the whole professional rotation of women with its rosters and interview processes. It felt disingenuous, and they wanted to find someone who at least found interest in who they were as people before money was thrown into the mix.

Annie sat against the leather couch, back and thighs cushioned with her husband’s arm over her shoulders. She wanted to feel secure, like she knew what she was doing and could be confident in that, but anxiety struck her quickly.

“What if we don’t find nobody,” she quipped, turning her head sharply toward him. She didn’t stumble over her words. She didn’t mumble. She spoke wired, like the anxiety had lit up something inside her that was loud with the need for answers.

Elijah sighed, shifting closer and pulling her in by his arm over her shoulder. The rocks glass of whiskey sat heavy on his thigh, and he thumbed the side of it while feeling every bit of his wife’s uncertainty.

“Don’t say that,” he shook his head, calm and quiet as he attempted to quell her worry. But Annie was on a roll now; Her leg was shaking, and she was working her wedding ring in circles on her finger, spinning it like it held all the answers.

“But what if,” she started, voice catching, “what if we doin’ this for no reason?”

“It ain’t for no reason because we both want this,” Smoke lowered his voice, leveling his eyes so she understood how serious he was being. He raised his cup to his lips for reprieve before he pulled her closer. Annie looked at him, eyes wide and lips in a pout. “We’ve talked about it. We’ve planned it. And even if we don’t find anyone, we try again.”

“And what if we still can’t?”

The question was full of frustration. The woman had somehow managed to wind her mind into a spiral of what ifs and what abouts, and her husband knew he needed to pull her back quickly. With all her work and many responsibilities, Annie only had a little capacity left for stress. She needed every aspect of her home life to be calm, and with the way she was worrying now, Elijah knew he had to step in.

Shifting his body toward hers again, Smoke moved his arm behind her back and down the length of her side. He pressed his hand into her waist, grounding her as best he could in the environment they were in. The man breathed deeply, meeting her eyes and watching as she followed his breath.

“We have each other,” he reassured her. “We always have, and we always will.” His words were softer than most people would ever get the chance to hear them be. In his classes, Smoke trained people off of sternness and grit. He maintained a strong tone and worked people just to the edge of overexertion. But with Annie? With Annie he was sweet and soft and patient. She loved that about him the most.

Elijah paid close attention to her breathing and how her body relaxed against his. When she seemed stable again, eyes looking up at him softly, he chuckled.

“Shit,” he scoffed in remark, rubbing his chin in thought.“I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

That sentence alone finally broke Annie into a laugh, letting her heart fully rest in the space between them. She squinted her eyes and tilted her head at the man like he knew better, the smile playing at the corner of her lips encouraging him to infiltrate her space.

“I’ll always want you, Elijah,” she shook her head with a grin, laugh coming out exasperated. The air returned to honest comfort. Her husband sat to her side, quietly sipping his whiskey as her mind roamed. She thought on her earlier moment of nearly slipping into her anxiety, how he reeled her back in softly. “I guess I’m just anxious now that we’re here is all.”

“It’s a lot to process,” he affirmed, nodding along because he understood her deeply. Always had.

Annie responded with a scoff, acknowledging the truth behind his quiet words, but her mind was already rolling again.

“What if we don’t have the same type?”

“Annie,” the man shot back, looking at her like she was crazy.

“Seriously though,” she shrugged. Her hands shot up, practically grasping for the remnants of her sanity. “What if you want somebody who’s not—”

“We’ve talked through this, baby,” Smoke interrupted. His tone was like concrete—unmovable yet providing undeniable stability and support.

“I know,” Annie breathed, casting her eyes down. She already understood that no matter what she said, Smoke would have a rebuttal for any bit of negativity. He always eased her down, always provided her stability when she needed it most. Even though her mind kept falling off into thoughts about him wanting someone completely opposite of what she wanted, she knew her and Elijah would solve anything that came their way. Annie’s eyes dragged back toward his, wet in the corners. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was smaller, and she forced her body deeper into his hold.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” her husband responded, kissing her temple. “I have a feeling that when we see her, we’ll both feel that spark. A pull, I guess.”

Their eyes shifted back to the room as Annie settled the discussion with a soft hum—affirmative and honest. Her anxiety was finally put to rest. With her husband sitting strongly at her side, she could finally register that everything was going to be okay even if it didn’t seem possible in the moment.

The room churned softly with jazz. A piano in the corner rang as the pianist worked the keys like she was born with music at her fingertips.

Annie had a sweating glass of wine in her hand, the other resting on Smoke’s thigh. The man sipped his whiskey, eyes on the room, focusing on the exits, glazing over the people nestled in faraway booths.

He always enjoyed this part of the night. The watching. The calculating. The picking up on people’s small cues.

He knew for a fact that he and his wife would gravitate toward the same person. They were too locked in, and their lives were so tightly woven that it made no sense to think anything different.

Smoke watched the exit as the door opened, some business man walking in like he was fresh out of the office.

Then he noticed a couple near them that had been cackling all night—loud and obnoxious.

And then his eyes narrowed in on the bar.

When they saw you, it felt like the air left the room. What once blazed with soft music and quiet energy was snuffed out as the couple partook in your beauty. They were overcome by you, minds venturing off too far into the future about vast hypothetical situations where they could shower you in money and attention.

The way your outfit hugged your body, the way you laughed fully with your head thrown back, the way your eyes lit up when you recognized a song playing from the piano—it all pulled them in.

Annie’s hand tightened around her husband’s thigh, trying to find some bit of control. And a part of her—deep in her head where the worry still sat—was asking if he felt what she did. Her fingers flexed against the fabric, tangling in the wrinkles she created as her rings scraped against him. And when her husband provided an answer to her unasked question, he delivered in the form of a gasping breath.

Elijah completely halted his breathing. His eyes were locked on the sight before him, and the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth was Annie’s hand.

No words needed to be said between them. They both understood what was happening—what emotions were brewing quietly yet boldly. It was obvious by they way their bodies remained connected—Elijah’s arm over Annie with her palm on his thigh—as their heads faced your direction. It was that stable connection between them that always remained and seemed to grow deeper as they indulged in the sight of you.

The man spoke first, voice gruff with the remnants of the whiskey in his throat and the desire boiling beneath the surface. His tone made Annie’s spine shiver, forcing her to ensure there wasn’t even the slightest bit of a gap between them. Their skin touched, sparking flames of want.

“What you think?”

His lips were close to her ear—too close—penetrating her body deep. They ghosted over her skin, making her mind flair with nasty thoughts. The woman released a quiet moan, one so delicate that only he could hear it over the sound of the music, but it was honest and needy.

“She’s pretty,” Annie answered lowly. She worked her bottom lip between her teeth, focusing on the way you crossed one leg over the other as you sat on that barstool. Your body was turned toward another woman, eyes smiling at something she said, and noting the distance between you two, Annie concluded that she was no more than a friend.

Or she hoped to God that was the case.

Her heart pitched, excited and enamored already.

From one glance at her, no one would ever guess that she was the confident business woman who negotiated with the most brawny of men for a living. The woman who normally held her head high with a tongue that bit back hard was cowering. Excited yet nervous. Enamored yet convincing herself that this couldn’t possibly work.

Smoke grunted beside her, moving in close. He pressed a kiss into her shoulder, effectively sending her body into a mess of shivers. He chuckled as she leaned into him, closing her eyes for half a second longer than usual.

“Go get us something else to drink, baby,” he whispered into her skin, nudging the side of her thigh. The words were like concrete and left no room for her to disobey, but Annie’s head still whipped back toward his. She took in every inch of his face. His eyes held the comfort she desperately needed. His chin remained strong—settled in an effort to show her how deeply he wanted what she did.

With a quiet nod of her head and a few deep breaths, Annie stood from the leather couch that had been providing her solace all night.

“I’ll be back, baby,” the woman cooed, planting a heavy kiss on the man’s lips. It lasted as short as she could manage it without making her head spin too much, but any time the couple got to kissing, it took an act of God to pull them apart.

Annie broke away with a laugh, pulling her head back to see Elijah with flushed cheeks and swollen lips. When she turned back toward you, Annie was renewed. She moved with confidence, hips switching back and forth—knowing her husband’s eyes were on her every step of the way. She sent a look over her shoulder, teasing and silly with a small wave.

She pushed her nerves away. Something about Smoke’s words had shut that part of her up. Something about your quiet laugh was bringing her down from the anxiety while her husband lingered on her lips.

Elijah watched her the entire way, sinking into his seat and setting his feet apart.

He knew Annie needed to be sent in first, knew she needed to be the first line of defense. She was a people person. A smooth talker. Someone folks loved for the simply fact that her voice sounded like straight honey—not to mention how too-sweet her disposition was.

And there was no denying that she was looking especially sexy tonight, heels making her long legs even longer as she strutted toward the bar.

“Can I get glass of Courvoisier and two shots of Reposado, please?”

The voice rang out from the other end of the bar top, but you couldn’t stop the way your ears perked up at the sound of it. Sweet—honeyed—and undeniably feminine. Her lips curled around each syllable, slow and with a controlled ease that had your head turning on a swivel to catch the mouth that had birthed such a beautiful sound.

And when you landed eyes on her, your intrigue only grew.

The woman was tall, even taller in the heels she wore as she leaned against the bar top—languid and easy. Her hair was in a beautiful nest of curls, effortlessly contained. Her body was covered in a short dress, comfortably falling over her soft curves and plush skin. Her face was stoic, and her posture gave off the impression that she belonged in a room like this: surrounded by rich men because she was a rich woman herself.

You could pick up on that same business-like swag that many of the lounge’s other patrons carried in their bodies. It was in the way she checked her watch or threw a look over her shoulder. Simple. Effortless. Beautiful.

“Girl,” Reneé startled you, “are you not listening to me?” When you focused in on your friend, she was looking at you like she’d been calling your name repeatedly. Her eyebrows were tight and her lips were pursed, and all you wanted to do was go back to looking at that woman.

“Huh,” you responded dazedly, mind somewhere else entirely. Reneé huffed out a laugh.

“I said, you need to get laid,” she recited. “It’s been forever and a day since you got some, and I need you to remember how good yo’ body can feel.”

“Mhm,” you hummed distantly, eyes already drifting back toward the woman. You watched her, paid attention to every detail of her—big and small. She had the most beautiful eyes, dark brown and round—yet cutting. She had moles on her face. She giggled along to the music. She twisted the rings on her hand. And she kept looking over her shoulder.

When she received her drinks—two shots of Reposado and a glass of Courvoisier—she wrapped her thin fingers around one of the shot glasses. You’d convinced yourself that you could hear the sound of her rings meeting the glass even though she was on the other side of the bar, too far for you to make out anything distinct. But when she lifted that glass to her mouth—your attention locked in on the swallow in her throat, the hollow of her cheeks, the pursing of her lips—her eyes met yours when she took it to the head.

Time appeared to stop.

You didn’t have a care for how Reneé was yapping in your ear or how the woman had been looking over her shoulder just seconds ago. All you cared about was how her eyes were on you right now.

The gaze she sent you was quiet yet commanding, and it remained on you as she set the glass down. A dull thud rang through your ears, making your stomach shudder. You watched her lick her heavy bottom lip, and your body grew hot as her stare penetrated your chest.

And then—she winked.

She giggled.

She sent a wave your way.

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest. There was no way a woman that sexy was hitting on you. There was no way you had almost turned down your friend’s request to hang out tonight. Your stomach churned when the woman grabbed the remaining shot and glass of Courvoisier. She turned on her heels, sent you one more look, and departed into a barely visible corner of the room.

“I know you fuckin’ lyin’,” Reneé quipped, eyes wide, mouth gaping, expression stilled. She’d seen in all: the woman walk up and order; the way you became transfixed; the look she sent you over her glass; the wave of her fingers she gave; and how your eyes were currently straining to see that dark corner she’d disappeared into.

She was simply astonished and very much proud, and a part of her became determined to make you see this through. Reneé laughed around her shock.

“Well damn! That woman was looking at you like she wanted to suck you clean off the bone,” her voice rumbled, making your insides shake from how real that felt. Your eyes were focused on where the women had gone to. You could just barely make out the leather couch she was sitting on and how one heeled leg was crossed over another. But that’s all you could see clearly, and it made your heart hurt.

“Stop being dramatic,” you sighed, straightening up in your seat again. You forced your eyes to stop following the woman or lingering on her place at the bar she had previously been—no matter how much your head wanted to snap back. You denied yourself the pleasure, pushed down the need.

Reneé scoffed beside you, cocking her head to the side in an effort to say she wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t born yesterday.

“I ain’t being dramatic,” she informed with a roll of her eye. She downed a shot of her own, barely flinching as the liquor hit her throat, red hot. Her attention was back on you in a flash, and you saw determination cross her face. “I was right here, and I saw all of that. A woman doesn’t go around throwing dirty looks like that unless she wants something. So…are you gonna give it to her?”

The way her voice lilted at the end made you snap your head in her direction. Your eyes narrowed into a warning, but all Reneé could do was laugh.

The pair could see you, but you couldn’t see them. The corner was too dark—too private and just how they wanted it. They picked up on every small change of your demeanor from the first time they saw you to when Annie left you in shock and wonder. Your posture had become unsettled, body threatening to turn in their direction. Your attention was spotty, far-off and imagining the woman in the corner.

It pulled a smiled to Annie’s lips and made her body hum with the need to fuck, but she forced it away—for now. Downing her second shot, Annie looked toward her husband who was gripping his glass of Courvoisier like it was about to run away. His jaw was clenched tight, teeth scraping. His body was leaned forward, elbows to knees as he watched from the near-dark.

“She want you bad,” he growled, practically shaking from his desire. He shook his head incredulously, remembering the way his wife was bent over that bar top, how your eyes ghosted over her body without shame. “She can’t even sit still without thinkin’ ‘bout you,” he added on his observation. His voice was dense, coming directly from his gut.

“I don’t know if I did enough,” Annie whispered, casting her eyes down. “She seem like the shy type. Like this ain’t really her element.” The woman swallowed thickly, dragging her eyes back over to how you seemed to be unable to calm your heart. It brought a small smile to her lips, one of pity and admiration. “She don’t even seem like she knows she can want and be wanted.”

“She’ll come around,” he nodded, quietly agreeing to her words, eyes on your fidgeting manner. He shrugged, sipping his drink. The woman beside you was pointing in their direction, talking your ear off to the point that he had to laugh. Smoke’s tone was resolute and definitive when he spoke again. “And if not, her friend will make her.”

Thirty minutes went by. The room stayed the same: thick with smoke, light with jazz, swirling with liquor, and dense with a need that you couldn’t get under control on your own. It was past the time that you had planned to leave in order to be back home in comfy clothes and asleep in bed, but your body was humming—screaming.

You needed that woman, and you needed her bad.

As Reneé talked about nothing while laughing boldly at every man who offered to buy her a drink, your mind pounded with thoughts of the woman.

What if I leave here tonight and never see her again, you asked yourself, concern and fear settling into your bones. What if I go my whole life regretting this? What if tomorrow I wake up pissed at myself for being too damn stubborn and scared to just let go?

Each question became more frantic, and with each answer not given, you fell deeper into distress. You could damn near feel the woman’s eyes on your back. They were heavy and temptation-filled, and you wanted so desperately to fall into her trap.

“Take your ass over there before you combust,” Reneé shook her head, giggling at the look on your face. You looked lost—mind gone. “You been thinking about her since she left,” your friend added, sipping her drink like you were providing her all the entertainment in the world. She wanted to instigate, to gently nudge you in the woman’s direction. She couldn’t forget the looks you’d given each other, couldn’t deny the way your words stopped from awe. “You obviously like her, so just go enjoy yourself for once. You don’t have to commit to anything. You’re not marrying her. You’re just talking.”

You let the truth sink in.

You wanted tonight to be fun; You deserved it and had worked too hard and worried too much to not enjoy life the life you were given. So with your friend’s encouragement locked in the back of your mind, you willed yourself to venture across the room. You ordered two shots of Reposado, hoping for it to be an offering to the woman.

“You here alone tonight,” your voice quipped, extending a question to the woman who sat against the thick leather couch like she belonged there. Standing above her with two shot glasses in hand, your eyes remained planted on her effortless beauty. Her attention had been wrapped around you from before you even got up from your seat, and when you stepped into the dark to find just her, a smile grew on her lips.

“Well, you’re here now,” she acknowledged without hesitation, gesturing for you to have a seat, “so you tell me, Sugar.” There was something so easy in the name. Something that wrapped around your heart and pulled you in. Something that mixed possession with passion and made you want to remain there for as long as she allowed.

You followed the guiding of her hand as she moved back on the couch to give you space to sit. You didn’t answer her, humming instead as you presented a shot glass to her.

“Thank you,” she grabbed the glass appreciatively, taking it down her throat like it was nothing. When she straightened up, watching you down your own shot with far less grace, her voice softened into a question. “What are you doin’ out tonight? This doesn’t seem much like your speed.”

“It’s definitely not,” your laugh cut through the words, exasperated. You smiled lightly, having the hardest time looking into her eyes without getting too caught up in her. Pointing in the direction you came from, you shook your head. “My friend dragged me out. She thinks I’m too much of a homebody.”

From your seat on the couch, you could see the bar without any obstruction. There was your stool—empty—and there was Reneé, leaning toward some man who had just walked up to her. The realization hit that while you hadn’t been able to see her, she could see you without issue.

The woman hummed in acknowledgment, clearing her throat.

“And what do you think?”

The question landed hard, causing you to ponder. You definitely loved being at home. With all your work and responsibilities and bills that needed to be paid no matter how much you wanted to rest, your couch and your warm bed were what brought you the most comfort. Your home was your safe space, where you could be without judgment, but you couldn’t negate the fact that tonight was panning out well so far. So you answered truthfully.

“I think home is where I’m most comfortable,” you shrugged thoughtfully, eyes getting lost in hers. Annie shifted closer, and her knees brushed yours. Clearing your throat, your tone lowered. “But if I hadn’t of come out tonight, I wouldn’t have met you,” you reached a hand out and offered your name, smooth yet shaking as you were finally getting your bearings.

“Annie,” she cooed. When your palms met, your center flushed with a heat that needed to be fucked out. Her skin was soft, hands large, fingers nimble. As the simple pleasure shot through your core, you shifted your body. One leg crossed over the other and your thighs clenched tight.

And Annie saw every bit of the need as it flashed through you.

“You’re real cute, you know that,” she giggled. Her left index finger hooked on one of her teeth, biting the tip of it for stability. She wanted to pounce. Wanted to make your body scream the way you clearly needed. But she had to settle her body’s excitement.

Smoke had gone off to the bathroom just five minutes ago, and here you were. It seemed like you had sensed she was alone now, waiting and watching you with no one at her side, but now nerves were shooting through her again.

She didn’t know how you’d react when Elijah returned, and the man had left his phone in her purse, wanting to be present without a screen to distract him. Annie worked her brain, thought of any idea of what to do as your eyes rolled down her body, taking her in up close. But that was when your eyes landed heavily on her left hand.

A fat diamond sat on Annie’s ring finger—loud and sparkling even despite the minimal light. She watched with spiked anxiety as your head tilted to one side, taking the jewelry in, fighting the part of you that wanted to get up and leave.

“You—you’re married,” you scrambled out, words shaky and not even attempting to ask for an explanation. You cemented the truth in your head, and you quickly began to feel stupidity flood your body. Annie reached toward you in an effort to make some sense of the whole thing, but you were already frazzled beyond help. You looked to the side of her. Glasses sat piled up, more than she could manage to drink on her own, and you remembered her order—two shots of Reposado and one glass of Courvoisier. “Oh God,” you groaned in disbelief and fright. “I’m so so sorry! I thought—I, I assumed that you wanted—fuck.”

You moved quick, rising to your feet, looking for any exit, hoping Reneé would turn your way even though the corner was too dark for her to see your panic. Your heart was beating in your ears, and your breathing had become uneven and erratic. You completely turned away from Annie in hopes to free both of you from this embarrassment, but that’s when your eyes landed on him.

Fear sank in, hushed yet active.

But low in your belly, something close to desire bloomed.

The man was straight-faced—not angry, just observant. He looked through you, eyes dragging down your front, zeroing in on your body in a way that felt too familiar and not familiar enough. It was a slow claiming, similar to Annie’s but far more dangerous.

You looked back toward the woman, seeking answers but mouth refusing to open and embarrass yourself any further. You felt like an idiot to be lusting after a married woman, buying her drinks and getting caught up in her too-sweet voice. Your head was pounding, and you didn’t know whether you needed a shit ton of alcohol or to just lay out and die.

Annie stepped forward, smile rising on her lips even as she noted your growing tension. She stood closer than needed, her breath ghosting over your face.

“This is my husband,” she announced, tilting her head in his direction while keeping her attention locked on you. You were immediately drawn back in by her. Breath heavy, your eyes followed her lips as she spoke, and then the man behind you both made his presence known once more.

“Name’s Smoke,” the man rumbled. His cadence was slow, tone rough but coated in something sweet. A Southern flair that felt too good to your ears.

“H-hi,” you waved politely, frightfully, eyes flashing between Annie and her husband. You threw your fingers in the air in apology, needing them both to understand that you meant no harm. Their energies were too strong, weighing on you in a delicious way. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to disrespect either of you,” you whispered. Your hands crossed in your front, body shifting toward Annie’s. “I didn’t realize you were married.”

The woman’s eyes bore into you hot. Nothing about her gaze seemed like you had misinterpreted anything. She looked at you like her husband wasn’t right behind you, breath warm and loud with a quiet certainty that you didn’t understand. She looked at you like she was ready to take you right there and let the man watch, and something about that made you want to lean in.

“Oh, that’s just fine, Sugar,” she resolved, waving her hand in dismissal. “Smoke don’t mind much,” Annie giggled, meeting the man’s gaze with a seductive grin. Your face flushed, and as the heat of embarrassment and arousal flared throughout your body, you didn’t even realize the couple was planning your future.

“Let’s exchange information,” the woman demanded simply, putting on a commanding tone that you could only assume worked well in boardrooms and offices—and in her and her husband’s bed. She turned toward her purse that sat on the coach, bending over. She arched her back, sending her dress up her thighs.

With Smoke standing behind you—quiet and overbearingly attractive—and Annie bending over practically showing the underside of her ass, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. You could tell that the man’s eyes were finally off of you, giving you a second to breathe as you both watched with lust behind your eyes. His wife was rustling through her small purse, skin showing under the gold lights, and your mind swirled with thoughts too filthy to repeat.

“Put in your number,” she hummed, and for a second, you had to remember where you were. Your mind was still on how you’d just seen the back of her thighs, how her husband’s breathing was rough with arousal behind you.

Before second-guessing, you took the phone, saving your name and number as she asked. When she told you to give her your instagram, you still didn’t falter, obeying every command like you were awaiting praise; And she gave it, slowly crooning your name, biting her bottom lip before lifting her chin toward Smoke in victory.

“I’m sorry again,” you apologized, letting them know that you were past due to head home and that you hoped you hadn’t ruined their night. You were overcome by what you thought was your own stupidity, already beating yourself up from being presumptuous.

But then the man spoke up for just the second time since you were caught, and the sound of his voice imprinted itself in your mind.

“It’s all good, sweetheart,” he began, stepping into your personal space. His chest just barely brushed yours, and as much as you tried to breath normally, you simply couldn’t. “I hope we’ll see you again sometime soon.”

When the couple busted through the front door of their home, there was nothing stopping them from latching onto each other’s bodies. They weren’t in public anymore, and the need that had been intensifying all night had finally reached its peak.

Elijah wasted no time, backing Annie up into the living room.

His blood was pumping through his veins rapidly. His mind was stuck on the lounge. Watching Annie sauntered over to the bar and pull your attention so easily was making his body turn toward her even more. Having eyed you both from a quiet hallway as you passed Annie that shot glass before noticing her ring had him ready to fall inside of her.

He always adored his wife’s confidence, always allowed it to feed his own, but there was something about having another person in the equation that made things hotter.

“You so damn temptin’, woman,” he groaned, kissing her full on the mouth and taking every breath she tried to release. His hands were planted heavily on her ass, hoisting her up as he backed her into the couch. He used the furniture to provide them stability as his full lips traveled down her neck and toward her waiting cleavage. “Fuck you thought you was bendin’ over like that for,” he demanded an answer, mind swirling to how she’d reached for her purse, allowing you and him to see the back of her thighs. “Showin’ all that skin,” he shook his head in both disbelief and approval. “Made me want to take yo’ ass over that leather coach and let her watch.”

At that, Smoke turned Annie around, hand gripping the back of her neck. He pushed her into the arm of the couch, forcing her face into the cushions so her ass was presented perfectly for him.

And Annie moaned—partly from the force, partly from his mention of you. But the sound was filthy in only a way she could produce.

“Oh, you like that, huh,” the man questioned, pressing his pelvis into her ass. She could feel all of him, sitting thick and throbbing in the seat of his pants, and she couldn’t help but to grind back against him.

Annie was drunk out of her mind. The two shots she’d taken plus the one you’d brought and the glasses of wine she’d downed were making her head feel fuzzy and her body feel light with pleasure. She needed to be fucked hard, and if there was anything that needed to be noted about a drunk Annie is that her need was insatiable.

“I need that dick,” she slurred her words, propping her body up by extending her arms. She looked over her shoulder, pouting when the man just stared her down.

“I asked you a fuckin’ question, mama,” Smoke growled, cutting through the air. He pulled her by the hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her back against his chest. He breathed deep words into her ear while she moaned. “You like that? You like when I mention how slutty you get? How you would’ve loved to be fucked in front of her?”

“Yes,” Annie groaned, writhing against his solid form. “God, yes.” Breath heavy in her throat, the woman fought back. Her hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to loosen his hold on her hair, but she was barely giving it any real energy. She liked it when he got like this—when they were both drunk off that liquor and craving each other.

She liked Smoke rough, liked when his hands landed heavily, but something was different about tonight.

Every grit of his teeth, every tightening of his hand, every thrust against her ass was led by the memory of you and his wife together. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind, and he prayed to God he’d never forget it.

“Been dreamin’ ‘bout being in this pussy all night,” he remarked, mind going back to how he’d had that passing thought about staying home. If he’d done that, they wouldn’t have your number saved in Annie’s phone. If Annie had given in, Smoke wouldn’t have been this desperately needy. He breathed down her neck as he pushed her chest into the couch again. Pants down around his ankles with her dress raised to her hips, he demanded what he wanted—clear as day.

“Give me that pussy,” Elijah moaned, tossing his head back as his wife guided him in. He watched with glazed eyes as her hips pressed into his pelvis, grinding against him. This is how it went with them: Smoke brought all that sinful heat, and Annie matched it, forcing the man into a moaning mess.

It was lost on who was fucking who at this point. The woman’s thighs were burning as she glided back and forth on his length—wet and loud. But her husband was meeting her with strokes of his own now, thrusting into her and making the room dense with the sounds of heavy sex.

“This yo’ pussy, Smoke,” Annie moaned without hesitation, body hot and growing more tired by the second. She was captivated by the way the man stood over her, sweat dripping from his face, muscles bulging, jaw tight as his strokes became quick. She talked dirty, said shit about how she felt a spark between you and the man, how she wanted nothing more than to see it play out in her bed.

His hands gripped her hips, hitting the back of her vagina harsher. Deep and unrelenting, he fucked her through the pain and past the point of pleasure. The only thing keeping Annie’s body upright was the couch. Her legs had gone limp, and her arms had refused to hold her exhausted body up a long time ago.

He was fucking her too good, hitting all the right spots and sobering her up enough just to get her drunk off his dick.

They wanted you more than they could comprehend. What had began with slight uncertainty and anxiety on both parts was beginning to fade away and into unearned obsession. They desired every bit of you. From one night and a brief conversation, the couple couldn’t imagine looking for anyone else. They wanted to give you the world. To make you happy. To shower you in expensive clothes, money, and something close to love. And all it took was you sitting on that barstool, laughing freely.

While you laid in your bed at home, thinking about the way their eyes warmed you from the inside, they were fucking to the thought of you—tearing each other apart with no remorse.

Annie had cum a long time ago, creamy pussy gripping onto her husband’s length like her life depended on it. And in many ways, it did.

Her back was flush with his chest again, both of their upper bodies bare now. Nothing was in their way. Nothing obstructed them from getting to what they needed from the other. Their bodies met in a ruthless manner, and the subsequent moans, whimpers, and whines ricocheted around the room.

“Yeah,” Elijah nodded against Annie’s neck, rutting against her. His cadence was slow, tone muddled. “Give me that pussy,” he chanted as he hit it from the back, falling into her body with each thrust. He kept recited the words, kept demanding her to give all of it to him, and his wife obeyed.

“That dick so fuckin’ good,” she praised in appreciation, throwing in back with more enthusiasm. Her moans rumbled in her chest, mind on two people at once, body churning for the both of them. “You gon’ fuck her like this, daddy?”

Annie tore something in Elijah’s stomach wide open with that question. From her sickly sweet voice to that name he could never get enough of, Smoke was beginning to feel his body on the edge of climax.

He pulled out in a rush, leaving Annie a whiny mess before she realized she was being turned around. His heavy hands sat her ass on the arm of the couch, forearms going under her knees to kept her open and in place. And that’s when he began to fuck her like he was looking for buried treasure.

“You want me to fuck her,” he threw the question back at her. He got lost in the way her eyes rolled back, how her jaw slacked from too much please, but he wasn’t having any of that tonight. When she didn’t answer, too caught up in her own pleasure, Elijah pressed his fingers into her chin. He pulled her back to him harshly, still pounding into her while forcing her eyes to open. “Answer me, mama,” he groaned, feeling something coiling in his lower body. He was close—they both were—and when Annie finally spoke up, they came with haste.

“Ye-yes, daddy,” his wife admitted, throat raw from all her moaning. She held onto his shoulders as he stroked with harsh care, hardly able to keep her mind afloat. “I want it. I want you to give her this good dick, and I wanna show her how to take all of it.”

The couple left it all in the floor. They didn’t hold shit back. They didn’t deny themselves or each other any ounce of pleasure. They admitted their motivations. They confessed their love. They fucked each other with honesty and appreciation on the tip of their tongues.

You were somewhere across town, sitting in bed and thinking about your strange yet intriguing encounter—happy nonetheless that you’d gotten outside of your comfort zone for once; And Smoke and Annie were folded up in each other, arousal running deep with your name in the air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: 10,500 words :DDD. how are we feeling about reneé? are we cool with her as a recurring character?

taglist: comment HERE to be added!

Warm, bright yellow blood coats dark digits, a low purr rising from Equinox as he brings his fingers to his own lips, eagerly cleaning the blood from his claws, some smeared on his face in his already rising excitement.

Deep red and orange stars light up on Vi's face was he watches his partner clean up, his rays spinning rapidly as he tugs against the chains, desperate to do the same but the chains hold strong.

"ah, ah,ah~ not so fast love~ there's still things for me to clean~"

Equinox purrs as he glides his thumb over the bleeding cut of Vi's side, pulling a strangled sound from the virus's voice box, a thick cloud of steam coming from their lips as their head tilts back, their tail thumping against the ground.

Equinox chuckles as he lowers himself so that his face is level with the cut. His tongue swipes across his lips before pressing against the cut, sliding slowly along it, drawing several sounds of delight from his loving prey.

Vi twitches and slumps against the chains, huffing and panting as Equinox presses into the cut, his purrs buzzing through the virus through a mouthful of warm blood, claws grabbing at Vi's bare thighs and slicing into them haphazardly, letting the blood pour and drip onto the floor.

Equinox pulls his head from Vi's side, clearing any blood from his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue, the cut he was lavishing finished bleeding and already starting to close.

Vi's head slumps from its tilted position, making him stare at his bleeding leg, which only riled him further, making his squirm and tug against the chains with a low growl, steam pillaring from his vents and teeth.

Oh how he wanted to ravish Equinox the same, to tear into them and eagerly feed on the oil that he spills and watch it stain the floor like he has countless times!

LOS ANGELES — THREE DAYS BEFORE THE FIRST U.S. SHOW

Ellie Parker checked her reflection in the dark elevator mirror three separate times before deciding she looked normal enough to survive the next hour…Not good. Normal. She had to be normal because ‘good’ implied confidence. ‘Good’ implied someone who belonged in places like this. Ellie had spent most of her life feeling like she’d accidentally wandered into rooms meant for other people.

The elevator continued upward smoothly beneath her feet….Twenty-two….Twenty-three… Breathe in. Breathe out

A production manager beside her scrolled through emails while speaking quickly, “So for the U.S. dates, we’ll mostly need you during press blocks, livestream translations, backstage coordination, and any emergency media situations.”—Emergency media situations.

Ellie still couldn’t believe that was a real phrase people used professionally. She nodded anyway, “Okay.”

“You’ll be working closely with management and members directly.”

Okay.

“You comfortable with live translation?”

“Yes.” That answer came easier.

Live translation didn’t scare her. Translation was safe because the words weren’t hers. People couldn’t judge you if you were only carrying someone else’s meaning from one language into another.

“You’ll mostly rotate between interviews, backstage communications, and live translation support,” he said. “The previous arrangement worked city to city, but after everything that happened…” He trailed off awkwardly.

Ellie knew exactly what he meant: after the livestream; after the soulmate reveal; after the entire internet collectively imploded. She still remembered sitting cross-legged on her apartment floor at two in the morning watching headlines refresh in real time while millions of people argued online about destiny and love and whether soulmates should even exist publicly. Meanwhile she had just been trying to finish translating a research paper.

The elevator dinged softly…..Twenty-five. The doors slid open. Noise immediately crashed into her: Footsteps, voices, music bleeding faintly through walls, walkie-talkies crackling constantly. The entire hotel floor looked transformed into a moving ecosystem of staff and controlled chaos. Ellie instinctively stepped aside as two stylists rushed past carrying garment bags. Out of the way.

The production manager motioned toward the large conference suite at the end of the hallway, “This way.”

Ellie adjusted the strap of her laptop bag and followed.

Behind her, another figure stepped out of the elevator quietly. She only glanced back once. Black hoodie, Beanie pulled low, Phone in hand—Min Yoongi.

Her stomach dropped instantly. Not because he looked intimidating. Honestly he looked tired. But suddenly the situation became real in a way it hadn’t during contracts or emails or Zoom onboarding meetings.

She was about to work beside BTS. Actually beside them. Not through a screen. Not from another room. And for some strange reason, the second Yoongi walked behind her down the hallway, something inside her chest loosened slightly. Like her body relaxed before her brain could question it. Weird. Very weird.

—————————————-

The conference suite looked less like a hotel room and more like mission control. Laptops covered the main table while tour schedules lined the walls. Coffee cups sat abandoned beside translation packets and stage layouts.

And spread throughout the room were the members of BTS: RM sat near the center of the table reading paperwork with terrifying concentration. Jimin leaned against the catering counter stealing strawberries from a fruit tray. V somehow occupied an entire couch horizontally.

And near the window, Jungkook stood beside Avery Monroe while she aggressively poked at his phone screen. “You posted this on purpose.”

Jungkook looked deeply unbothered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You zoomed in.”

“You looked pretty.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You love me.”

“That unfortunately appears to be true.”

The room erupted into easy laughter. Warm, loud, comfortable….loud

Ellie froze near the entrance for half a second because suddenly she felt like she’d accidentally walked into someone else’s family gathering.

The production manager cleared his throat. “Everyone, this is Ellie Parker. She’ll be joining the team as the primary English-Korean interpreter for the U.S. leg.”

Every eye turned toward her immediately….Too many.

Ellie smiled automatically and bowed slightly. “Hello,” she said carefully in Korean. “Please take care of me.”

The reaction happened instantly. Taehyung sat upright dramatically. “Oh your accent is good.”

Ellie blinked, “Oh. Thank you.”

Jimin looked delighted already. “You learned in America?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Ellie tucked blonde hair behind her ear automatically. “I started taking Korean classes in high school.”

“Why?” Namjoon asked with genuine curiosity.

Ellie hesitated, “…For fun.”

Silence. Then Avery burst out laughing, “That is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Ellie startled before realizing Avery sounded affectionate rather than cruel. “Oh.”

Avery softened immediately. “No, no—I’m sorry, I mean that lovingly.”

Jungkook grinned beside her, “She sounds mean when she likes people.”

“I’m from New York,” Avery defended.

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains everything.”

Ellie laughed quietly before she could stop herself.

The room paused briefly. Taehyung pointed immediately, “There it is.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“The real laugh.”

Heat rushed into her cheeks instantly.

“You got shy again,” Jungkook observed.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“I just—” The words tangled embarrassingly fast. Ellie lowered her gaze instead.

And directly across the room, Yoongi watched the entire interaction silently.

——————————————-

He knew. He knew immediately. The second the elevator doors opened. The soulmate bond settled into place inside him with terrifying certainty. No confusion. No delay. Just recognition.

Yoongi had spent years watching Jungkook and Avery navigate soulmate bonds.

He knew what the connection felt like. What instinct felt like.

And now his soulmate stood awkwardly near the conference room doorway apologizing for laughing too loudly. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

He leaned back slightly in his chair and studied her carefully.

Ellie Parker. American. Interpreter. Nervous.

Every time attention shifted toward her, she physically made herself smaller. Every single time. Interesting….and concerning.

————————

The meeting started quickly after introductions: Schedules, Press coordination, Transportation adjustments, Security changes after recent media escalation. Ellie transformed the second translation began.

The nervousness disappeared beneath focus. Her posture straightened. Her voice steadied. Words flowed smoothly between English and Korean without hesitation.

She was professional, confident, beautiful.

That thought annoyed Yoongi immediately. Because it wasn’t even appearance. It was the way she relaxed while helping other people communicate. Like usefulness made her feel safe enough to exist fully.

The soulmate bond warmed faintly every time she spoke. And every time she stopped, anxiety returned underneath it almost immediately. Like silence left her alone with herself again. Yoongi hated that instinctively.

“Tomorrow’s media turnout will probably double after the livestream discussions,” one American coordinator explained rapidly.

Ellie translated immediately into Korean. Natural. Quick. Precise.

Namjoon looked impressed and relaxed now that he wasn’t the one having to relay all the information to the others. Jimin mouthed wow toward Taehyung. Taehyung nodded dramatically like Ellie had personally solved world peace.

Meanwhile Ellie kept her attention fixed carefully on her notes instead of the room itself. Avoid eye contact. Avoid taking up space. Avoid becoming noticeable. The habits were so practiced Yoongi doubted she even realized she was doing them anymore.

————————-

The meeting lasted nearly two hours. By the end, most of the room looked exhausted. Managers filtered out first followed by stylists. Eventually only the members, Avery, Ellie, and a few remaining production staff stayed behind while lunch arrived.

Taehyung stretched dramatically across the couch. “I’m starving.”

“You ate during the meeting,” Jimin pointed out.

“That was meeting food. Different category.”

“There are not categories.”

“There absolutely are.”

Jungkook grabbed a grape from the fruit tray. “You just eat constantly.”

Taehyung looked offended. “I’m beautiful. Beauty requires nutrients.”

Avery snorted loudly into her drink.

Ellie laughed again before she could stop herself.

Immediately, everyone looked at her.

Her smile faltered slightly. Too visible. She instinctively stepped backward closer toward the wall. Yoongi noticed.

———————-

Then chaos happened. Because apparently BTS could not exist peacefully for longer than six consecutive minutes. Taehyung grabbed a balled-up napkin and threw it at Jungkook.

Jungkook caught it instantly. “Really?”

“You looked too comfortable.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You adore me.”

Jungkook launched the napkin back.

Taehyung dodged dramatically before grabbing an actual decorative pillow from the couch. “Fight me.”

“Please don’t destroy another hotel,” Namjoon sighed without looking up from his laptop…Too late.

Jungkook immediately grabbed another pillow and launched it across the room.

Jimin yelled.

Avery cackled.

Taehyung nearly fell over laughing.

The room exploded into movement and overlapping noise.

And then, someone near Ellie suddenly lifted an arm quickly to catch the flying pillow. Ellie flinched hard. Not startled. Terrified.

Her entire body recoiled instinctively before she could stop herself. Silence slammed across the room immediately. The pillow dropped onto the carpet uselessly. Nobody moved.

Ellie realized what she’d done exactly one second too late. Humiliation crashed through her instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted automatically. Too fast. Too practiced.

“I’m sorry, I just—”

No one spoke.Because every member of BTS was staring at her now with the exact same expression. Understanding.

Avery’s face fell first.

Jimin looked quietly horrified.

Yoongi felt something inside himself go dangerously cold. Because that was not surprise. That was fear. Learned fear. The kind that lived inside muscle memory.

Ellie’s face burned hotter. “Oh my god,” she whispered miserably. “I’m so sorry.”

Why was she apologizing? Why was she apologizing for being scared?

Avery moved first….Slowly….Carefully.

“Avoided sports growing up?” she asked softly. An escape route.

A lie handed gently enough to become mercy.

Ellie looked at her with immediate grateful panic.“Yes.”

Everyone knew it wasn’t true. But nobody challenged it.

“Honestly same,” Avery said lightly. “I got hit in the face with a volleyball once and never emotionally recovered.”

The tension loosened slightly. Conversation slowly resumed afterward, but Ellie stayed near the edge of the room for the rest of the afternoon like she wanted to disappear completely.

And across the room, Yoongi watched her quietly while one horrible realization settled heavier and heavier inside his chest. Someone had taught his soulmate to fear raised hands.

——————————————————

LOS ANGELES — TWO DAYS BEFORE THE FIRST SHOW

Ellie woke up before her alarm because her body apparently no longer believed in restful sleep. Dark hotel ceiling. Cold air conditioning. 5:12 A.M. glowing softly across the bedside clock.

For one disorienting second she forgot where she was. Then reality settled back in slowly. Tour. Los Angeles. BTS…and unfortunately, the memory of flinching in front of everyone yesterday.

Ellie groaned softly into the hotel pillow. Fantastic. First official day and she’d already embarrassed herself in front of internationally famous people. She should’ve reacted normally. Laughed it off. Acted casual.

Instead she’d looked like a terrified idiot because someone raised an arm too fast beside her. Humiliating.

Ellie rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You’re fine. Everything was fine.’

No one had actually said anything afterward. Nobody had pushed. Nobody had looked at her cruelly. If anything, they’d been gentler afterward…Which honestly almost made it worse…because pity was unbearable.

——————————

By 7:30, she was fully dressed and walking toward the production floor carrying an iced coffee she barely wanted. The hallway buzzed with early-morning movement already. Staff members hurried past carrying equipment. Stylists rolled racks of clothing between rooms. Someone shouted about lighting cues further down the corridor.

Ellie stepped automatically closer to the wall to avoid blocking traffic. A habit so ingrained she barely noticed herself doing it anymore.

“You know nobody’s going to hit you if you take up space in the hallway.”

Ellie startled violently.

Yoongi stood several feet away leaning against the wall outside the conference suite, coffee in hand. Black hoodie again. Dark hair slightly messy. Voice low with sleep.

Ellie’s heartbeat immediately stumbled into chaos. “Oh my god.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “You scare easily.”

“You appear out of nowhere.”

“That sounds more like a you problem.”

The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it. And instantly, that strange calm feeling returned. Like her nervous system settled the second he looked at her directly.

It happened so quickly Ellie almost missed it….Weird.

Yoongi studied her quietly over the rim of his coffee cup. Ellie looked away first….Dangerous. Not him specifically. Just—feelings around famous people in general. Especially famous people who somehow made her feel safer by existing nearby. That was concerning.

—————————-

The conference room slowly filled over the next twenty minutes.

Jimin arrived first carrying two coffees and entirely too much energy for the morning, “Ellie!”

She blinked as he held one cup toward her, “Oh—I already have coffee.”

“That one looks sad.”

Ellie looked down at her plain iced coffee, “It’s just coffee.”

“Exactly.” He handed her the second cup proudly, “This one has cinnamon.”

Ellie stared at him, “…You bought me coffee?”

Jimin looked confused by the question, “Yes?”

Something about his tone made her chest ache unexpectedly. Like kindness still surprised her too much.

Ellie accepted the drink carefully, “Thank you.”

His smile widened immediately, “No problem.”

Then he tilted his head slightly while studying her face, “You seem tired.”

Ellie immediately answered automatically. “I’m fine.” The response came too fast. Too rehearsed.

Jimin’s expression softened slightly in a way that made Ellie instantly regret speaking. Because suddenly she knew he noticed it too. That reflexive fine.

Thankfully Taehyung burst into the room dramatically before the conversation could continue. “Good morning emotionally unavailable people!”

Jimin groaned. “It’s eight in the morning.”

“Exactly. Prime emotional vulnerability hours.”

Taehyung immediately spotted Ellie. “Interpreter!”

Ellie blinked. “…Interpreter?”

“I forgot your name for half a second.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Taehyung gasped dramatically “She jokes now.”

Yoongi quietly watched Ellie laugh from across the room. The soulmate bond warmed instantly. Soft. Steady…Dangerous.

————————————

Rehearsals started an hour later at SoFi Stadium. Ellie had never seen anything on this scale before. The arena floor looked like organized chaos: backup dancers running formations; lighting rigs adjusting overhead; stage managers shouting timing corrections; cameras moving constantly; music echoing through the empty stadium.

The members shifted into performance mode almost instantly. Focused. Sharp. Professional. Even exhausted, they moved with terrifying precision.

Ellie spent most of the morning translating rapidly between American production staff and Korean crew members while trying not to get flattened by moving equipment. Which almost happened twice.

“Behind you.” A warm hand caught her elbow gently before she stepped backward directly into a rolling camera rig. Ellie startled hard enough to nearly drop the tablet in her hands.

Yoongi steadied her automatically. Warm fingers against her sleeve. Gentle grip. Gone too quickly afterward.

“You okay?” His voice stayed low enough that only she could hear.

Ellie nodded immediately. “Yes.” Then automatically, “Sorry.”

Yoongi’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Tiny, but unmistakable.

“Why are you apologizing?”

Ellie looked down instantly. “I almost caused a problem.”

“You almost got hit by equipment.”

“…Right.” There was no judgment in his voice. No frustration. That somehow made her more nervous.

Yoongi stepped aside slightly so another crew member could pass before speaking again. “Still not your fault.”

The words landed strangely hard in her chest. He sounded like he meant them.

————————————-

Yoongi spent the next several hours trying not to look at Ellie constantly. He failed…..Completely.

But in his defense, Ellie Parker was impossible not to notice once you started paying attention. Not because she demanded attention. The opposite.

She moved through rooms like she was trying not to disturb the air itself. Always apologizing. Always stepping aside. Always carrying too much herself instead of asking for help. And every single time someone thanked her, she looked surprised. Like kindness still caught her off guard. Yoongi hated that feeling more every time he saw it.

“Hyung.”

Yoongi glanced sideways.

Jungkook stood beside him near the edge of the stage holding a water bottle. “You’re staring.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You’ve looked at her nineteen times.”

“That’s an insane thing to count.”

“I had rehearsal breaks.”

Yoongi took a slow sip of iced coffee. “Mind your business.”

Unfortunately, Jungkook now looked interested which was dangerous. His eyes shifted toward Ellie translating near the lighting crew below, then slowly widened—Oh shit. Absolutely not.

“You—”

“No.”

“Hyung—”

“No.”

Jungkook looked personally offended. “You have the soulmate face.”

“There’s no soulmate face.”

“There absolutely is.”

Across the arena Avery looked over at exactly the wrong moment. Saw Jungkook’s expression. Then followed his line of sight directly toward Ellie. Avery froze. Then immediately snapped her gaze toward Yoongi.—Traitor.

Yoongi closed his eyes briefly….Fucking fantastic.

———————————————

By lunch, four people knew. Technically five if Namjoon counted, which he unfortunately did because he noticed everything.

The only members still oblivious were: Taehyung, Jimin, and apparently Ellie herself. Though Taehyung was mostly distracted trying to convince Ellie to rank American fast food restaurants “for cultural research.”

“This is important,” he insisted seriously.

Ellie laughed quietly. “I don’t think Taco Bell counts as culture.”

Taehyung looked scandalized. “Blasphemy.”

Across catering tables, Yoongi watched Ellie smile for the third time that day. The soulmate bond warmed instantly. Contentment.

God, This was bad….Because Yoongi couldn’t remember the last time simply seeing another person happy affected him this much.

The problem was: Ellie affected him even from across rooms. He could feel: her easing anxiety; her exhaustion; tiny flickers of happiness; moments of calm—Like emotions brushed softly against his ribs through the bond.

He’d understood soulmate bonds academically before. Living inside one was something entirely different. More intimate. More invasive. More dangerous.

“Okay.”

Yoongi looked up. Avery stood beside him holding iced tea and the expression of someone about to become deeply annoying.

“No,” Yoongi answered immediately.

“You literally haven’t heard the question.”

“I know the question.”

Avery grinned, “Soulmate?”

Yoongi stayed silent. Which unfortunately answered everything. Avery’s expression softened almost instantly afterward.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

That single syllable somehow contained sympathy, understanding, and emotional devastation simultaneously. Yoongi hated it immediately.

“She knows?” Avery asked.

“No.”

“You didn’t tell her?”

“She’d panic.”

Avery looked toward Ellie across the stadium floor. Watching the way she kept herself carefully at the edge of every group conversation. Watching how quickly she apologized whenever anyone moved around her.

Then Avery nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “She would.”

—————————————-

Hello! Spin off to Echos is here! Bc yoongi is my wrecker I had to write one with him.

I think you can read this as a stand alone story pretty easily. The little side interactions with Avery might be sorta confusing but the overall plot should not be compromised if you haven’t read Echos!

Hope you like it!

Like, comment, Reblog please

Xoxo, Bumble

Taglist:

Mina Seo had spent most of her adult life learning how to recognize pain before people admitted it existed.

At thirty, she could read exhaustion in posture, injury in hesitation, and pride in the exact second someone lied through their teeth and said they were fine. Ballet had taught her bodies told the truth. Physiotherapy taught her people usually didn’t. Touring taught her idols were the worst of both.

Which was why returning to BTS for the Arirang comeback cycle felt less like stepping into a job and more like walking back into a room full of old injuries waiting to happen.

Officially, she had been hired to oversee performance recovery and injury prevention during preparations for the comeback and world tour. Unofficially—she suspected management had looked at seven men returning from military service and decided someone needed to stop them from accidentally destroying themselves before opening night.

The rehearsal complex in Seoul smelled exactly the same as it had four years ago. Coffee. Dust from old stage flooring. Hairspray. Overworked air conditioning.

And somehow—even before Mina fully stepped through the practice room doors, her body remembered the rhythm of BTS before her brain caught up to it. Music echoed faintly from somewhere deeper in the building while staff moved quickly through the hallways carrying garment racks, equipment cases, and enough coffee to medically concern several countries. Preparations had officially begun. The album was written but only half the songs had been recorded. The choreography wasn’t finalized. The tour existed mostly in planned documents and ambitious promises.

Mina adjusted the strap of her duffel bag higher onto her shoulder before pulling her rolling case behind her down the corridor. The overnight flight from London still sat unpleasantly in her joints despite the compression braces hidden beneath her loose black joggers. Long flights always did that.

Her right knee protested sharply when she turned the corner too quickly. Mina ignored it automatically. Old habit.

A production assistant nearly collided with her two seconds later before stopping abruptly, “Oh my god—Mina?”

Mina blinked once before recognizing him.

Junseo, Lighting crew, Permission to Dance Tour. He looked older now. Everyone did.

“Still alive unfortunately,” she answered dryly.

His startled laugh echoed through the hallway immediately, “You came back!”

“That does appear to be what the contract implies.”

“You sound exactly the same.”

“That’s devastating news.”

Junseo grinned before quickly taking the suitcase handle from her hand without asking. “Everyone’s been talking about you coming back all week.”

“Im not sure if that’s supposed to be comforting…?”

“It should.”

Mina sighed softly through her nose as he started leading her farther into the rehearsal wing.

The building looked busier than she remembered from PTD preparations. Bigger too. Or maybe the pressure surrounding Arirang simply made everything feel tighter somehow. Post-military comeback. Global press. First world tour together again.

The expectations surrounding Arirang already felt enormous and half the project didn’t technically exist yet. Some songs needed to be finalized. Some songs needed to still be recorded. Some songs needed to be written. Music videos still needed filming. Netflix cameras would be arriving soon. Half the choreography existed only as rough workshop versions. And somehow the entire industry already expected history.

A familiar voice suddenly echoed loudly down the corridor.

“If you tear another pair of rehearsal pants before the first week, management is billing you personally.”—Jin.

Mina barely had time to process the sound before he appeared around the hallway corner holding an iced coffee and arguing with Jungkook, who looked deeply unbothered by whatever crime he’d apparently committed.

“I told you it was choreography-related,” Jungkook defended.

“You were standing still.”

“I move passionately.”

“You move like expensive problems.”

Then Jungkook noticed her. His entire face lit up instantly, “Mina noona!”

Before she could react properly, he crossed the hallway in three long strides and wrapped both arms around her carefully enough that she almost laughed…Almost.

“You’re squeezing my spine,” she informed him.

“You disappeared for like four years.”

“You enlisted for most of them.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s an important distinction.” She let out a small laugh.

Jungkook grinned against the top of her head before finally letting go.

And suddenly Jin was there too, “Mina.”

His voice softened slightly beneath the dramatics in a way that caught her off guard for half a second. Then: “You abandoned me with these children.”

“There are seven of you.”

“And somehow I suffered most.”

“That seems statistically unlikely.”

Jin looked genuinely emotional for approximately one second before immediately pointing toward her face accusingly, “You still dont look British.”

Mina stared at him, “…What does that even mean?”

Before Jin could answer, another voice drifted lazily from farther down the hallway.

“It means you look like you should be in a K-drama, not Bridgerton.” —Taehyung.

Mina turned just in time to see him leaning against the studio doorway in an oversized hoodie and black beanie, expression completely serious despite the amusement sitting quietly in his eyes. Or maybe not serious…With Taehyung it was honestly difficult to tell sometimes.

“You disappeared to Paris for fashion week twice and suddenly you think you understand British people?” Mina asked.

“I understand vibes.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Taehyung pushed off the doorway and walked toward them slowly, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looked different too. Softer around the hair now that it had grown out slightly again. Broader through the shoulders after enlistment. Calm in a way she didn’t remember from before.

But the moment he reached her, his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Warmer.

“You’re really back,” he said quietly.

The teasing disappeared from his voice completely for that one sentence.

Mina felt something unexpectedly fond tug in her chest, “Contractually, yes.”

“That’s a very unromantic answer.”

“You asked the wrong person.”

“Hm.” Taehyung tilted his head slightly like he was evaluating that statement seriously. “Still sounds like you though.”

Then, without warning, he reached out and flicked the sleeve covering her taped hand lightly, “You look tired, are you injured already?”

“Jet lag isn’t an injury.”

“You say that every tour.”

“I’ve been on one tour withh you..”

“A long tour,” Jin muttered.

Taehyung nodded thoughtfully, “You always look like you’re judging the weather.”

Jungkook burst out laughing.

“That is unbelievably specific,” Mina said.

“And accurate,” another voice added calmly—Namjoon.

Mina turned automatically toward the end of the corridor where he approached carrying a tablet and what looked like three separate production schedules tucked beneath one arm. Leader mode already fully activated. Some things apparently never changed.

Namjoon stopped in front of her and smiled properly then—warm, relieved, genuine.

And suddenly PTD came rushing back unexpectedly hard—Late-night rehearsals. Arena runs. Recovery rooms. Pre-show chaos. Watching seven exhausted men hold themselves together through one of the strangest periods of their careers while she stumbled through apprentice physio work pretending she knew what she was doing.

Back then she’d mostly hovered at the edges: wrapping dancers’ ankles, resetting ice stations, shadowing senior therapists, trying not to embarrass herself professionally.

Back then the members hadn’t even realized she was Korean at first. Which honestly had been fair. Between: the London accent, blue eyes inherited from her British mother, her Korean father gave her the dark hair and facial features, and the fact that she’d spent most of PTD speaking careful professional English around senior staff—everyone had just collectively assumed she was another foreign apprentice physio. To be fair, she was still only half Korean and she had only spent a few summers in Korea with her father growing up so their judgement seemed reasonable until she answered one of Yoongi’s questions in Korean halfway through rehearsals one day.

The silence afterward had apparently become legendary.

Jungkook nearly dropped a water bottle.

Taehyung had stared at her for a solid ten seconds before asking, completely serious, “Wait…you ARE Korean?”

“Korean-British,” Mina had corrected cautiously.

“You hid that for like three weeks,” Jin accused immediately.

“I didn’t realize it was classified information.”

Namjoon had looked genuinely fascinated. “We were all so confused by you.”

“Thank you?” Mina had answered dryly.

Even now she could still remember Hobi looking personally betrayed for the rest of the rehearsal day because apparently he’d spent two weeks carefully simplifying his Korean around her for no reason.

Now there was no hesitation anymore. Well—less hesitation. Mina still didn’t think her Korean was particularly good despite everyone insisting otherwise. She’d spent most of her life in London with her mom, and the years she remembered clearly were all in English. Korea mostly belonged to childhood memories with her dad now—small fragments more than anything else. Fast conversations still lost her sometimes, especially once multiple people started talking over each other, and when she got tired her accent thickened enough that British phrases slipped out unintentionally.

During PTD, she’d once called Jungkook “cheeky” after he stole someone else’s protein drink from the recovery fridge.

The entire room had paused.

“Is cheeky good or bad?” Jungkook had asked immediately.

Mina had opened her mouth. Paused. Then closed it again because honestly the answer depended entirely on tone.

Namjoon translated eventually while laughing under his breath, and Taehyung spent the next week calling everyone “cheeky” regardless of context.

Even now, certain words still came to her in English first. Especially when annoyed. Or tired. Or in pain…But unlike PTD, she no longer felt delayed inside conversations. Back then she’d translated every sentence carefully in her head before speaking. Now she just…spoke. Another thing that had changed while nobody was looking.

Now Namjoon looked at her like someone essential had finally arrived.

“We missed you,” he said simply.

The honesty in his tone hit harder than she expected.

Mina cleared her throat lightly before defaulting toward humor automatically.

“Emotionally or because your stretching habits are catastrophic?”

“Yes.”

That startled a laugh out of her before she could stop it.

And from farther down the hallway— someone looked up immediately at the sound.

Jimin stood near the entrance of one of the larger rehearsal studios with Hobi beside him, both still dressed in workout clothes from what looked like an earlier dance session.

For a second neither of them moved.

Then Hobi’s entire face lit up. “MINA.”—Oh no.

Mina barely had time to brace herself before Hoseok crossed the hallway at terrifying speed and pulled her into a hug dramatic enough to threaten structural damage.

“You came back,” he said like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“You’re crushing several internal organs.”

“You survived.”

“Questionable.”

Hobi pulled back only long enough to look at her properly, “You cut your hair.”

“You noticed that immediately?”

“You think I don’t notice things?” He looked deeply offended. “I’m literally in charge of details.”

“That explains the eye twitch.”

“It’s from stress.”

“It’s from perfectionism.”

“Same thing.”

Mina laughed softly again while Hobi launched immediately into rapid-fire updates about rehearsal schedules, choreography workshops, production delays, filming Plans, and how nobody stretched properly when she wasn’t around.

The conversation blurred comfortably around her after that. Familiar voices. Familiar chaos of BTS settling back around her shoulders like muscle memory.

And through all of it— Jimin stayed quieter than everyone else. Not distant. Just watching.

Mina noticed him fully once Hobi finally paused long enough to inhale oxygen again.

He looked older than PTD. Not drastically. Not sadly. Just…different. Broader somehow. More settled. More tired around the eyes.

Military service had changed all of them in small ways, but on Jimin it looked subtler. Less visible externally. More like something had sharpened quietly beneath the surface.

He stepped closer finally.

“Hi,” he said softly. Simple. But somehow it felt different from everyone else’s greeting.

Mina adjusted the strap of her duffel bag slightly against her shoulder, “Hi.”

For half a second the hallway noise faded strangely around them.

Then Jimin’s gaze dropped automatically toward her right hand where faint kinesiology tape disappeared beneath the sleeve of her hoodie. Still noticing too much apparently.

“You’re wearing finger tape already,” he said. Not judgmental. Just observant.

Mina flexed her hand once instinctively before tucking it deeper into her sleeve, “Eight-hour flight.”

His expression shifted slightly at that. Concern maybe. Then hidden again just as quickly.

Hobi clapped loudly once beside them before the moment could settle into something stranger.

“Okay, enough emotional reunions. We have exactly six months before opening night and several people here are already physically concerning me.”

“Rude,” Jungkook said immediately.

“You did a backflip off rehearsal stairs yesterday.”

“It was one time.”

“Gravity doesn’t care.”

Namjoon sighed like this was already exhausting him spiritually.

Jin grabbed Mina’s suitcase again before she could protest.

“You’re coming to production briefing first. Then we’re forcing you to evaluate everyone’s terrible posture.”

“I’m not evaluating anything until I’ve had caffeine.”

“You still drink tea instead of coffee like a grandmother.”

“I’m English.”

“You’re Korean too.”

“And yet somehow still committed to tea.”

Jin looked genuinely disappointed in her choices.

The hallway erupted into overlapping conversation again after that while everyone started moving toward the larger rehearsal studios together. Mina walked beside them quietly for a moment, absorbing the noise and movement and familiar energy settling back into place around her.

Five years ago she’d entered this world as an apprentice trying desperately not to fail inside rooms filled with people far more experienced than her. This time, she was one of the people responsible for making sure non of them broke before opening night.

Now, staff nodded toward her automatically. Choreographers smiled in recognition as she passed. Managers already looked relieved she’d arrived. Somewhere along the way, this place had stopped feeling temporary.

The members looked happy to see her. The managers looked relieved. Which, Mina suspected, had significantly less to do with affection and significantly more to do with the fact that comeback preparations tended to break people.

Keeping BTS healthy enough to survive the next 6 months was, unfortunately, her responsibility.

Ahead of her, rehearsal music suddenly exploded through the main studio speakers loud enough to shake the hallway walls slightly.

Hobi immediately accelerated toward the sound like a man being personally summoned to battle. Jungkook followed while laughing. Jin complained loudly about his knees. Namjoon was already reading schedules again.

And Jimin slowed slightly beside her instead. Just enough to match her pace automatically when her knee stiffened briefly near the studio entrance. Mina noticed.

Unfortunately, she notices herself noticing.

——————-

One week into comeback prep, the recovery room had already stopped belonging entirely to Mina.

People wandered in for ice packs and stayed because it was quiet. Managers sat on treatment tables with coffees they absolutely shouldn’t have been surviving on while somebody from wardrobe inevitably slept in a corner beneath a pile of jackets by midnight.

The room, tucked behind the main rehearsal arena at HYBE, had slowly became chaotic. Familiar, but chaotic..

By 9:30 that morning, it already looked like a small war zone. Ice packs filled one counter beside rows of compression sleeves while treatment schedules covered the whiteboard near the entrance in Mina’s handwriting. Portable stim units sat charging beside resistance bands and unopened tape rolls. Half the overhead lights still remained off, leaving the room washed in soft gray morning light from the narrow windows near the ceiling…Quiet. For now.

Mina sat sideways on one of the treatment tables with one knee loosely pulled upward while wrapping kinesiology tape carefully around her wrist. The joint ached more than usual this morning. Not alarming. Just irritating.

Seoul’s weather had shifted overnight, damp cold settling into the city hard enough for her body to notice before she’d even opened her eyes.

She flexed her fingers experimentally once after finishing the tape. Manageable. Good enough.

A mug of tea sat beside her laptop already going lukewarm while rehearsal schedules glowed across the screen—Seven members. A rotating choreography team. Two assistant physios. Three (for now) music videos shoot days on the schedule. Two ‘Run BTS’ filming blocks. One Netflix camera crew already asking too many questions…Normal.

The recovery room door opened quietly behind her, “Mina?”

One of the assistant physios stepped inside carrying a tablet against his chest.

“Morning.”

He crossed toward the whiteboard automatically now, scanning the updated treatment rotations she’d finalized before sunrise.

“Do you want me handling their mobility assessments or conditioning reviews today?”

“MobiIity first,” Mina answered while reviewing the schedule beside him. “And switch with Hana after lunch because she’s better at conditioning reviews.”

“Got it.”

He hesitated briefly before adding, “Management also asked if Jungkook can add the extra harness rehearsals tonight.”

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

Yejun snorted softly like he’d expected it already, “He’s going to argue.”

“He always argues.”

“And if he says he feels fine?”

Mina capped the marker in her hand. “Then he’s lying.”

That pulled a laugh from him before he disappeared back into the hallway.

A few years ago interactions like that would’ve unsettled her. During PTD, she’d jsut been the apprentice, the shadow. Now managers asked for her recommendations before approving rehearsal schedule.

The recovery room door swung open again harder this time.

Hoseok entered already dressed for rehearsals despite it not even being eight in the morning, energy somehow fully operational while the rest of humanity still struggled toward consciousness.

“Mina.”

“That tone suggests problems.”

“Jungkook did extra runs after rehearsals again.”

“Of course he did.”

“And Jimin’s pretending the hip isn’t getting worse.”

“That one I already know.”

Hobi exhaled dramatically before leaning one shoulder against the doorway.

“I leave for one military enlistment and suddenly everyone’s bodies are thirty.”

“You are thirty.”

“Rude.”

Mina smiled faintly into her tea.

That was more accurate to the actual dynamic of preparing 7 performers for the most demanding schedule of their careers. The members cared obsessively about performance quality, but now—older, post-military, carrying years of injuries behind them—they also noticed the physical cost more.

Hobi especially. Perfectionism had simply evolved into protectiveness.

“You need to watch Yoongi during choreography today too,” Hobi continued. “He keeps rolling his shoulder afterward like it’s tightening up every time he moves.”

Mina frowned immediately.

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing that?”

“Because he told me not to tell you.”

“And you listened?”

“Its Min Yoongi.”

Before Mina could answer, the recovery room door opened again and Jungkook walked in carrying enough iced coffees for an entire production department.

“Morning.”

“It’s too early for your energy level,” Mina informed him.

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“That proves nothing.”

Jungkook grinned and handed Hobi a drink before stopping near Mina’s treatment table.

“You taped your wrist again.”

Mina looked down briefly, “It’s cold.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Jungkook looked unconvinced but let it go. Mostly because the room had started filling rapidly around them. Wardrobe staff appeared looking for blister tape after concept shoot fittings. Managers wanting options on filming schedule and safety. Choreographers argued about rehearsal loads while waiting for someone to tell them no. The preparations were already taking shape.

Mina moved through it automatically.

One of the assistant physios updated Jungkook’s recovery load from additional conditioning session while another waited beside the treatment counter for her approval on recovery metrics form the previous day. Routine…Like the entire tour had quietly reorganized itself around her judgment while she wasn’t paying attention.

“Did Mina clear this?”

“Ask Mina first.”

“She said no impact repetitions today.”

“Wait until Mina sees it.”

The recovery room door opened again while Mina adjusted compression tape around someone’s shoulder.

Jimin stepped inside carrying a black hoodie over one shoulder. Fresh from morning rehearsals already. And still limping slightly.

Mina noticed immediately. Unfortunately, so did he.

“You’re doing it again,” Jimin said.

“Doing what?”

“The observing thing.”

“You’re still guarding the hip.”

One of the managers nearby looked up automatically.

“You’re injured?”

“No,” Jimin answered too quickly.

Mina didn’t even glance up from the tape she was smoothing into place.

“He is.”

Betrayal crossed his face instantly, “That feels deeply unprofessional.”

“You walked into a medical room limping.”

“I was walking normally.”

Hobi pointed immediately from across the room.

“That’s exactly what I told him.”

Jimin sighed like everyone here personally exhausted him.

Mina finished securing the tape before finally straightening fully, “Sit.”

The word came automatically. Not harsh. Not hesitant either.

Jimin looked at her for one second before obeying without argument. That didn’t go unnoticed by anybody in the room.

One of the managers muttered quietly, “That’s terrifying actually.”

“Correct,” Jungkook agreed immediately.

Mina ignored both of them and stepped in front of Jimin instead, while slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves for examination.

Up close, the stiffness through the right side looked worse today. Too much rehearsal load too quickly after military conditioning adjustments probably. Idol choreography demanded sharper transitions and harder floor impact than most people thought; than most standard workouts ever did.

“Pain level.”

“Manageable.”

“That’s not a number.”

“A stylish seven?”

“That’s unfortunately still a seven.”

A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

Mina crouched slightly to evaluate the movement pattern through the hip while maintaining professional distance in the crowded room around them.

“Show me the rotation.”

Jimin shifted experimentally through the joint. Lifting his leg in front of his body then trying to open his knee to the side once before stopping when it caught halfway.

“There,” Mina said immediately.

“You always sound delighted when you’re correct.”

“I’m never delighted about paperwork.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him.

Around them, the recovery room continued moving at full speed. People talking. Ice packs rotating. Schedules changing. Music echoing faintly from rehearsals deeper inside the arena.

But Jimin’s attention stayed entirely on Mina now. Focused. Like he was trying to understand how she saw things other people missed.

“You caught this before it really hurt properly,” he said quietly.

Mina adjusted the compression wrap around the joint carefully, “You didn’t do Dynamite full out earlier.”

“That was one time.”

“That was enough.”

He studied her for another second.

Then: “You notice everything, don’t you?”

The question landed strangely. Because yes. She did. Thats her job but that had always been the problem.

——————

The first indication that something was wrong arrived halfway through a production meeting. Mina wasn’t even looking at Jungkook. She was reviewing conditioning reports while one of the performance directors discussed filming schedules for an upcoming music video when a number on her tablet made her pause.

She frowned. Then looked again. The room continued talking around her while she scrolled through the previous week’s data—Recovery load. Conditioning volume. Training logs. A familiar sense of irritation began building behind her eyes.

Across the table, Namjoon noticed immediately, “What?”

Mina looked up, “Where’s Jungkook?”

The question prompted several people to glance around automatically.

“He left about twenty minutes ago,” Hobi answered.

“Why?”

“He said he was going to work out.”

Mina lowered the tablet slowly. The room went quiet. Not because anyone thought that sounded unusual. Quite the opposite. Everyone understood exactly why that expression had appeared on her face.

Namjoon sighed first, “Oh no.”

“What?” Taehyung asked.

“Mina found something.”

“I didn’t find something.”

The pause that followed suggested nobody believed her.

Mina turned the screen around, “His conditioning volume is already higher than what I scheduled for this week.”

Nobody looked particularly alarmed. Unfortunately, that was part of the problem. Jungkook exercising more than necessary had become so normal that most people barely registered it anymore.

“He likes training,” Taehyung offered.

“That’s not training.”

“What is it?”

“Jungkook deciding recovery is a personal insult.”

A laugh escaped Yoongi from the far end of the table.

Namjoon covered his face briefly, “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“I am absolutely going after him.”

“Good luck.”

Five minutes later, Mina found him exactly where she expected.

The gym sat one floor below the rehearsal studios and looked nearly empty except for a trainer organizing equipment near the far wall.

Jungkook, meanwhile, appeared to be conducting a one-man campaign against the concept of moderation.

He glanced up when she entered. His expression brightened immediately, “Noona.”

Mina stopped beside the rack and folded her arms, “What are you doing?”

The question was so obvious that Jungkook looked genuinely confused, “Working out?”

“That wasn’t rhetorical.”

The trainer across the room immediately became very interested in a stack of resistance bands.

Jungkook rested his forearms on the bar, “I finished rehearsal.”

“Correct.”

“I had free time.”

“Incorrect.”

That earned a grin.

Mina remained unimpressed.

“You’ve already completed every conditioning session on this week’s schedule.”

“I know.”

“You’ve added two extra gym sessions.”

His grin widened, “I know.”

“You slept five hours.”

“It was almost six.”

“That’s not helping.”

Jungkook laughed. The problem was that he genuinely seemed to believe this conversation was amusing.

Mina pulled up the training report on her tablet and held it out, “Your recovery markers are worse than they were last week.”

His smile faded slightly. Not because he disagreed. Because he knew she wouldn’t be saying it if she didn’t have evidence.

“You track all of that?”

“Jungkook.”

“Right. Stupid question.” He accepted that surprisingly easily.

Mina continued scrolling.

“Your resting heart rate is elevated, your sleep has been inconsistent for ten days, and you’ve lost weight since preparations started.”

“I can put the weight back on.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is that we’re six months away from opening night.”

That finally got his attention. The humour faded. The athlete remained.

Mina lowered the tablet, “You don’t need to survive this week, you need to survive 6 months, and then a tour after that.”

Then Jungkook looked away and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just don’t want to fall behind.”

There it was. Not stubbornness. Not ego. Fear.

Mina had worked with enough performers to recognize the difference. The comeback meant everything to them.

The first album together after military service. The first tour.

The first chance to prove they could still do this at the level people expected.

She understood exactly why he was pushing. That didn’t make it smart.

“No one’s worried about you falling behind.”

Jungkook laughed softly.

“That’s because they’re not looking at what everyone else is doing.”

“I am.”

That made him pause.

Mina met his gaze evenly, “And I’m telling you to go eat lunch.”

A reluctant smile appeared, “That’s your professional recommendation?”

“That’s my final decision.”

He stared at her for another second before finally stepping away from the rack,“Fine.”

Mina narrowed her eyes, “I don’t trust how quickly you agreed.”

“You should be proud of my growth.”

“I’ll be proud when I stop catching you in the gym on rest days.”

Jungkook grabbed his towel, “That’s a very high standard.”

“It should be.”

As they headed back toward the rehearsal floor, Mina noticed the trainer trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Unfortunately, she suspected the rest of BTS would find the entire situation equally entertaining.

Which was deeply unfair considering she was the only person in the building attempting to stop Jungkook from exercising himself into the ground.

Three weeks into Prep work, Mina had developed a system for identifying which member was approaching physical collapse purely from the way they entered a room:

Namjoon got quieter.

Jungkook became restless, physically incapable of sitting still.

Taehyung grew dramatically affectionate whenever exhaustion hit critical levels.

Yoongi stopped speaking almost entirely.

And Jimin deflected…Smiles. Jokes. Easy answers delivered quickly enough that most people stopped looking deeper. Like if he acted normal convincingly enough, his body might eventually believe him too.

Which was exactly why Mina noticed the problem immediately when he walked into rehearsals that afternoon looking perfectly fine…Too fine.

One of the HYBE’s larger rehearsal studios vibrated faintly beneath bass-heavy playback while camera crews, choreographers and performance directors moved between formation markers taped across the floor..

Mina stood near the mirrored wall reviewing mobility notes on her tablet when Jimin rolled once through his right hip before settling immediately back onto the left side. Fast. Practiced. Trying not to get caught.

Unfortunately for him, Mina spent most of her life catching things exactly like that. On her own body and now on others

“You’re compensating again,” she said without looking up from the tablet,

Jimin glanced over from centre formation briefly, “For what?”

“The hip, and before you ask,no, that doesn’t mean you get a fourth run.”

He looked down at himself like this was genuinely new information. “Hm.”

“You’re avoiding the right side again.”

“I’m dancing.”

“You’re shifting out of the floor transitions early.”

“You noticed that from here?”

“You shortened the turn twice.”

“I recovered the timing.”

“You compensated.” She sighed out loud. “and your recovery numbers were worse this morning.”

Jimin frowned. “you track those too?”

“That’s literally my job.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“You slept four hours.”

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth then. Calm. Easy, “And yet I survived.”

Jungkook laughed immediately, while Taehyung looked delighted.

Mina remained unimpressed. Because even while speaking, he shifted subtly off the right side again before Hobi called everyone back into formation. Small. Like his body had already adapted around the pain before he consciously admitted it existed.

The music restarted loud enough to shake the arena floor. Bodies moved instantly back into synchronization beneath the lights while Mina stepped farther toward the edge of rehearsals to stay clear of formations. Arirang choreography demanded sharper moves than PTD ever had, with the added pressure of the comeback.

This choreography was lower, heavier, More impact through the joints. And Jimin kept forcing full performance quality every run like his body wasn’t warning him already.

Mina watched the next sequence carefully. Floor transition. Directional turn. Weight shift—There. Again.

The right side tightened every time choreography forced deeper flexion through the hip. Not horrible yet. But repetitive strain rarely announced itself at first. It accumulated slowly.

The music cut sharply.

“Again!” Hobi called from centre stage.

A collective groan rolled across the arena.

Taehyung dropped backward dramatically onto the floor. “I miss military schedules. At least the suffering had structure.”

“You complained the entire time,” Jungkook replied while grabbing a water bottle.

“Correct. Consistently.”

Namjoon laughed quietly into his sleeve while Yoongi sat cross-legged near the mirrored wall rolling tension through one shoulder.

Mina noticed that immediately too. Of course she did.

She crossed the rehearsal floor automatically while staff reset camera positioning near the stage entrance.

“You too?”

Yoongi glanced up slowly.

“Hm?”

“The shoulder.”

“Hoseok talks too much.”

“You keep resetting the joint any time you lift your arm above your head.”

“You notice too much.”

“That’s literally my profession.”

Yoongi sighed quietly through his nose while rotating the shoulder once experimentally. Tight. Not terrible. But heading there.

“You need recovery work tonight and you’re skipping tomorrow’s conditioning block.”

“I have studio sessions.”

“No you don’t.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, “You’ve become difficult.”

“You’re injured.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

“You’re one bad lift away from anti-inflammatory medication.”

“That’s more offensive.”

A laugh escaped Jin somewhere behind them while Jungkook nearly choked on his water.

The rehearsal floor buzzed with overlapping noise while staff reset staging cues for another run. Hobi discussed spacing adjustments near centre stage while Taehyung attempted to convince Namjoon that electrolytes counted as emotional support. Normal chaos.

Mina looked back down at her tablet briefly, updating treatment notes from the morning— Monitor Jimin hip progression. Review Tae’s conditioning load. Watch Yoongi shoulder mobility. Adjust recovery schedule after filming. Easy..At least on paper.

“Writing complaints about me?”

Mina looked up automatically.

Jimin stood beside her now holding a towel around his neck, rehearsal shirt dampened slightly beneath the arena lights.

“You’re still limping,” she answered.

“I walked here perfectly.”

“You adjusted twice.”

“I adapted.”

“You compensated.”

He smiled again. There it was. That automatic lightness he used whenever conversations drifted too close to discomfort.

Mina crossed her arms loosely.

“You know avoiding treatment doesn’t make injuries disappear.”

“I’m standing in the recovery area voluntarily right now. That deserves recognition.”

“You’re standing because rehearsals reset.”

“Still counts.”

“No it doesn’t.”

A laugh escaped Jungkook somewhere behind them.

“You’re losing this argument,” he informed Jimin immediately.

“I don’t see a scoring system.”

“You don’t see medical advice either.”

“Different category.”

Mina watched Jimin shift subtly off the right side again while speaking.. Protecting the hip. Too practiced. That concerned her more than the injury itself.

Because performers adapted around pain frighteningly fast once they decided something mattered more than recovery.And Jimin clearly still thought rehearsals mattered more.

“Did you do the mobility work? — and before you answer Jungkook already told me you skipped cooldown” Mina huffed.

Jimin took a sip of water before answering.

“I seriously considered it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s what I had time for.”

“It was useless.”

That finally pulled a quieter laugh from him. Real this time. Not performative. Not deflecting. Just tired.

Then the choreographer clapped loudly from centre stage again, “Places!”

Everyone immediately started moving back toward formation.

Jimin stepped backward before pausing briefly beside her.

“I’m fine,” he said. Softly this time. Like he’d repeated the sentence often enough that it no longer required thought.

Mina studied him for one second longer than necessary. Then:

“You don’t have to always win against injuries.”

Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Gone almost immediately. Then the smile returned. Easy. Polished. Deflecting.

“Good thing I’m competitive.”

And then he walked back into formation before she could answer.

The music started again. Bodies moved. Lights shifted. Bass rattled faintly beneath the arena floor.

Mina watched the choreography reset automatically while something unsettled quietly in the center of her chest. Because she understood performers like Jimin.

People who learned early that discomfort became easier to survive if you turned it into something manageable. Something smaller. Something easy to laugh through.

But bodies never accepted denial as treatment. Eventually it caught up with them.

—————————————————-

Mina started having problems at eighteen. At first, it was easy to explain away.

Ballet dancers hurt constantly. Feet blistered. Hips clicked. Knees ached. Wrists stiffened from partnering and floorwork and overtraining and the general violence ballet quietly demanded from the body while still insisting on elegance.

Pain was normal. Especially in pre-professional programs where exhaustion got praised almost as often as talent did.

So when Mina started waking up with stiffness crawling through her hands in the mornings, nobody thought much of it. Not even her. Too many rehearsals. Too little sleep. Too much pressure. And Mina had spent most of her life being disciplined.

At seventeen, she’d been on track for the Royal Ballet. Not guaranteed because nothing in ballet ever was. But close enough that teachers started speaking carefully around her future like it had already begun taking shape. Company workshops. Private evaluations. Summer intensives where directors watched quietly from the back of rehearsal studios while students tried not to look nervous.

Mina remembered spending entire train rides home with her pointe shoes balanced across her lap imagining London stages she hadn’t earned yet. Then her body started changing underneath her before she understood why.

And suddenly every plan she’d built her life around became dependent on whether or not her joints cooperated that morning. Then came the fatigue. Not ordinary exhaustion. Not the kind fixed by sleeping for twelve hours after a performance weekend. This felt heavier. Like her body had quietly started resisting itself.

Some mornings she physically couldn’t close her hands properly around pointe shoes ribbons. Other days her knees locked halfway through warmups before loosening again like nothing happened. Unpredictable. Frustrating.

Easy to hide if you were disciplined enough. She pushed through performances. Finished training. Ignored the flare-ups. Ignored the fevers. Ignored the growing realization that her body no longer recovered the way everyone else’s seemed to.

Then, at twenty, she tore through her ankle during rehearsal because exhaustion had slowed her reaction time by half a second.

Career-ending sounded dramatic afterward because she should have been able to come back from that. Others had come back from worse. But ballet rarely survived injuries like that once you’d already started falling behind physically.

The diagnosis came almost a year later—Autoimmune. Chronic. No Cure Manageable, technically. The rheumatologist kept using the word manageable like it was comforting.

Mina mostly remembered staring at her own hands during the appointment wondering when exactly her body had stopped feeling trustworthy.

The career change happened slowly after that. First sports rehabilitation modules. Then physiotherapy courses. Then clinical placements with dancers, gymnasts, and professional athletes where she realized something unsettling: She understood injured dancers frighteningly well, not just injuries.

Everything surrounding them. The way dancers skipped meals when they were stressed. The way athletes hid exhaustion behind routine. The way performers negotiated with pain long before they admitted it existed.

Most clinicians focused on what hurt. Mina found herself paying attention to everything that happened before the injury.

Bodies negotiated before they failed completely. People compensated emotionally long before they admitted pain physically. Performers learned how to smile through damage so automatically most medical staff missed it entirely. Mina didn’t.

That was how she ended up shadowing during the Permission to Dance tour at twenty-three.

Technically she wasn’t supposed to handle much independently yet. In reality, half the touring staff were overworked and sleep deprived enough that Mina simply started helping wherever bodies started breaking down. Tape jobs. Recovery sessions. Mobility tracking. Conditioning reviews. Late-night treatment rooms. Whatever needed doing on any given day.

And all while quietly managing symptoms herself. Compression sleeves beneath hoodies. Painkillers hidden in tea bags. Smiling through flare days because everyone around her already depended on her too much.

By the end of PTD, the members trusted her more than some of the senior staff.

Jin knew more than the rest. Not because she’s outright told him. More because he stumbled into it.

Chicago, near the end of the Permission to Dance tour

The recovery room had finally emptied after a fourteen-hour rehearsal day, leaving Mina alone with treatment notes she still needed to finish, a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, and an ice pack balanced across her left knee.

The flare had been building for nearly a week.

Chicago’s cold weather hadn’t helped, nor had the endless rehearsal schedule or the fact that she had been sleeping far less than she admitted to anyone. The swelling had started as a dull ache she could ignore, then gradually developed into something more persistent. By that afternoon, she could feel the pressure in the joint every time she bent her knee.

It wasn’t severe enough to stop her working. That was the problem.

Pain that stopped you completely was easy. People saw it. They understood it.

Pain that allowed you to continue functioning demanded decisions.

How much could you hide? How long could you compensate? At what point did pushing through become foolish rather than admirable?

Questions Mina had never been particularly good at answering.

She shifted slightly in the chair and immediately regretted it. A sharp pulse of pain traveled through the joint, forcing her to close her eyes for a moment.

Just a minute, she told herself. She would finish the treatment notes, go back to the hotel, sleep for a few hours, and do it all again tomorrow.

The recovery room door opened behind her.

Instinct took over before thought did.

Mina sat up straighter and moved the ice pack aside. Too late.

Jin had already seen it.

He paused just inside the doorway, his attention moving briefly from the abandoned ice pack to her face before settling somewhere in between.

For a moment neither of them said anything.

Then he asked quietly, “How bad is it?”

Not what happened. Not are you okay…How bad is it.

The question caught her off guard because it assumed the injury already existed.

Because somehow he had skipped straight past the polite version of the conversation.

“Bad,” she answered.

Jin’s expression didn’t change.

Mina recognized immediately that he didn’t believe her.

He stepped farther into the room and retrieved the phone he had apparently forgotten earlier in the evening.

“You’ve been limping all week.”

The observation landed harder than she expected. Not because he was wrong. Because she genuinely hadn’t realized anyone had noticed. The dancers hadn’t said anything. The staff hadn’t said anything. Or perhaps they had noticed and simply chosen not to comment.

Either way, she’d assumed she was hiding it better than that.

“You spend all day watching how other people move,” Jin continued. “You didn’t think someone might notice when you started moving differently too?”

There was no accusation in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly amused. Which somehow made the truth harder to avoid.

Mina looked down at the treatment notes scattered across the desk and felt a familiar wave of exhaustion settle over her.

Not physical exhaustion this time. The deeper kind. The kind that came from carrying something alone for too long.

“I have rheumatoid arthritis.”

The words sounded strangely small once they were spoken aloud.

For so long the diagnosis had existed only in doctors’ offices, medication schedules, and private moments she never shared with anyone else. Hearing it in this room felt unexpectedly vulnerable.

Jin didn’t react immediately.He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat down, taking a moment to think before speaking.

“When were you diagnosed?”

“Twenty-one.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward her knee. Then back to her face.

“And you’ve been doing all of this while managing that?”

There was no judgment in the question. No disbelief. Just quiet curiosity.

Mina laughed softly.

“When you put it like that, it sounds a bit ridiculous.”

A faint smile appeared at the corner of Jin’s mouth.

“It sounds exhausting.”

For a moment Jin looked at her the same way she looked at everyone else. Like he was cataloguing all the things she wasn’t saying.

For reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, that answer nearly undid her. Not sympathy. Not pity. Just understanding. As though he understood that the hardest part wasn’t the pain itself. It was the constant effort of pretending the pain wasn’t there.

After that, they didn’t discuss the diagnosis very often. They didn’t need to.

Jin just simply noticed.

On days her knee stiffened after long rehearsals, a chair somehow appeared before meetings started. If schedules ran late, a cup of tea found its way onto her desk before she remembered she hadn’t taken a break.

Small things. Easy things to miss if you weren’t paying attention. Mina noticed them because noticing people was what she did for a living.

Which was probably why, years later, Jin remained the first person she looked for on difficult days.

————————————

A month into preperations, the flare settled in properly. Not dramatic enough to stop working. Just persistent and very annoying.

A deep ache through both wrists. Stiffness pulling through her knees every morning. Exhaustion sitting heavier beneath her skin no matter how much sleep she forced herself into getting. Manageable…Probably.

Mina stood near the recovery room counter rotating slowly through one wrist while reviewing schedules on her tablet. The movement hurt. The stiffness refused to release.

She had already stretched twice this morning. Already taken her medication. Already convinced herself it wasn’t going to be one of the bad days…Her wrists disagreed.

She reached automatically for the compression sleeves folded beside the sink before pulling them carefully over both wrists beneath the sleeves of her hoodie.

Hide first. Explain later. High-performance environments rewarded functionality. Nobody cared how difficult something was as long as you could do it.

The recovery room door opened quietly behind her.

Mina looked up automatically.

Jimin stood in the doorway wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, damp hair curling slightly at the ends like he’d showered recently and stopped caring halfway through drying it.

“You’re limping worse,” she said immediately.

Jimin glanced down at himself briefly before walking farther into the room.

“That’s unfortunate news.”

“The hip tightened overnight?”

“Hm.” Which meant yes.

Mina returned her attention to the treatment schedules glowing across the tablet screen while he moved toward the coffee machine near the counter.

The recovery room stayed comfortably quiet around them. Low equipment hum. Early-morning stillness. Rain tapping faintly somewhere above the arena corridors.

“You still drink tea every morning?” Jimin asked eventually.

Mina glanced up once.

“You say that like it’s surprising.”

“You’re in Korea now.”

“And yet I remain British unfortunately.”

That earned a soft laugh from him before he reached automatically for the kettle instead of the coffee machine.

The movement caught her slightly off guard. Not because it was dramatic. Because it implied he’d noticed. Somewhere between writing session, choreography rehearsal, costume fittings and recording sessions, Jimin had apparently learned how she took her tea.

Mina flexed her fingers carefully beneath the counter while waiting for the stiffness to ease.—It didn’t. Annoying.

“You okay?”

The question came casually enough she almost answered automatically…Almost.

Jimin leaned lightly against the counter now, watching her with the same quiet attention she usually caught him directing toward choreography. Too observant.

Mina pulled the sleeves of her hoodie farther over her wrists instinctively.

“Fine.”

His expression shifted slightly at the answer. Like he knew the word because he used it constantly himself.

“You’re bad at that too,” he said quietly.

Mina looked up, “At what.”

“Making people believe you.”

That pulled a small laugh out of her before she could stop it.

“I work with performers,” she muttered. “None of you know how to answer honestly.”

Something softer flickered briefly across Jimin’s expression at that. Understanding maybe.

Yes. Here’s the same moment rewritten with the pain splitting both ways, but in the smoother style you liked, with less dialogue and more of Mina experiencing the impossibility before either of them can name it.

He handed her the tea carefully, waiting until her fingers had closed around the mug before he let go. Their hands brushed during the exchange, no more than the briefest pass of skin against skin, the kind of accidental contact that should have meant nothing at all. Mina had reached for cups from staff, taken clipboards from managers, guided dancers through stretches, corrected shoulders and hips and knees for years without thinking much about the intimacy of touch. Bodies were part of her work. Contact was practical. Ordinary.

This was not ordinary. The sensation moved through her before she understood what had happened, a sudden shifting beneath her skin that made her grip tighten around the mug. The ache in her wrists, the deep persistent pressure she had been ignoring since morning, loosened so quickly that for one suspended moment she forgot how to breathe around it. It did not vanish completely, but the weight of it changed, as though someone had reached inside her and lifted half of it away.

Relief should have felt simple. Instead, it frightened her. Because in the same breath that her wrists eased, something else settled into place. A low, unfamiliar ache drew itself through her hip, deep enough to make her aware of the joint in a way she had no reason to be. It was not the scattered stiffness of her own condition, not the hot, grinding protest she knew too well from her hands or knees after a difficult day. This pain had a different shape. A different history. It felt used, overworked, threaded through with repetition and strain. It felt lived in. It did not feel like hers.

Mina stood perfectly still with the mug caught between both hands while the kitchen carried on around them. The kettle clicked softly as it cooled. Rain moved against the windows in a steady hush. Somewhere down the corridor, a laugh rose and faded again, ordinary life continuing only a few rooms away as if the world had not just shifted beneath her feet.

Across form her, Jimin went still. He had not stepped back or made a sound, but the change in him was immediate enough that she saw it. The ease had gone out of his posture. His attention dropped to her hands, then returned to her face with a kind of startled focus that made her stomach tighten. He looked pale around the mouth, not in the way people did when they were embarrassed or surprised, but in the way they did when their own body had suddenly become unfamiliar to them.

Mina knew then that he had felt something too. Not because he said it. Because there was no other explanation for the way he was looking at her.

Her wrists still held the echo of relief. Her hip carried an ache that did not belong there. Jimin’s eyes remained fixed on hers, and in the silence between them was the impossible awareness that something had passed through both of them at once, rearranging pain as if it were something that could be divided and handed over.

Mina flexed her fingers carefully around the mug. Jimin’s gaze followed the movement. The ache in her wrists was lighter than it had been a moment ago. The ache in her hip remained, foreign and intimate and terrifying in its specificity.

She did not know what to call it. She only knew that Jimin had gone still for the same reason she had. Whatever had just happened, it had not happened to her alone.

——————————-

Yall im still baby army (toddler? Army). I apologize if my timeline (pre military) is ever off. Please tell me and I’ll fix it. :)

But anyway, let me know what you think! Sorry, it’s taken so long to get this out! I have a sick toddler and my husband is deployed. TT

Like, comment, reblog,share please!!

Xoxo, bumble

Avery Monroe had spent half her life learning how to survive Jeon Jungkook. Not avoid him. Not hate him—Survive him. There was a difference because you couldn’t hate the voice that had unknowingly shaped you. Couldn’t resent the boy whose midnight vocal runs had taught your body rhythm before you ever understood why. Couldn’t truly escape someone whose emotions had bled through your soul since you were thirteen. But you could adapt. So Avery did.

First with oversized headphones that made her look antisocial in every American dance studio she’d ever trained in. Then, when she became professional enough to afford custom stage gear, with in-ear monitors specifically tuned to protect her from him. By twenty-six, her silver molds were as essential as muscle memory. To other dancers, they were just precision equipment. To Avery? They were survival because no one else on the ARIRANG World Tour understood what it meant when Jeon Jungkook sang live within fifty feet of you.

————————————————

BTS’s 2026 comeback album, ARIRANG, had already detonated globally before rehearsals even began.

Their first full group album after military service, featured 14 tracks and marked a dramatic shift for the members— they were more mature, more secure, ready to show the world a new side of them. The upbeat dance songs like “Body to Body,” “Aliens,” and “FYA” were loud, high energy songs meant for the crowd to dance. The second half of the album showcased their softer side, a more emotionally mature side with songs like “they don’t know bout us,” “Like Animals,” and “Into the Sun”

And now Avery had to dance to all of it…..Nightly….On the biggest tour of her life. And from the very first rehearsal, Avery realized one horrifying truth: This album was going to kill her. Because ARIRANG wasn’t soft. It wasn’t “ease back into group promotions.” It was confidence, swagger, Seduction, identity, A reclamation.

And Jungkook? Jungkook sounded like every year of separation had sharpened him into something lethal.

——————————————————-

“Places!” Avery adjusted her custom in-ears immediately.

Track loaded: “Hooligan”

Her personal nightmare. The opening song was explosive—bass-heavy, physical, intimate. Choreography was all power lines, body rolls, formation shifts, and relentless stage chemistry. Perfect. Just… perfect. Because Jungkook’s live delivery on “Hooligan” was a direct assault on her nervous system. Even muffled through click track overlays, she could feel him. Adrenaline, confidence, The razor-edge focus of comeback pressure.

And underneath it—Excitement. He loved this. God, he loved performing. That part was always the hardest. Feeling how genuinely happy he was onstage made it nearly impossible to resent the chaos he caused inside her head. So Avery did what she always did: Counted. Five, six, seven, eight—Turn. Drop. Slide. Ignore the way his voice curved around your spine.

————-

By “FYA,” things got worse. The song was reckless, swagger-heavy, almost feral in rehearsal staging. Taehyung thrived in it. J-Hope looked terrifyingly cool. Jimin somehow made sharp aggression graceful. Jin, naturally, kept making the dancers laugh during resets by overcommitting facial expressions.

“Kim Seokjin,” Namjoon sighed at one point, watching Jin dramatically snarl into a camera blocking rehearsal, “why are you like this?”

“Because I am art.”

Yoongi, without looking up: “Debatable.”

Even Avery laughed at that. And she hated how easy it was becoming. Being around them. Knowing them. They weren’t untouchable legends in rehearsal. They were exhausted men rebuilding something enormous together. And that made Jungkook even more dangerous. Because every day he became less of a myth…And more of a person.

————————————-

“SWIM” rehearsal nearly took it out of her. Not because of choreography, because of resonance. As “SWIM” had everyone’s full attention—production, cameras, choreographers, label executives. This was the song. The center. The statement. Its staging was massive: water imagery, shifting blue LEDs, storm visuals, and choreography built around surrender versus control. And Jungkook’s parts…Avery physically turned her vocal feed down 20%…..Still not enough, because soulmate bonds didn’t care about sound engineering. His voice hit anyway…..Drowning, Wanting, Need. It crashed through her chest so hard she visibly faltered during a center transition.

“Hold!” Son Sungdeuk’s voice echoed.

Avery froze….Damn it.

“Again from chorus.”

She nodded quickly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. But Hobi noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. During reset, he stepped beside her, voice lower.

“You good?”

“Yep.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I am.”

J-Hope looked unconvinced… but let it go….For now. Across the stage, Jungkook pulled out one in-ear and frowned slightly. Watching her….Again. Avery immediately pretended to be deeply fascinated by her shoelaces.

——————————-

It became a pattern….She avoided, He noticed. Not aggressively. Not ego. Curiosity. Because Avery Monroe was the first woman in years who seemed genuinely committed to not getting closer to Jeon Jungkook…No flirting. No accidental touches. No backstage hovering. No wide-eyed awe….Just discipline. Distance—And an almost obsessive reliance on professional audio gear.

Taehyung clocked it first, obviously. During “Like Animals” blocking, he casually appeared beside her while everyone reviewed playback.

“You know,” he said, far too innocently, “most people try to hear Jungkook better.”

Avery nearly choked on her water. “I like protecting my hearing.”

Taehyung grinned. “Sure.”

Jimin, from the other side: “Taehyung, leave her alone.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Yoongi, seated nearby: “You contain problems.”

Jin’s windshield-wiper laugh echoed through the stage.And despite herself—Avery smiled.Which was unfortunate. Because Jungkook saw that, too. And something about seeing the elusive blonde dancer—his mysterious headphone girl—finally laugh made his chest do something… strange.

———————————————

Rehearsal ended later than usual…..Again. The kind of late where conversations softened, movements slowed, and even the perfectionists—Hobi, Jungkook, Avery—started running on muscle memory and stubbornness alone.

“Good work today,” Namjoon called, clapping once. Scattered responses followed.

“Finally.”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“Hyung, I can feel my legs and I don’t like it.”

Avery lingered near the back, unplugging her in-ears, carefully wrapping the cord like she always did. Routine. Control. Something familiar in a place that still felt slightly off-balance.

“Are you heading out?”

She looked up. One of the other dancers—Dani—smiled at her.

“Yeah,” Avery said. “You?”

“Same. A few of us are grabbing food.”

Avery hesitated. There it was again. The moment. Back home, she would’ve said yes without thinking. Here…She overthought everything. Would it be rude to say no? Would it be weird to say yes? What if she misunderstood something? What if she used the wrong level of speech? What if—

“You should come,” Dani added gently, reading her hesitation.

Avery opened her mouth—

“Go.” Both of them turned. Jimin stood a few feet away, already changed out of rehearsal clothes, jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

“It’s good,” he said, nodding toward Dani. “Team dinners help.”

Avery blinked. “Oh—okay.” Too quick? Too eager? She added, “If that’s okay.”

Dani laughed softly. “It’s more than okay.”

Jimin smiled, satisfied, and gave a small nod before heading toward the exit. Avery watched him go for a second…..Then immediately overthought that too. Did she bow? Too late now. God.

————————————————————

Dinner was… an experience. Not bad. Just…..New. They sat on the floor. Shoes off. Low table filled with dishes Avery recognized vaguely but couldn’t name with confidence. She watched carefully before touching anything. Chopsticks……Right. She could do chopsticks. Mostly. Kind of……Don’t drop anything. Don’t reach wrong. Don’t—

“Relax.” Dani nudged her lightly, “You look like you’re taking an exam.”

Avery let out a quiet laugh, “I feel like I am.”

“You’re doing fine.”

That helped. A little. Still every movement felt deliberate. Measured. Like she was constantly checking herself against invisible rules.

“Yah!” Jin’s voice cut across the room from the other side.

Avery looked up instinctively. The members had joined later, filling the restaurant with familiar chaos.

“Why are you sitting so far away?” Jin called dramatically.

Avery blinked, “…Me?”

“Yes, you!”

Namjoon sighed. “Hyung, don’t shout across the restaurant.”

“I’m inviting her.”

“You’re yelling.”

“It’s an enthusiastic invitation.”

Jimin laughed, “Just come sit here,” he said, patting the space beside him.

Avery froze for half a second. Was that okay? Should she wait? Was there an order? Hierarchy? Her hesitation stretched just long enough—

“Come on,” Taehyung added, softer. “It’s fine.”

That did it. Avery stood, carrying her bowl carefully, and moved over

She gave a small bow out of habit…Shit. Was that right?

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Jin asked immediately.

“For… moving?”

Silence. Then—

Jin burst out laughing, “Why are you apologizing for walking?”

Avery’s face heated instantly, “I don’t know.”

Taehyung grinned, “You’re overthinking.”

“Clearly,” Yoongi muttered.

Jimin leaned in slightly, voice gentle, “You don’t have to be so formal with us.”

Avery nodded. “Okay.” Then immediately worried if that “okay” was too casual.

Jungkook hadn’t said anything yet. He sat across from her. Quiet. Watching. Not in a way that made her uncomfortable. Just… present, aware. And that was somehow worse. Because every time she accidentally glanced up, He was already looking.

“You’re American, right?” Jungkook asked finally. Simple question. Normal.

Avery nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“New York.”

He hummed softly,“Far.”

“Very.”

A small pause. Then—

“You understand Korean a little?”

Her grip on her chopsticks tightened just slightly. Here it was.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “Some.”

“How much is ‘some’?” Taehyung asked, immediately interested.

Avery hesitated because that answer was complicated. “I pick up… things.”

“Like what?” Jin asked.

Avery shrugged lightly, “Common phrases. Tone. Context.”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked up. Sharp. “That’s not ‘some,’” he said.

Avery’s stomach dropped. Abort. “I mean—not everything,” she added quickly. “Just… enough to get by.”

Jimin smiled reassuringly. “That’s impressive.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said quietly.

Avery looked up. He was still watching her. Expression thoughtful. Like he was connecting something. Her pulse spiked.

“Eat,” Jin ordered suddenly, dropping more food into her bowl. “Thinking burns calories.”

Avery blinked. “…Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

Namjoon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. And it was. Strangely. Because despite the confusion. Despite the constant second-guessing. There was something grounding about this. About sitting here. About being included. About not being alone with everything in her head for once……Until—

“You dance differently when you’re alone.”

Avery froze. Jungkook. Of course. Conversation slowed. Not stopped. But slowed enough that she felt it. The attention shifting. Her heart started pounding.

“What?” she asked, buying time.

“In the practice room,” he said simply.

Her stomach dropped. He saw that. Of course he did.

“Just… practicing,” she said lightly.

Jungkook shook his head slightly. “No.” Soft. Certain. “It’s different.”

Taehyung leaned forward immediately. “Oh, I want to see that.”

“You’re not helping,” Yoongi muttered.

“I’m curious.”

“You’re always curious.”

“And you love that about me.”

“I tolerate it.”

Jimin nudged Jungkook lightly, “Don’t interrogate her.”

“I’m not interrogating.”

“You are a little.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. Then looked back at Avery. “I just noticed.”

That was the problem. He noticed everything.

Avery forced a small smile. “Different how?”

Jungkook paused. Like he was choosing his words carefully. “Like it’s… not for anyone else.”

Her breath caught. Because he was right. Completely. And he had no idea why.

“That’s kind of the point of practicing alone,” she said, deflecting. It almost worked….Almost. But Jungkook didn’t look convinced. Not even close.

———————————————————

The conversation shifted after that. Thankfully. Jin started arguing with Taehyung about something completely unrelated. Jimin got pulled into it. Namjoon tried to mediate. Yoongi pretended not to care. And slowly, the attention moved away from her. Avery exhaled quietly. Relief. Temporary. But real.

Later, as they all stood to leave, Shoes back on, Goodbyes exchanged. Avery bowed slightly again out of habit.

“Thank you for the food.”

Jin waved a hand. “Eat more next time.”

“I will.”

Was that the right response? Too late. Already said it.

She turned to leave—

“Avery.” Jungkook again. Of course. She looked back.

He stepped a little closer. Not too close. But enough. “You don’t have to try so hard,” he said.

Her chest tightened. “…Try what?”

“To be careful all the time.”

The words landed softly. But they hit deeper than anything else he’d said so far. Because he was right…..Again. And she hated that he could see it.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Not accusing. Not harsh. Just… observant.

Avery swallowed, “I just don’t want to mess anything up.”

Jungkook studied her for a second. Then— “You won’t.”

Simple. Certain. Like it was fact. Her chest tightened again because if only that were true.

He stepped back. Giving her space this time. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Avery nodded. “Yeah.” She turned. Walked away. Heart racing all over again.

And behind her, Jungkook stood there for a second longer than necessary. Watching. Thinking. Because the more time he spent around Avery Monroe— The clearer one thing became. She wasn’t just adjusting to a new country. She was hiding something. Something big. Something that affected both of them. And no matter how careful she was….No matter how many walls she built…Jungkook was getting closer to it. Whether she wanted him to Or not.

————————————————

Avery decided the next morning that she needed a new strategy. Because clearly, avoiding him wasn’t working. Deflecting wasn’t working. Pretending nothing was happening was definitely not working. So she pivoted. If she couldn’t disappear, She’d normalize.

That meant: Talk when spoken to. Don’t flinch. Don’t overcorrect. Don’t act like every interaction was life or death. Be normal. Be just another dancer. Be someone Jungkook could lose interest in. Simple…..In theory.

“Morning.” Avery said it first. That alone felt like a small victory.

Jungkook blinked slightly, caught off guard. Then—“Morning.” His voice was softer this early. Less polished. More real.

Avery forced herself not to react to it. Progress.

“Ready?” she added, casual.

He studied her for a second. “…Yeah.” A pause. Then— “You?”

“Always.” Too confident? Too much? Too late. She was committing.

———————————————

From across the room, Taehyung leaned into Jimin. “She’s changed tactics.”

Jimin didn’t even look up. “I noticed.”

“Phase two.”

“She said ‘morning,’ Taehyung. It’s not a master plan.”

“It’s absolutely a master plan.”

Yoongi, passing by, muttered: “Or she’s trying to survive both of you.”

Valid.

——————————————-

Rehearsal started and for the first time since everything shifted, Avery didn’t run. Not physically. Not emotionally. She stayed in formation. Stayed present. Stayed close when choreography required it. It was terrifying. But also….Strangely grounding. Because when she stopped fighting every second of proximity— The bond didn’t spike. It steadied. Not gone. Never gone. But calmer. Like it wasn’t being constantly resisted. That realization alone was enough to rattle her.

“Again from chorus!”

Music hit, SWIM. Avery moved through the choreography, fully present this time. No overthinking. No pulling away. And when the formation shifted, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped into place. Directly in front of Jungkook.

———————————————————

From Jungkook’s perspective something had changed. He felt it immediately. Not in the choreography. In her. The tension was still there. But it wasn’t… sharp anymore. She wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t flinching, wasn’t looking like she was bracing for impact every time they got close. And because of that the strange, underlying feeling he’d been chasing for days… Smoothed out. Not gone. Just… clearer. He could almost—No. Not quite, but closer.

Their timing locked. Perfect. For the first time since rehearsals began, Perfect.

Hobi noticed instantly. “Good,” he called out.

Avery exhaled quietly.

Jungkook didn’t break focus. But something in his chest eased.

Water Break. Avery grabbed her water, forcing herself to stay instead of bolting like usual. Stay normal. Stay present.

“You’re better today.”

She looked up. Jungkook again. “…Thanks.”

He tilted his head slightly. “What changed?”

Everything. Nothing. Her entire internal system. But she couldn’t say that.

“Just… settling in,” she said. Half true.

Jungkook nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. Not fully convinced. But not pushing….Yet.

“Hey!” Jin appeared out of nowhere, clapping his hands, “Important question.”

Avery blinked, “…Okay?”

“Do you prefer Korean food or American food?”

A trap. This felt like a trap.

“Both?” she tried.

Jin narrowed his eyes, “Diplomatic answer.”

Namjoon sighed, “Hyung, let her breathe.”

“I am helping her integrate.”

“You’re interrogating her taste buds.”

“It’s cultural exchange.”

Yoongi, from the side: “It’s chaos.”

Taehyung grinned. “I support it.” Of course he did.

Avery laughed softly. “I like Korean food,” she said.

That part wasn’t a lie. Even if she was still figuring out what half of it was.

Jin beamed. “Correct answer.”

Namjoon looked tired.

“Do you miss home?” Jimin asked gently.

Avery hesitated. That question…Was easier….And harder.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. Honest. “Mostly when I don’t understand something.”

Jimin nodded. “That makes sense.”

“It’s… a lot,” she added before she could stop herself.

Everyone quieted slightly. Not uncomfortably. Just listening.

Avery shifted her weight, “I don’t always know if I’m doing things right,” she said. “Like… talking, or reacting, or—bowing, apparently.”

Jin laughed immediately,“You bow too much.”

“I know.”

“You look like you’re apologizing for existing.”

Namjoon rubbed his forehead. “Hyung—”

“I’m helping!”

Jimin smiled softly,“You don’t have to get everything perfect.”

Avery huffed, “I’d like to try.”

“Of course you would,” Taehyung said, amused.

Jungkook had gone quiet again. Watching, Listening, Because something about that…About the way she said it….Connected. She wasn’t just careful with him. She was careful with everything. Every word, every action, every reaction. Like she was constantly trying not to cross a line she couldn’t see. And suddenly, the way she treated him didn’t feel personal anymore. Not entirely. It felt… consistent. Controlled. Like she was protecting something. Or someone.

“Avery.”

She looked at him. “Yes?”

Jungkook hesitated. Then, “You’re doing fine.” Simple. But sincere.

Her chest tightened slightly. “…Thanks.”

He nodded once. Then looked away first. Which….that was new.

————————————————————

From the sidelines, Taehyung whispered: “Oh, he’s gone.”

Jimin elbowed him. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m observant.”

Yoongi: “You’re annoying.”

Rehearsal resumed, but something had shifted again, Not tension, not confusion. Something quieter. Something building.

————————————————————————————-

Later, during a lighting reset, Avery found herself alone near center stage. No music. No talking. Just space. For a second, she let herself breathe. Actually breathe. And without thinking…..She hummed. Soft. Absent-minded. Barely there.

Across the stage, Jungkook froze. His head snapped up. Because…That melody….

Avery stopped immediately. Eyes widening…..Oh no.No no no—

She hadn’t even realized what she was humming. But she knew. Of course she knew. Because it wasn’t just any melody. It was his. Something he used to sing late at night. Quiet. Unfinished. Never released. Something no one should recognize.

Silence stretched. Heavy. Dangerous. Avery didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Slowly, She turned. Jungkook was already looking at her. Not confused. Not curious. Something else. Something deeper.

“How do you know that?” he asked quietly.

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. Because this time, There was no good answer. And no way to pretend…That it was nothing.

—————————————————————

A Cliffhanger! :)

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