#canondivergence

It still smells like peppermint. Faint, but still there. Soft and clean and ghostlike. The mug on your coffee table is empty — no trace of warmth left in the ceramic, but the shape of it feels recent. Like someone placed it down gently. Like someone didn’t want to wake you.

The blanket over your legs is still tucked neatly at the sides, folded in at the edges like a quiet gesture you almost missed. You blink slowly, staring at it for a few seconds before it registers — Jimin is gone.

He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t need to. You also hadn’t expected a goodbye, not really. He moves through space like water — he fills it, carries you if you let him, and then leaves without asking for anything. And somehow, what he leaves behind feels more meaningful than words ever could.

The apartment is quiet now. Still.

The kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The faint creak of the wood under your couch as you shift your weight. Every sound amplified by the absence of another presence.

But it’s not a lonely kind of quiet. Not quite. But a bit lonely, nevertheless.  

You exhale, long and slow, letting your head fall back against the cushion.

There’s a light pressure behind your eyes — the last trace of the hangover, maybe, or just the ghost of the dream you had before Jimin showed up. You can’t remember it now. Just a feeling. A sharpness. That sensation of being underwater without knowing how you got there.

Your limbs feel heavy, but not weighed down. Just… warm. Like you’ve been wrapped in a cocoon you didn’t realize you needed.

And now, you feel the absence.

Your eyes flutter shut again — just for a moment. Not to sleep, but to feel the room. The shift.

It's strange how easy it is to feel when he's gone. You stay there, breathing. Letting the quiet wrap around you, slow and padded, like the world is giving you a little more time before it starts spinning again. Your fingers curl slightly under the edge of the blanket. The couch cushions dip just the slightest beneath you. Everything feels still in a way it hasn’t for days.

And yet…

It’s not just stillness that settles in your chest. It’s something else, too.

A hum you can’t quite place. A presence that doesn’t belong to the peppermint or the folded blanket or even to Jimin’s echo.

You try not to name it. Try not to go there.

But your thoughts are already pulling in another direction.

His direction.

The way Jungkook had looked at you yesterday — not during a conversation, not in any obvious way, just in a moment you happened to glance up — like he saw something he hadn’t expected to see. The way his mouth had twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t. The way he didn’t look away until you did.

You hadn’t thought about it much at the time. Now you can’t seem to stop.

The silence stretches again.

And then — the buzz.

Sharp against the cushion. One short vibration. Then another.

You open your eyes, slowly. Turn your head toward the sound. Your phone is still facedown. Like it knew you wouldn’t be ready.

You reach for it, thumb dragging across the screen. It lights up — too bright at first — and you squint, blinking against it.

Two notifications.

The first one makes you snort softly, right on cue.

[My one and only true love 3:43 PM]: Okay. I’m really giving you a break today.  [My one and only true love 3:45 PM]: But tomorrow? I want names.  [My one and only true love 3:45 PM]:And context.  [My one and only true love 3:45 PM]:And height-to-hotness ratios.

You consider replying. You even start to type.

But the second notification catches your eye — and suddenly your fingers pause. [JK 1:12 PM]: Still alive?

Your thumb stills above the keyboard. The words are short. Barely anything. Just enough. But you feel them settle in your chest anyway.

You stare at the screen, heart thumping slightly out of step.

You don’t know why it feels heavier coming from him. Maybe because everything from him feels like it might mean something — even when it doesn’t. Maybe because you still don’t know how much space he’s meant to take up in your day. Or maybe because… you kind of hoped he would text. And now that he has, you don’t know what to do with that hope.

You type back, simple.

[ You 3:46 PM]: Depends who’s asking.

The reply comes faster than you expect. Like he has been waiting near the phone the entire time. 

[JK 3:46 PM]: Just someone who heard you lost a fight to soju.

Your brows lift. So he knows. Somehow. Someone told him. But who?

You hesitate, then reply:

[JK 3:47 PM]: Amazing. Didn’t realize my downfall was public info.

[JK 3:47 PM]: It is now. You set a new record, apparently. Very dramatic.

You roll your eyes. But you’re already smiling. Just a little.

You tap your fingers against the edge of the phone, then type:

[You 3:47 PM]: Glad to know I’m leaving a legacy.

And then — a pause. A longer one.

Not longer then a minute. Just long enough to make you wonder.

Then his message blinks across the screen:

[ JK 3:48 PM]: You always do.

You stop.

You stare at the words until the screen begins to dim, and you tap it once to keep it lit. You don’t reply. You don’t know how.

Because you’re still figuring out what any of this is.

Still figuring out what it means when someone like Jungkook says something like that — not just to you, but about you.

And if you’re being honest with yourself — really honest — you know it’s not just the words.

It’s the way your pulse stutters now. The way your stomach tightens, just slightly. The way you let your phone rest gently on the blanket beside you, like the weight of it might say too much.

You exhale, slow.

Outside, the city is still moving. Somewhere far off, a car honks. Someone laughs in the hallway.

But inside your apartment, it’s just you. And that message. And the strange little ache blooming behind your ribs. ----- The next day at work passed in a strange kind of haze.

The hangover was gone. The peppermint scent had faded from your hoodie, and the apartment felt emptier than it did the night before — though a blanket still folded neatly on the couch gave away that Jimin had really been there. You hadn’t heard from him since, just a message in the morning saying “Hope today’s kinder to you.”

You hadn’t answered.

There was too much noise in your head already — leftover static from dreams, memories, text messages that said you always do. And then there was work. The usual rush of prep before a Run BTS shoot, the whole office tense but pretending to be casual. Scripts, gear, last-minute call time changes. People bumping into each other and pretending it wasn’t on purpose.

By 6:40, someone shoved a clipboard into your hands with a breathless “Can you take this to Studio B?”

You were already halfway down the hall when you realized you didn’t mind the errand.

You didn’t really want to be around anyone. Except when you open the door to the smaller recording studio, it isn’t empty.

Jungkook’s already there.

He’s lounged back on the old leather couch, hoodie hood bunched behind his neck, legs sprawled comfortably. One of his feet bounces in the air, heel tapping the ground. He’s got his phone in hand and one earbud in, but it’s hanging halfway out, like he forgot about it.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s grinning — really grinning — shoulders shaking with that soundless laugh you’ve seen when something online catches him just right. You freeze for half a second in the doorway, not sure whether to step back or knock or just stand there like a forgotten extra.

Then he looks up.

And you don’t know why it feels like you’ve been caught.

“Oh,” he says, still half-laughing. “You scared me.”

“I knocked.”

“You didn’t.”

You blink. “…I thought I did.”

He smiles, and it makes your stomach shift a little too fast.

You hold up the clipboard in your hand. “Dropping these off. Tomorrow’s call sheets.”

He nods and nudges the coffee table with his foot. “You can leave it here. Unless you want to read it out loud. Make it dramatic.”

You roll your eyes but cross the room anyway, placing the clipboard down gently on the edge of the table. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick toward you as you do — just for a second. A blink. But it’s there.

“Did you volunteer for this?” he asks, voice light.

“Why?”

He shrugs, stretching his arms behind his head. “I mean, it’s almost 7. Kind of feels like you wanted the walk.”

You glance at him, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Kind of feels like you’re reading too much into it.”

He laughs again — not unkind. Not sharp. Just… amused.

“I’ve been told I do that,” he says shrugging. “Once or twice.”

You hover by the table a moment longer, unsure if you’re dismissed or just lingering. But before you can move toward the door, he speaks again — this time a little quieter, but still casual.

“By the way… thanks. For the whole… mess the other day.”

You blink. “You mean—?”

He nods once. Doesn’t elaborate. Just lifts his hand in a little wave like he’s acknowledging something in the air between you both.

“I didn’t know you knew I helped with that.”

He gives a soft scoff. “Please. You’re the only one who would’ve made the managers sound like a calm older sister who’s also on the verge of quitting.”

You almost smile. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

“I thought so.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not uncomfortable.

He leans forward to pick up his phone, scrolling aimlessly now. You turn toward the door.

“You’re on the schedule at 8:45,” you say over your shoulder. “Try not to be late.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“More like a prayer.”

He huffs another laugh behind you. “See you tomorrow.”

You don’t look back when you leave, but you do catch your reflection briefly in the narrow studio window — the way your shoulders are still a little too stiff, your expression a little too carefully blank.

But your heart?

It’s doing that thing again.

The quiet kind of racing.

------- The studio was already buzzing by the time you arrived.

Staff filtered in and out of the side doors, trailing wires and clipped walkies, the usual pre-shoot chaos humming under every breath. You tucked your phone into your back pocket, tried not to think about the last conversation you’d had with either of them, and slid the call sheet onto the production table like it didn’t weigh more than it should.

Run BTS days always carried a different kind of energy. It wasn’t just content — it was the boys being themselves, half-scripted and half-chaotic. You’d noticed, over time, how even the quietest ones came alive here. Something about being in front of the camera without the full weight of an idol performance made them playful in a way that was rare to catch elsewhere.

You were adjusting the mic list when you heard your name.

“Y/N!”

It was Taehyung, waving dramatically from across the set like you were half a football field away.

“Come settle a bet,” he called.

You squinted. “Do I want to know what the bet is?”

Jimin appeared beside him, grinning like he’d already won. “You absolutely do.”

That’s when you noticed the screen behind them — the large monitor propped up for playback — currently displaying a paused Mario Kart track. Two controllers were sitting on the table, one already gripped tightly in Jungkook’s hands.

“Jungkook challenged me,” Jimin said, bouncing lightly on his heels. “Then he lost. And now he wants a rematch. But I refuse, so he wants to show he can beat anyone else. So we chose you.”

You blinked and pointed at yourself in disbelief. “Me?”

Jungkook, seated in one of the gamer-style chairs with his legs kicked up like he owned the place, smirked. “You talk a big game.”

You crossed your arms. “I’ve never talked any game.”

“That’s what makes you dangerous,” he replied, eyes gleaming.

Someone from the staff handed you the second controller, and it felt suspiciously like a setup — the way all the boys slowly started crowding behind the monitor, how Jimin was suddenly perched on the arm of the couch beside you, offering unsolicited tips.

“Watch the drifts in the third lap,” he murmured. “That’s where he gets cocky.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. “Are you helping me or sabotaging me?”

He smiled, all sugar and mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jungkook chose the track. Something fast. Of course.

When the countdown began, your focus narrowed. Just you, the controller, and the digital chaos on screen. Around you, you were vaguely aware of voices — cheering, laughing, someone (probably Jin) commentating like it was the Olympics.

Jungkook was fast. Annoyingly fast.

But you were patient. Quietly calculating.

And in the last stretch of the final lap, you drifted perfectly around a corner, dodged a red shell, and zipped across the finish line less than half a second ahead.

The room exploded.

Hobi’s laugh was unmistakable as Jin threw his hands in the air. Taehyung screamed something unintelligible. Jimin laughed so hard he nearly fell from where he was sitting on.

Jungkook stared at the screen, jaw slack. Then he turned to look at you.

“That was luck.”

You leaned back, tossing the controller gently onto the couch. “Skill. Coated in humble confidence.”

“Rematch.”

“You’ll need time to recover.” You patted him on the shoulder. 

He huffed, half a laugh escaping before he could stop it. And then he smiled — a real one this time, boyish and bright.

Jimin passed behind you as the camera crew started setting up for the next segment. He didn’t say anything at first — just brushed his knuckles lightly across your shoulder in passing, a touch no one else would notice.

When he came back around, slipping into place beside you as the others were getting miked, he handed you a bottle of water without meeting your eyes.

“You okay?” he asked under his breath.

You nodded. “I think I just made a mortal enemy.”

He smiled. “Nah. That’s just Jungkook’s love language.”

Your stomach flipped — not because of the words, but the quiet way he said them. Like he knew exactly how light to make it. Exactly when not to push.

You looked at him then, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

Then the director called for first positions, and the moment scattered like loose change.

Still, when Jungkook passed you on the way to his mark, he bumped your shoulder lightly, a grin tucked half into the corner of his mouth.

“Round two’s coming,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you smiled anyway. -----

The hallway beyond the studio felt quieter than it should. Dimmer, too, the bright set lights replaced by the low ambient hum of backstage fluorescents. You rubbed your fingertips along your temple, trying to will away the strange buzz still dancing in your chest after the shoot.

Your badge swung slightly with each step as you wandered past stacked lighting gear and garment racks. A few of the stylists were packing up, their conversations soft and distant. Most of the boys had already vanished into dressing rooms or out the back exit.

You stepped into the green room without knocking — just enough to drop off the folder you’d been handed. Inside, it was quiet. A jacket draped over the couch, an open water bottle on the table. Jungkook was seated on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone, his expression unreadable until he glanced up and noticed you.

"Hey," he said, straightening slightly.

You held out the folder. "Call sheet for the weekend. You guys have a rehearsal slotted Sunday."

He set his phone down and took the folder from you, glancing at the cover. "Thanks."

"No problem."

You turned to leave, but his voice followed. "You know... you kind of crushed me today."

You blinked. "At Mario Kart?"

He let out a low chuckle. "I’m gonna pretend it wasn’t personal."

"Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’m just that good."

Jungkook tilted his head like he was considering that. "Dangerously humble. It’s a deadly combo."

You smirked, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make your heart feel a little too aware of itself.

“How’s your recovery from trying to beat Sana in drinking?” He asked casually. 

Your eyebrows shot up. "How do you—"

His grin widened. "Let’s just say... death by soju doesn’t go unnoticed."

You narrowed your eyes, trying not to smile. "I’m going to start interrogating people."

"You won’t need to. I’m very susceptible to guilt. And bribery."

You laughed despite yourself, glancing down at the call sheet again. Something about this was easier than it should’ve been.

Then footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Taehyung appeared, slowing as soon as he saw the two of you. He stopped a few paces away, taking in the scene without saying a word.

You braced for something.

He didn’t disappoint.

"You know," he said, pointing between the two of you, "if you’re gonna stand that close and smile that much, at least try to look a little less obvious."

Jungkook groaned, head tipping back with a dramatic sigh. "Hyung—"

Taehyung raised both hands, backing away slowly. "Hey, hey. Don’t mind me. I’m just an innocent bystander. An observant one. But innocent nonetheless."

Then, just before turning the corner, he added over his shoulder, "Cute, though. Seriously."

You stared after him.

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, then looked at you with something caught between amusement and apology.

"He’s going to milk that for weeks."

You sighed. "Guess we’re doomed."

"Could be worse," Jungkook said.

And the way he looked at you — not teasing, not intense, just quietly sure — made it very hard to argue. ---- The studio floor had emptied out more than you realized. One minute you were dodging prop boxes and laughing with Yoshi while the post-filming chaos still lingered, and the next — you were standing by the stairwell with a half-empty water bottle in hand, waiting for the elevator that seemed determined not to arrive.

"You always disappear right before the fun part," Jimin’s voice cut through the quiet like a familiar song.

You turned, half startled, half expecting him. He was already walking toward you, hoodie draped loosely over his shoulders, hair still damp from the earlier shoot, and something soft behind his eyes. Like he’d been waiting for a moment alone just like this.

You gave a weak smile. "Didn’t know there was a fun part."

He stopped in front of you, leaning a shoulder lightly against the wall. "There’s always a fun part."

The hallway buzzed gently with silence. A light flickered above you, casting slow-moving shadows. You tightened your grip on the bottle.

"Tired?" he asked, glancing down at your hands.

You shrugged. "A little. I think the last twenty-four hours finally caught up to me."

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than you were saying.

"Thanks for yesterday," you said after a moment.

"You already said that."

You looked up. "Well, I’m saying it again."

He smiled at that, then tilted his head slightly. "Want a ride home? I’ve got time."

You hesitated. For a breath. Maybe two. Then nodded. Why not?

---- 

The city passed in fragments outside the window, a patchwork of late-night haze and quiet. Yellow-tinted streetlights blinked over sidewalks. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly from the windows of half-closed stores. Inside the car, it was warm — too warm — and you didn’t bother removing your coat. You felt the press of it, like a shield. A weight you weren’t quite ready to shrug off.

Jimin didn’t put on music. You didn’t ask. The air between you hummed with an unspoken rhythm, one you couldn’t place.

"You’re quiet," he said, glancing at you as the car slowed at a red light. "I thought I’d at least get a dramatic monologue about the evils of filming variety shows in the cold."

You gave a soft huff, the corner of your mouth twitching. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to perform."

"I’m devastated," he said, placing a hand dramatically over his chest.

Your gaze drifted back out the window. You traced the fog from your breath with a fingertip on the glass. "It’s just been... an intense week."

"I know the feeling," he murmured. His tone didn’t shift. He didn’t offer advice. He just agreed, like it was the only thing worth saying.

"It’s not even anything specific. Just… the internship. The schedule. The pace of it all. Its been almost three months but feels like im here for much longer but at the same time much less. It’s weird." You gave a little shrug, as if brushing the weight off your shoulders could make it lighter. "Everything’s just a bit much sometimes."

He stayed silent. The hum of the car filled in what you didn’t say.

Then, his voice returned, lighter this time. "If it makes you feel better, I’m very impressed by how professional you looked while holding a bag of cucumbers today."

That pulled a laugh from your chest. You shot him a side glance. "Stop."

"Dead serious. Iconic. Might be the most glamorous thing I’ve seen all week."

The light turned green, and he eased the car forward. You leaned into your seat and sighed. Something about him — the way he let the serious and silly fold over each other — always managed to unravel you in pieces. Quiet ones.

"You’re good at this," you said softly.

"At what?"

"Disarming people."

He glanced at you, his smile widening. "You make it sound like I’m a spy."

"Maybe you are. The charming kind. Gets people talking when they don’t mean to."

"Ah," he said, mock-serious. "So I’m dangerously persuasive. Noted."

You lifted an eyebrow. "I’m saying you’re sneaky. Subtle. The kind of person who probably gets away with way too much."

He gasped in mock offense. "I’m wounded."

"You’ll survive."

He turned onto your street, the familiar row of buildings falling into place outside the window. But he didn’t stop in front of yours. Instead, he pulled up further, into a quieter spot shaded by trees and dim streetlight.

The engine ticked as he cut it. Neither of you moved.

You sat in the silence, eyes on your hands folded in your lap, while Jimin’s rested casually on the wheel like he wasn’t in a rush to end whatever this was.

"We’re okay, right?" he asked after a moment. Quiet. Careful.

You nodded slowly. "I think so."

He didn’t speak right away. You could feel his gaze, warm and open.

"You’ve seemed different lately. Not bad. Just… like your head’s somewhere else."

You traced another foggy line on the window. "Maybe it is. Everything just feels different, like something shifted and I haven’t caught up to it yet."

He didn’t press. Just waited.

"It’s not really about the job," you added quickly. "It’s nothing. And also… not nothing. I guess I’m still figuring it out."

His voice was low when he answered. "Want to know what I’m figuring out?"

You turned to him, surprised by the question. "What?"

"How long I can sit here before I do something really dumb."

Your breath caught.

He gave a small, knowing smile. "And it gets harder everytime you look at me like that. "

You didn’t look away. Your fingers tightened just a little in your lap. "Then maybe stop thinking about it."

He waited. A pause that felt like a held breath, long enough to ask without asking.

And then, slowly — like testing the weight of it — he leaned in.

The kiss was light. Barely a whisper between you. A question posed in silence. A warmth you hadn’t realized you were craving. It wasn’t a hot or passionate kiss, but rather something soft, uncertain — like both of you were trying to remember how to breathe through it. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything, didn’t burn its way through your chest, but settled there gently, like the warmth of a hand over your heart. It asked nothing but permission. It didn’t shout. It didn’t shake. It just… existed, tender and fleeting. Like a pause between thoughts. Like a secret neither of you had the words to speak yet.

But it didn’t last for long.

Because just as the moment settled — just as the softness of it bloomed in your chest — you pulled away.

The car felt too close now. Too still. Your hand reached for the door.

"I should—"

He nodded.

You stepped out into the cold. The night air stung your cheeks in a way that reminded you where you were. Grounded you.

The door shut behind you. Your boots clicked against the pavement as you walked towards the door of your apartment building.

And then—

Your name.

Spoken low. Firm.

You turned as he caught up to you. 

No hesitation this time.

His hand found the back of your head softly but firmer. His eyes found your mouth.

And he kissed you again.

Fuller. Warmer. Still careful, but more certain — like he’d decided he didn’t want to let you walk away wondering. This kiss wasn’t rushed, but there was urgency beneath the tenderness. A silent insistence that said: I meant that. It carried something heavier than the first — not pressure, but presence. His thumb brushed along your jaw as the kiss deepened just slightly, grounding you where you stood. Your breath caught somewhere between surprise and surrender. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it. The world narrowed. The streetlamp above you flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn echoed and faded. But here — with his forehead resting lightly against yours — everything else disappeared.

You could feel your heart knocking against your ribs, too fast, too loud. Like it hadn’t caught up to what your body was already answering.

"I get to do dumb things sometimes too," he murmured resting his forehead against yours. You were with your eyes closed still trying to process what just happened. 

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t let go either. You didn’t know how long you stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, Jimin’s warmth still lingering on your lips.

The street was quiet. Only the distant hum of a passing car reminded you the world hadn’t completely stopped. But in your body? In your chest? Everything felt like it had come to a sudden, terrifying standstill.

He kissed you.

He kissed you.

Again.

And then he—

He just turned around and left.

No last word. No clever tease. Not even a backward glance.

He walked back to his car like that kiss hadn’t just rearranged your entire central nervous system.

You were still standing there like a glitch in a simulation when the car engine started. It purred low, then faded as the wheels rolled down the block.

Only when the red taillights disappeared from view did you finally move.

You turned slowly, let yourself walk the last few steps to your building, and fumbled with the code on the door twice before getting it right. Your fingers didn’t work properly. Your brain certainly didn’t.

Inside, the air felt colder than you expected. Or maybe that was just your skin trying to forget the way his hand held the back of your head.

You dropped your bag at the entrance. Your coat somewhere near the couch. Your shoes half-on, half-off by the mat.

And then you just stood there.

Completely and utterly flabbergasted.

What the hell had just happened?

You touched your lips. Once. Lightly. Like you could still trace the shape of him there.

This was a joke. It had to be. 

No.

This was your life.

You spun in place, hair swishing with the motion, like pacing would make your thoughts more manageable.

It didn’t.

He kissed you. Again. And it wasn’t some lingering almost-moment. Not some near miss like before. No. It was real. It happened.

And you let it happen.

You kissed him back. Oh God, what have you done? You should’ve kept your mouth shut. Never said anything. To anyone. Ever. In fact, you believe you should’ve just been able to speak ever again. 

You groaned and collapsed face-first onto the couch, muffling a scream into the nearest cushion.

What were you supposed to do now? Text him? Pretend it never happened? Throw your phone into the sea? Take a rocket and launch yourself into space and disapear forever?

You rolled over dramatically, now staring at the ceiling, limbs sprawled in defeat.

Should you call Evi?

No.

Yes.

No. Definitely not. She would ascend into a whole different plane of existence if she found out. You could already hear her voice in your head, pitch climbing with every syllable:

“YOU DID WHAT? With PARK JIMIN?! Girl, are you INSANE?”

You covered your face with both hands.

God. This was bad. This was… good? No. Complicated. This was very complicated.

And you were very possibly losing your mind.

You hadn’t even taken your makeup off. Your phone buzzed against your thigh, and you flinched like it had burned you.

But it wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t.

You lay there for another minute before sitting up and grabbing your phone anyway. You opened your notes app and typed exactly two words:

He kissed me.

Then you stared at them.

Then you deleted them.

Then you opened a new note:

What the fuck is happening.

You closed the app.

Typed Evi’s name in your contacts.

And stared.

You hadn’t done anything wrong.

Right?

But why did it feel like your entire body was filled with static electricity?

You groaned again and launched yourself backward onto the couch. You needed to sleep. Or scream. Or invent a time machine.

Anything but this. Your phone buzzed again.

This time, not a message. A FaceTime.

 My one and only true love is FaceTiming…

You screamed.

Not a little gasp, not a startled “oh”—a full-on, sharp yelp that shot out of you like a reflex. The sound echoed off your apartment walls, and you instantly slapped a hand over your mouth.

Your thumb still hit "accept."

Evi’s face exploded onto the screen, perfectly framed and flawless. Hair smooth and curled at the ends, lips lined with something expensive and terrifyingly red. Her brows looked like they were carved by gods.

“Why are you screaming like someone broke into your house?” she asked, calmly sipping from a matcha glass.

You blinked at her. “I thought you were a murderer. Or my boss.”

“Charming. This is the welcome I get?”

“You scared the hell out of me.” 

“You scare easily for someone who’s been hiding a man in her apartment.”

Your soul left your body.

You coughed. “What—what are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” She leaned in dramatically. “I know that look. You’re flushed. Your hair’s doing that thing it does when you’re stressed but trying not to look stressed. Your eyes are twitchy. And unless it’s -3 degrees outside, that red on your cheeks isn’t from the cold.”

You adjusted your phone. “It is cold.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And yet you don’t look frozen. You look freshly kissed.”

You made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a protest—just a long, whimpering exhale.

“Y/N,” she said slowly. “Was someone at your place again since yesterday?”

You said nothing.

“Someone tucked your blanket,” she continued. “Someone made you ramen. Someone bought you Pocari Sweat. You don’t even like Pocari Sweat. You drink it once a year and call it a ritual. And today you are jumpy and blushing. Spill, bitch. ”

You buried your face in your hand. “You are so dramatic.”

“I am your best friend. I’m allowed to be. Was it someone from work?”

“Evi…”

“Was it one of the boys?” Her eyes widened, manic energy building. “Wait. DON’T tell me. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Scratch your nose if it’s complicated.”

You burst out laughing, but it was too late—your fingers had brushed your cheek.

“I KNEW IT!”

“That was not a signal.”

“Too late. Evidence locked in.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned at you. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

You stared at her through the screen. Your cheeks still felt warm. Your mouth—God, your mouth—still tingled faintly. Like the memory of his lips hadn’t quite left yet.

She tilted her head. “Was it good?”

You sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Not a no.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m just saying—if someone kissed me and they were as hot as they sound, I would spiral, like, immediately.”

“Oh, I already spiraled.”

She beamed. “That’s my girl.”

There was a beat of silence, then her voice softened.

“You okay, though?” She dropped the subject just like that. She knew better then to press you. And she also knew when you were not jokinly freaking out. 

You looked away. Then back. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t push. She didn’t fill the silence with noise like she normally would. Just… nodded. Like that was enough.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Of course,” she replied. Then, after a pause: “Can I complain about my neighbor now?”

You blinked. “Absolutely.”

She launched into it instantly. “So this morning? He started blasting Cupid at seven a.m. again. Not even the good version—the sped-up TikTok remix. While dancing. In a tutu. On his balcony.”

You snorted. “Still the same three songs?”

“On a loop. My brain is bleeding. My sanity is held together by two hairpins and a dream.”

You grinned.

She leaned closer to the screen. “I’m serious. If I disappear one day, avenge me. I’ll be the one under the floorboards of his playlist.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

You nodded. “I do.”

“And when you’re ready,” she said, “I want the whole story. Over wine. With snacks. And a cheap galaxy projector.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “Deal.”

“Miss you.”

“Miss you too.” 

She gave you a long look, like she was reading every emotion off your face, then winked and hung up—leaving you in the quiet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel quite so loud. 

The new Captain America. Polished. Poised. Impossible to ignore.

You haven’t spoken in years. Not since before the shield. Not since your company—the one that takes in reformed assassins, mercenaries, anyone clawing toward redemption—started showing up at the same tables as government liaison teams.

You’re not supposed to mix. Not really. Sam deals in symbols; you deal in scars. The tension isn’t personal—at least, that’s what you’ve told yourself every time his name crossed your desk.

But now he’s here. Same space. Same music. Same ache.

You catch him looking. Just once. A flicker. Like a nerve being touched.

Your throat tightens.

I come up hard, baby, but now I’m fine I’m checkin’ trouble, sugar, movin’ down the line.

His gaze flickers again—subtle but electric, like a spark across dry grass. Neither of you moves closer—too much unsaid, too much ground lost, too many battles fought inside your own heads.

The room spins quietly around you, but the space between you feels like a war zone.

You look away, eyes drifting down to your glass. The bitter scent of cheap wine curls up to meet your nose—sharp and unforgiving. The liquid slides past your lips, cool and hollow, pooling deep in the pit of your stomach like a slow, aching weight you’ve carried too long.

You lift the glass again, pretending the burn distracts from the tight knot coiling in your chest. Around you, laughter bubbles and conversations hum, but all you hear is the quiet pull of that familiar tension—like a thread stretched taut between you and Sam, ready to snap or pull you closer.

You look up again, hoping to catch the subtle smirk he always had plastered on his face or maybe, just maybe, the playful glint in his dark brown eyes. Instead, you meet the wall he stood in front of just minutes ago.

Panic doesn’t bloom—not quite—but something close settles just beneath your skin, sharp and searching.

You scan the crowd slow and deliberate, refusing to look like you’re looking. He’s too big to disappear, too steady to slip through cracks. Somehow, he always knew how to move when you least expected him.

There’s only three things that’s for sho’… The lyrics haunt you now, threading through your thoughts like smoke. Taxes, death... and trouble.

And Sam Wilson? He was all three at once.

“Lookin’ for someone?” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze as he appears in your vision. The distance—once large and escapable—is now a memory.

Now he’s close. Close enough to feel—the heat radiating off him like tension in a too-warm room, thick and heavy. Like standing at the edge of something and knowing it’s about to give.

You almost smile.

Almost.

“Sam Wilson,” you say finally, feeling the wine settle in your veins. “Last person I expected to see.”

Sam Wilson, in a suit that fits like a tailored dare, hands in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes don’t flicker or dance—no, they hold. They see. It’s not polite observation. It’s history, memory, ache. He watches you like he remembers everything—how you sounded, how you left, how you never quite looked back.

Sam hums low, the sound curling in his throat like a secret. “Yeah,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “I could say the same.”

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.

It’s there in the way he shifts his weight—subtle but solid—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re still the same person who left that hotel room at 3 AM with nothing but a nod and a locked jaw.

“I didn’t think you still came to these,” he adds. Casual. Too casual.

You lift a brow, lips curving just slightly at the edges. “Well, potential clients,” you say, eyeing him slowly—up, down, and up again. “Old friends.”

Sam tilts his head, that crooked almost-smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he says, voice low and threaded with something just shy of teasing, “you out here recruiting? Looking for new clients… or old trouble?”

You take your time with the sip this time. Let the wine settle on your tongue. Let the pause stretch long enough to feel deliberate. Then you lower the glass, eyes cutting toward him with a glint he knows too well.

“Both,” you say simply. “There’s a new Avengers lineup forming. You know how it is—everyone wants in before the press release drops. Not to mention, you got your own team.”

Sam raises a brow, hands still tucked in his pockets. “You trying to build your own team now?”

“I’m helping the people no one else will touch,” you reply, letting the edge slip into your voice. “You’ve got your clean-cut recruits. Hawkgirl, Captain Marvel, She-Hulk. Meanwhile, I’ve got three ex-Widows, a former Ten Rings operative, and a guy who used to rob banks in a ski mask and now teaches mindfulness.”

That gets a real smile from him, brief but bright. “Think you can rival the New Avengers?”

You shrug. “I'm not forming a team for them. I'm preparing yours.”

The smile falters. Just slightly. His jaw tightens—not in annoyance, but something closer to realization. You don’t flinch or soften it. Let the weight of your words settle between you—real, sharp, and too heavy to ignore.

Sam straightens a little, the light in his eyes shifting. Serious now. “That’s not your style,” he says quietly. “You don’t build things for other people.”

You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth curving. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m building second chances. What you do with them is up to you.”

For a beat, neither of you speak.

“You know how often I have to deal with the fallout of your making, Sam Wilson? Some new villain-of-the-week wants your head on their mantle. That shield of yours tossed in the corner of their room like trash,” you lick your lips, remembering, “that is until I reform them. Now, they want to be your right-hand man.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t break, but his jaw tics. Once. Twice. Like he’s biting something back. Maybe pride. Maybe guilt. Maybe the same thing that’s been thrumming between you since the second you locked eyes in this damn ballroom.

The music dips into a hush before the next swell, and in that quiet pocket, your words hang there—half accusation, half offering.

He doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you like he’s remembering every argument you two ever had. Every time you pressed him to look at the world differently. Every time he wanted to grab your wrist and pull you back before you walked away.

And maybe—just maybe—every time he didn’t.

Sam leans in close. “I still remember the way you had my shield thrown in the corner of the room. Your clothes with it.”

Your lips part, just slightly, but no words come. Because you remember too. The weight of the shield against the hotel floor. The scrape of your zipper. The sound of your breath catching. His hands everywhere. The ache of something you shouldn’t have wanted so badly.

“You think I forgot?” he murmurs. “You think I didn’t notice the way you left it there? Like all of it—me, the shield—meant the same damn thing.”

You swallow hard. The wine on your tongue turns sour. You look away—but only for a second. He doesn’t let you drift far.

“I didn’t forget,” he says, softer now. “And don’t act like you did.”

And just like that, Trouble Man hits its chorus again. Loud. Heavy. Meant to be felt.

“I’ll remind you,” Sam says, voice thick with heat and certainty, low enough to settle under your skin. He leans in, eyes never leaving yours. “Just say the words, baby.”

Then he pulls back—slow, smooth, unfazed.

And walks away.

No glance over his shoulder. No lingering hesitation. Just long strides and all the pride in the world like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire and leave you standing in the ruins.

You watch his back disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest. The wine in your glass trembles.

And Marvin sings on, the orchestra bleeding into the ache:

I come up hard, baby, but now I’m cool...

It took you exactly 19 minutes and 13 seconds to find him.

Not that you were counting.

Not that you watched the clock tick past every painfully slow second while you made small talk with some diplomat’s assistant who smelled like expensive cologne and colonialism.

Not that you replayed his voice in your head—the low, just say the words, baby looping over and over like it was stitched into the beat of your pulse.

But still—19 minutes and 13 seconds. That’s how long it took. A new record.

By the time he spotted you, you were already leaving a breadcrumb trail behind you: a napkin with your lipstick, a perfume scent, or a broken heart. Whichever it was, Sam didn’t fall for it. He knew the song and dance. Knew where to go, and where the two of you were headed.

The door creaked softly behind him, the sound swallowed by the hush of the room. Neutral walls, dim lighting—some nondescript office buried in the east wing of the building. Empty, quiet, untouched.

Except for you.

You were perched on the edge of a sleek desk like you owned it. One heel dangling from your fingers, the other kicked off to the side. Legs crossed, dress pulled just high enough to be a problem.

Sam stood in the doorway, unmoving. Watching. Waiting. You finally lifted your gaze, slow and deliberate, as if you’d been expecting him all night.

Because you had. His expression didn’t change—just the clench of his jaw, the slow drag of his eyes down your frame and back up again, like he was counting sins.

Then, without a word, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The click of the lock was louder than it should be. Final. Familiar.

“I wasn’t sure you’d follow,” you murmured, tossing your heel gently to the floor with a soft thud.

Sam’s voice was low, rough, full of something he’d been swallowing since the moment he saw you. “I would follow you to Hell if it meant I’d have you forever.”

He took a step closer. Then another. And just like that—you weren’t avoiding anything anymore.

You smirked, your voice velvet and loaded. “You talk a lot for a man who hasn’t earned the right yet.”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait. He just stepped closer, eyes dark, calm—hungry. Then, wordlessly, he sank to his knees in front of you, steady hands dragging the hem of your dress up with reverence and intent.

One of your legs lifted, draped over his shoulder like instinct, your heel dangling from your toes. The air was thick, the low hum of Trouble Man bleeding through the walls like a promise. You threaded your fingers through his close-cropped hair, nails gently scraping his scalp as you tugged his gaze upward.

“Go on, Captain,” you murmured. “Show me what all that discipline’s good for.”

His breath ghosted over your skin—warm, controlled, reverent—and then his mouth found you.

You gasped, head tipping back as your spine curved into the glass behind you. His lips latched onto your folds with the kind of hunger that made you forget how to stand, how to breathe. His tongue licked long, deliberate strokes before circling your clit, sucking it into his mouth like he needed it.

“Sam…” you breathed, the name slipping out like a prayer laced with sin.

He didn’t stop. Just moaned against you, the sound vibrating deep where you needed him most. He looked up as he licked, watching your body tremble, your eyes flutter, your jaw go slack.

You held him there, hands tangled in his hair, grinding into his face as he pushed two fingers inside you—slow, then deep. Curling. Stroking. Finding that spot like he’d never forgotten it.

And he hadn’t.

Your thighs began to tremble, your body arching toward the edge of something that had nothing to do with control. He took it all—your cries, your slick, the way your hips bucked into him as you shattered.

He stayed with you through it, lips wrapped tight around your clit as your orgasm ripped through you in waves.

The aftershocks made your vision blur, but you could feel him kissing the inside of your thighs, slow and soft, beard rough enough to leave a memory behind.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was standing again, towering over you, his lips swollen and glistening, that smug smile written all over his beautiful face.

“Done bossin’ me around?” he asked, voice rough with lust. “Or you want me to keep proving my worth?”

You reached for him, breathless and ruined, smile lazy and satisfied.

“Shut up,” you whispered, pulling him between your legs. “And remind me why I shouldn’t leave you again.”

His grip on your hip tightened, anchoring you to the edge of the desk. The cool wood pressed against the backs of your thighs as he lined himself up, breath ragged against your shoulder. Sam’s other hand slid up your waist—slow, deliberate—his thumb brushing the soft dip beneath your ribs.

Then he pushed in—slow, thick, all-consuming.

You gasped, head falling back with a sharp cry as he bottomed out, the stretch dizzying, overwhelming. The music outside—the quartet’s rendition of Trouble Man—poured through the office walls, rich and thunderous, masking the sound of your moan like it was part of the score.

Sam groaned low in his throat, sliding nearly all the way out before snapping his hips forward, slamming back into you with punishing precision.

“Fuck, Sam—!” you choked out, hands flying to brace yourself against the desk. He gripped your hips and drove into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room like percussion.

“Whose is it?” he growled, leaning over you, the heat of his chest against your back. His pace didn’t falter.

Your spine arched, your head thrown back with a ragged cry. “Yours!” you yelped, voice cracking as he hit the same deep spot again, again, again. Your slick coated him, the sound of it filthy and unashamed.

He chuckled darkly, proud and breathless, and pulled out just enough to slam forward harder—his upward stroke punching a scream straight from your lungs.

“Shit—Sam, oh my fuck—” you babbled, hands scrambling across the desk, trying to push back against the pace, but it was useless. He was relentless. Glorious. Ruining you, just like he promised.

His hand cracked down on your ass, the sting sweet and shocking. You gasped, the force of it sending you straight into the edge of another climax.

“Don’t run,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “Take it.”

And you did—crying out as your hips jolted forward, your orgasm crashing down like a tidal wave. You clenched around him, legs shaking, barely holding yourself up as your body trembled beneath the weight of it.

But Sam didn’t stop. His grip dragged you back, slamming your hips flush against his cock with a groan torn from deep in his chest.

“Keep still,” he growled through gritted teeth, thrusts turning brutal, wild.

This was the man you craved every night with a hand between your legs.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—all you could do was feel. Feel the wet slap of your bodies, the stretch, the slick, the way your pussy hugged him tight, soaked and desperate.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth open like that,” he murmured, watching your face twist in bliss, watching you fall apart for him. Over and over.

His other hand found your clit, fingers rubbing fast, messy circles in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck—fuck—Sam—!” you sobbed, body convulsing as the tension inside you snapped again, the second orgasm ripping through you like fire in your bloodstream.

You gushed around him, trembling, ruined.

Sam hissed between his teeth, hips stuttering. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” His name was the only thing you could say, over and over, a prayer and a curse, lips parted, vision hazy.

Your cheek pressed to the cool desk, breath fogging the surface with every broken moan. Your nails scratched helplessly at the wood, searching for something to hold onto—because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him. Sam had you. Fully. Unforgivingly.

“Fuck, Sam,” you whimpered, voice strained and wrecked.

Sweat dripped from Sam’s temple, landing hot on your back. One of his hands left your hip to thread into your hair, tugging your head up just enough so he could hear every sound you made, every filthy little sob.

“You miss this?” he asked, voice like gravel and thunder. “Miss the way I fuck you stupid?”

You choked on a laugh, but it dissolved into a gasp when he slammed into you again, so deep it punched the air from your lungs.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusts brutal, timed with every pulse of your clit beneath his fingers. “Say it, baby.”

“I—” you breathed, blinking through stars. “I missed it. Missed you.”

He growled your name, low and guttural, right against your neck, before his mouth found your skin—biting, kissing, claiming. You arched into him, feeling the heat build again, unbearable and addictive. The rhythm of your bodies grew faster, messier, louder.

You screamed his name again as the final orgasm crashed over you, harder than the last, your whole body tightening before unraveling completely. You clenched around him, milking every last stroke until he finally groaned, long and deep, spilling into you with a final snap of his hips.

You were still pulsing around him, still trembling as he leaned down and kissed you—desperate and slow, all tongue and teeth and want.

You moaned into his mouth, your fingers slipping into the curls at the back of his neck, holding him there like if you let go, you’d come undone all over again.

Eventually, he eased out with a slow groan, and you whimpered at the empty slide, his release and yours dripping down your thighs. He caught it with his fingers, rubbing it lazily across your swollen folds before pressing one last kiss to the inside of your knee.

His release, hot and thick, mingled with yours and slid down the insides of your thighs in a slow, filthy trail.

Sam watched it for a beat, then brought his fingers down to catch it—rubbing it back into your sensitive folds with the same reverence he once used to touch your cheek.

You twitched beneath him, still overstimulated, still clinging to every last wave.

He leaned down and pressed a final kiss to the inside of your knee—soft, lingering, like it was a vow only you were meant to hear. Then another kiss, higher this time. A path. A question.

He rested his forehead against your leg, catching his breath.

Outside, the music swelled again—strings rising, Marvin’s voice melting through the walls like heat. There’s only three things that’s for sure... taxes, death, and trouble.