#close proximity

“Is something wrong?” you ask softly, resting your hand on his, feeling the subtle tremor in his fingers.

“I… didn’t expect this,” he murmurs, his voice low, eyes darting away as if caught off guard. “You know how I am with… personal space.”

You chuckle, sensing his discomfort but also the warmth in the way his fingers slowly tighten around you. He might not say it, but you can tell he’s not entirely against it.

"You're not bothered, are you?" you tease, leaning in a little closer, relishing the quiet intimacy between you.

Dan Heng sighs, but it's not one of frustration. He’s resigned to the fact that you’ll always find ways to surprise him. "Just be careful. I’ll get distracted."

He doesn’t push you off, though. Instead, he pulls you in closer, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. In that moment, the quietness around you both feels more like home than any distance could.

Sunday's eyes widen in mild surprise when you casually climb onto his lap, making yourself comfortable against his chest. His halo shimmers faintly behind his head, but he doesn’t seem to mind the slight disruption to his usual serenity. Instead, his wings flutter slightly, as if they, too, are a little confused by your sudden shift in proximity.

“You're always so… sudden,” he remarks with a soft, amused chuckle, his fingers resting on your hips, a touch that’s almost tentative. “What’s gotten into you today?”

You settle against him, resting your cheek against his collarbone. The closeness feels natural, as if you've done this a thousand times before.

"I wanted to be close to you," you whisper, pressing your lips to his neck. "Is that okay?"

Sunday's usual detached demeanor falters just a little as his wings flutter nervously. His fingers tighten around you in a silent admission that he feels the same. His voice softens as he speaks, the gentleness in his tone revealing his vulnerability.

"It’s more than okay. You’ve always had a way of making me feel… at peace," he murmurs, his other hand gently brushing through your hair. "But sometimes, I wonder if I’m deserving of such comfort."

His inner turmoil is evident, but in this quiet moment, with you nestled against him, he lets his guard down. The warmth of your presence drowns out his doubts, if only for a while.

Aventurine lets out a low, amused laugh when you suddenly hop onto his lap, settling yourself comfortably as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His eyes gleam with intrigue as he adjusts his posture slightly, giving you a playful smile that doesn’t quite reach the guardedness in his gaze.

“Well, well, someone’s feeling bold today," he teases, his voice smooth as silk. His hands rest casually on your waist, a smile dancing on his lips, but there's a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

He leans back, giving you a teasing, almost exaggerated sigh. "I must admit, I’m a fan of surprises, but you do realize the risks of disrupting the flow of things, don’t you?"

You chuckle, a little mischievous, as you rest your head against his shoulder. "I think you're just enjoying the view, Aventurine."

His fingers graze your skin as he adjusts you on his lap, a smirk playing at his lips. “Perhaps I am,” he says, his voice suddenly low and full of meaning. “But do you truly think you can throw me off balance so easily?”

Aventurine may be a master manipulator, but when it comes to you, he can’t help but soften, the layers of his carefully crafted facade cracking just a little. As much as he feigns indifference, there’s a flicker of genuine warmth in his eyes.

"You always keep me on my toes, don't you?" he murmurs, a smile curling on his lips. "Well, I’ll allow it—for now."

Kafka barely looks up from her work as you slide onto her lap, crossing your arms over her shoulders. She’s seated with one leg casually crossed over the other, her dark sunglasses perched atop her head, her focus remaining on the data screen in front of her. But the moment you settle, a small, almost imperceptible smirk curls at the corner of her lips.

“Well, aren’t you bold today?” she says, her voice smooth and alluring, like she's savoring the moment. Her hand slides around your waist, pulling you in closer without a second thought. "You’re lucky I’ve got other things on my mind."

You can feel the tension of her muscles beneath her gloves as she adjusts you more comfortably, and despite her calm exterior, there’s a flicker of something warmer in her eyes. “Does this mean I’m distracting you, Kafka?”

She leans back just slightly, her free hand reaching to push some stray locks of your hair behind your ear. "I don’t mind the distraction, as long as it’s you,” she murmurs, her voice low with that same hypnotic, teasing quality she’s known for. "Just don’t think you can get away with sitting on me without consequences, though."

Her fingers trace the edge of your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine as she smirks knowingly, her gaze locking with yours. She’s always the one in control, but in this moment, she’s giving you the reins, letting you test the boundaries she’s usually so careful to maintain.

As you lean in, your lips brushing against her ear, she doesn’t pull away, her breath hitching just slightly before she regains her composure. "Careful," she whispers, "I might just make you regret this."

The roar of the stadium was deafening, a physical force that vibrated through the floorboards and up Minji's spine. She stood in the wings, clipboard pressed to her chest, watching as Seokjin moved with practiced precision across the massive stage. He just finished a powerful run during ''Running Wild," his arm outstretched to the adoring crowd.

Minji, a twenty-eight-year-old specialist, was assigned to Seokjin's five-month tour as his personal physician. This gruelling schedule with 20 stops had everyone on edge about his health. Despite her young age, she was one of the youngest specialists the management had ever hired and her credentials were impeccable. Her innovative methods added to her appeal.

"Seokjin, be careful!" Sejin's voice, his manager, crackled through Minji's earpiece, and her eyes immediately found the source of concern.

Seokjin was already transitioning into "I'll Be There," his movements fluid as he reached up and jumped while giving his excellent vocals.

Minji was still astounded that he was 32. The man on stage was clearly not 32 in her eyes, so the members were right to name him the fake maknae.

As he spun on his axis, singing the final note, his right shoulder gave a slight, almost imperceptible hitch. Minji, who had been watching closely, noticed the grimace that flashed across his face before he quickly masked it. The Army didn't see it.

After a wonderful two and a half hours featuring 18 performed songs and various games the concert concluded with a burst of confetti and deafening cheers.

As Seokjin exited the stage area, Minji swiftly followed him. Her mind raced with potential injuries and treatment options.

The dressing room was chaos when Minji entered. Sejin and some other managers were talking urgently on phones, staff members rushed around with towels, water bottles and other supplies, and Seokjin was slowly trickling in, exhausted but still buzzing with adrenaline.

"Jin hyung, you were amazing! But I didn't expect the whole karaoke session," Jimin said.

Minji observed the scene in front of her. While Jungkook and Taehyung munched on the snacks prepared for Seokjin, Jimin admired his hyung's stage costume. It was the blue Gucci with white embroidery he'd received.

Army's watching the concert were unaware that BTS's maknae line was present. The boys were here to support Seokjin's first solo concert but couldn't attend from the VIP section because of their military uniforms.

Seokjin sighed and carefully began to remove his stage jacket, his movements stiff. Minji leaned against the doorframe. "You know you need your shoulder checked right?"

Seokjin didn't need to look at who was speaking. He knew that she was here. "It's nothing. Just strained it a little."

Minji approached quietly, her professional demeanor in place. "I need to examine your shoulder."

The maknaes looked intrigued by the scene in front of them. Until now, they hadn't seen their hyung openly expressing his injuries, pain, and fatigue. They all knew until now that he hadn't said anything for their sake, but it was still surprising to witness it firsthand, after all these years.

"I'm fine, really," he insisted, but the slight tightening around his eyes told her otherwise.

"With all due respect," Minji said, "if you want to perform tomorrow night, you'll let me do my job."

There was a moment of silence before Jin sighed in defeat. "Fine."

Minji stood beside him, her hands already moving to assess the injured area. "Tell me where it hurts," she said, her fingers gently probing the area around his shoulder joint.

Jin winced as she pressed a particular spot. "There," he said through gritted teeth.

"Can you lift your arm?" she asked, guiding his shoulder through different movements. "Any sharp pains?"

"Just a dull ache now," he admitted. "It was worse during the concert."

Minji nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I think you've got a moderate strain in the rotator cuff. We'll need to ice it immediately, then I'll work with it more thoroughly when you're done here."

She looked up and met his eyes for the first time properly. His face was still streaked with stage makeup, sweat beading on his forehead, but his eyes were clear and focused on her. There was something in his gaze that made her heart skip a beat, a mixture of gratitude and something else she couldn't quite identify.

"Thank you," he said softly, just for her to hear.

"That's what I'm here for," she replied, her voice equally quiet.

The hotel corridor was quiet at 1 AM, the plush carpet muffling Minji's footsteps as she walked toward Seokjin's suite with her medical bag in hand. She'd given him three hours to wind down, shower, and eat, the standard protocol for post-performance recovery. But her mind kept returning to that moment in the dressing room, the way his eyes had held hers a beat too long, the warmth in his voice when he'd thanked her.

Professional, she reminded herself, knocking softly on the door. He's your patient.

Seokjin answered wearing a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still damp from the shower. Without the stage makeup and elaborate styling, he looked closer to his age, handsome in a more approachable way, the lines around his eyes more visible, more real.

"Come in," he said, stepping aside. "The others left about an hour ago."

The suite was spacious but lived-in, evidence of the maknae line's visit scattered across the coffee table, snack wrappers, a half-empty bottle of soju, someone's forgotten phone charger. Seokjin had already cleared a space on the couch, laying out pillows and a blanket with an awkward precision that made Minji smile.

"You didn't have to go to this much trouble," she said, setting down her bag.

"I've learned that physical therapy involves a lot of suffering," he replied, settling onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "Might as well be comfortable."

Minji unpacked her supplies, massage oil, heating pad, ultrasound device. "The suffering is temporary. The ability to lift your arm above your head tomorrow is the goal."

She sat on the edge of the couch cushion, close enough to work but maintaining a careful distance. "Show me your range of motion first. Slowly."

Seokjin raised his arm, stopping when he winced at about shoulder height.

"Okay, that's actually better than I expected," Minji said, surprised. "You have good body awareness. Most performers ignore pain until they can't move at all."

"I've had practice," he said quietly. "Twelve years of pretending my body wasn't screaming at me."

The confession hung in the air between them. Minji looked up from her notes, meeting his gaze. In the soft lamplight of the hotel room, he looked tired, not just physically, but something deeper, the weight of years spent performing, of carrying expectations.

"Tonight," she said carefully, "I saw you mask the pain on stage. You didn't want the fans to worry."

"It was just a twinge."

"It was more than that." Minji reached for his shoulder, her touch gentle but firm. "You don't have to hide it from me, you know. That's literally why I'm here."

Seokjin was quiet for a long moment, watching her fingers work over the tense muscles of his shoulder. "Old habits," he finally said. "The members… they worry. The fans worry. I've always been the one who could handle it, who didn't need special attention."

"And now?"

"Now I have a very persistent physical therapist who won't take no for an answer."

Minji felt her lips twitch upward. "I prefer 'dedicated.'"

"Dedicated," he agreed, a small smile breaking through. "That works."

She began the deeper tissue work, her thumbs finding the knots along his rotator cuff. Seokjin hissed through his teeth, his hand gripping the couch cushion.

"Breathe," Minji instructed. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Don't hold tension."

"Easy for you to say," he grunted, but followed her guidance, his breathing slowly evening out as she worked.

The room settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the occasional pop of a joint releasing tension. Minji found herself hyper-aware of him, the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, the solid breadth of his shoulder, the way his chest rose and fell with each measured breath.

"Can I ask you something?" Seokjin said, his voice slightly rough from the pressure she was applying.

"Of course."

"Why this? You said you're the youngest specialist they've hired. You could be anywhere, hospitals, private practice, working with athletes who have off-seasons and better health insurance. Why touring?"

Minji paused, her hands stilling for a moment before resuming their work. "My mother was a pianist," she said, the words coming out before she'd fully decided to share them. "She developed severe arthritis in her forties but kept performing because she thought she had to. By the time she admitted she was in pain, the damage was permanent. She couldn't play anymore."

Seokjin turned his head to look at her, his expression softening.

"I was seventeen," Minji continued, her voice steady despite the old ache in her chest. "I watched her lose the thing she loved most because she didn't take care of herself. So I decided to learn how to help people keep doing what they love, even when their bodies try to stop them."

"That's why you were so insistent tonight," he realized.

"That's why I'm always insistent." She met his eyes, unflinching. "I won't watch another performer destroy themselves because they're too proud or too scared to ask for help. Not on my watch."

Something shifted in Seokjin's expression, respect, maybe, or recognition. "You're fierce, Kang Minji."

"I'm thorough," she corrected, but she could feel heat rising to her cheeks. "There's a difference."

"I think you're both."

She ducked her head, focusing on the ultrasound device she was preparing. "We need to get this done. You have a soundcheck in nine hours."

"Minji."

The way he said her name, informal, intimate, made her look up.

"Thank you," he said again, and this time there was no ambiguity in his gaze, no mask. "Not just for the treatment. For seeing me. Most people see Jin, the idol. You saw…"

"You," she finished quietly. "I saw you."

The moment stretched between them, charged and fragile. Minji realized she was still holding his shoulder, her hand resting on warm skin, and she pulled back quickly, busying herself with the machine settings.

"Lie back," she instructed, her voice slightly higher than intended. "The ultrasound will help with inflammation. Twenty minutes, then you can sleep."

Seokjin settled back against the pillows, but his eyes never left her face. "Minji?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad they assigned you to me."

She didn't look up from the device, afraid of what her expression might reveal. "So am I," she admitted. "Now close your eyes and try to relax. That's an order."

She heard him chuckle softly, felt him settle into the cushions. As the ultrasound machine hummed to life, Minji allowed herself one glance at his face, eyes closed, features relaxed, the faintest smile still playing at his lips.

Professional, she told herself again, but the word felt thinner now, less convincing than it had in the wings of the stadium.

Twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes of sitting beside him in the quiet dark, watching him breathe, wondering when exactly the line between professional and personal had begun to blur, and whether she had any desire to redraw it.

The ultrasound machine clicked off, its hum fading into the silence of the suite. Minji checked her watch, 1:47 AM. She'd lost track of time, caught in the rhythm of the treatment and the steady sound of Seokjin's breathing beside her.

"Seokjin-ssi," she said softly, not wanting to startle him.

He didn't respond. His chest rose and fell in the slow, even pattern of sleep, his head tilted slightly against the pillow, mouth parted. The harsh lines of fatigue that had bracketed his mouth earlier had smoothed away, leaving him looking younger, vulnerable in a way that the world's biggest idol rarely allowed himself to be.

Minji sat frozen for a moment, her hand still hovering near his shoulder where she'd been adjusting the ultrasound head. She should wake him, guide him to bed properly, collect her things and leave. That was the professional thing to do.

Instead, she found herself studying him, really studying him, the way she'd trained herself never to do with patients. The faint scar above his left eyebrow, probably from some childhood accident. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the lamplight. The calluses on his fingers from years of holding microphones, from countless hours of practice.

This is dangerous, some part of her whispered. This is how it starts.

She stood quietly, moving to the bedroom to retrieve a blanket. When she returned, she draped it carefully over him, telling herself it was no different than covering any patient who'd fallen asleep during treatment. But her fingers lingered on the edge of the fabric, and she had to force herself to step back.

She left a note on the coffee table, instructions for morning stretches, her phone number in case the pain worsened, a professional sign-off that felt increasingly like a pretense. Then she gathered her bag and slipped out, closing the door with a soft click that felt like the closing of something else, something she wasn't ready to name.

The next three weeks blurred into a rhythm that Minji quickly learned to navigate. Goyang. Chiba. Osaka. Anaheim. The tour moved like a living organism, consuming cities and spitting out exhausted memories, and Minji found herself folded into its machinery with surprising efficiency.

She learned Seokjin's patterns, the way he woke at 6 AM regardless of when he'd gone to sleep, the particular stretch he did by the hotel window every morning, the specific way he took his coffee (black, two sugars, never after 4 PM if he was performing). She learned to read his body the way she read medical charts, identifying stress in the set of his shoulders, exhaustion in the tension of his jaw.

And she learned that the late-night sessions were becoming something else entirely.

It started innocently enough. The second night in Chiba, he'd asked her to stay after the treatment was finished, just for a few minutes, just to talk. He'd been wound tight from a difficult rehearsal, frustrated with last minute changes, and somehow they'd ended up discussing everything and nothing until 3 AM, until Minji realized she was laughing at his impression of his own manager and Seokjin was grinning like he'd won something precious.

By Osaka, it became a routine. She would arrive at his suite after each performance, medical bag in hand, and they would begin with professional distance, her examining, treating, instructing, but somehow, inevitably, they would drift into conversation. Sometimes serious: his fears about the solo career, his complicated relationship with fame, his worry for the members still in service. Sometimes light: terrible movies they'd both seen, childhood stories, debates about the best convenience store snacks in each country they visited.

Minji told him about her mother's piano, about the years she'd spent studying while her friends dated and traveled and lived. She told him about her first concert as a spectator, how she'd cried when the music swelled and she realized that people could create something so beautiful it hurt. She didn't tell him that she'd thought of him specifically in that moment, that the songs of BTS had been the soundtrack to her medical school all-nighters, that she'd never imagined she would end up here, sitting close enough to touch him, learning that he hummed off-key when he was tired.

"You're staring," Seokjin said one night in Anaheim.

Minji blinked, realizing she'd been watching him massage his own shoulder, her hands idle in her lap. "Sorry. I was thinking about your scapular mobility. You need to be careful with that rotation."

"Liar," he said, but there was no accusation in it, only warmth.

"Fine," she admitted. "I was thinking that you hum when you're tired. It's distracting."

"I do not."

"You do. It's terrible. You're tone-deaf."

Seokjin clutched his chest in mock offense. "From a musician! The betrayal!"

"Being able to sing doesn't mean you can hum," Minji said, unable to suppress her smile. "They're different skills. You're abusing the privilege."

He laughed, that full-bodied laugh that crinkled his eyes and transformed his whole face, and Minji felt something in her chest tighten dangerously. She looked away quickly, busying herself with packing her supplies, but she could feel his gaze on her back, steady and knowing.

"Minji."

"Yes?"

"Have dinner with me tomorrow. Properly, I mean. Not room service while I'm icing my knee. Actual dinner, somewhere that isn't a hotel."

She turned, her hand still on her bag. "Seokjin-ssi—"

"Jin," he interrupted. "Call me Jin. You've been treating my rotator cuff for three weeks. We're past formalities."

"Jin," she tried, the syllable feeling strange and intimate in her mouth. "I don't think that's appropriate. I'm your physical therapist. There's a professional boundary-"

"That we're both pretending still exists?" He stood, crossing the space between them in two strides, close enough that she could smell his cologne and the faint trace of sweat from the evening's performance. "Minji, I'm not stupid. I know what this is. I know what I'm feeling."

"Don't," she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Don't what? Don't tell you that I look forward to these sessions more than I look forward to performing? Don't tell you that I think about you when you're not here, that I wonder what you're doing, whether you're eating properly, whether you're as affected by this as I am?"

She should step back. She should remind him of her position, of his career, of the thousands of reasons this was a terrible idea. She should be professional, responsible, distant.

She didn't move.

"You're my patient," she said weakly.

"Not right now," he said, and his hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing her cheek with a gentleness that made her breath catch. "Right now, I'm just a man who's tired of pretending he doesn't want to know everything about the woman who's been saving his body every night."

"Jin-"

"One dinner," he said, his thumb tracing her jawline, sending sparks down her spine. "One meal where you're not checking my range of motion or lecturing me about posture. Just… us. Please."

Minji closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand, the proximity of him, the dangerous magnetic pull that had been building between them since that first night in the dressing room. She thought of her training, her ethics, the contract she'd signed that specifically prohibited fraternization with clients.

She thought of her mother, who had spent her life playing beautiful music alone in empty rooms because she'd been too afraid to reach for connection.

"One dinner," she heard herself say, and when she opened her eyes, Seokjin was smiling at her like she'd handed him the moon.

The restaurant was private, tucked away in a quiet district of Anaheim where they were stationed for two nights. Seokjin had arranged a back entrance, a private room, a level of discretion that Minji appreciated even as it underscored the impossibility of what they were doing.

He'd dressed down, dark jeans, a simple button-down, a baseball cap pulled low. He looked like any other handsome man in his early thirties, not like the global superstar whose face adorned billboards three stories high across the city. Minji had worn the only nice dress she'd packed, a simple navy thing she'd bought for medical conferences, and she felt both underdressed and overdressed simultaneously.

"You look beautiful," he said when she arrived, standing to pull out her chair, and the sincerity in his voice made her want to believe him.

"You're not supposed to say things like that," she said, sitting, trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

"I'm not supposed to do a lot of things," he replied, settling across from her. "But here we are."

The dinner was surprisingly easy. Minji had expected awkwardness, tension, the weight of unspoken boundaries pressing down on them. Instead, they talked the way they had in his hotel room, about everything, about nothing, about the particular loneliness of lives spent in service to something larger than themselves.

Seokjin talked about the members with a fondness that made Minji's chest ache, about Yoongi's quiet support from afar, about the letters Hoseok sent from service, about how Taehyung had cried at the when Seokjin was discharged because he was proud and worried in equal measure. He talked about his fear that this solo venture was a mistake, that he'd spent so long as part of a constellation that he'd forgotten how to shine alone.

"You're not alone," Minji said, reaching across the table without thinking, her hand covering his. "You have an entire Army behind you. Literally."

He turned his hand, threading his fingers through hers, and the intimacy of the gesture made her breath hitch. "I know. But it's different now. Before, we were bulletproof. Together, we could withstand anything. Now it's just me, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough on my own."

Minji thought of all the nights she'd watched him perform, the way he gave everything to the crowd until he was trembling with exhaustion. She thought of the way he hid his pain, the way he carried worry for others while ignoring his own limits.

"You are strong enough," she said, squeezing his hand. "But you don't have to be strong alone. That's what I'm here for. That's what people who care about you are for."

Seokjin looked at her then, really looked at her, his gaze searching her face with an intensity that made her want to look away and lean closer simultaneously. "Do you?" he asked quietly. "Care about me?"

"Jin-"

"Not as a patient. As whatever this is becoming."

The restaurant seemed to fade around them, the clink of cutlery and murmur of distant conversation receding until there was only his hand in hers, his eyes on her face, the question hanging between them like a promise.

"Yes," she whispered. "I care. I shouldn't, but I do. So much it scares me."

He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for years. "Good. Because I'm terrified too, and I'd hate to be alone in it."

They walked back to the hotel through streets lit with neon and warm humidity, not touching, maintaining a careful distance for the sake of anyone who might recognize him. But when they reached the service entrance, when they were alone in the elevator rising toward their floors, Seokjin reached for her hand again and she let him, their fingers intertwined like a secret.

At his door, he turned to her, and Minji saw the question in his eyes, permission, hesitation, hope.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice rough. "Just once. Just to know what it feels like when it's not pretend."

Minji should have said no. She should have reminded him of the tour, of her job, of the thousand complications that would arise from this moment. She should have been the responsible one, the professional one, the voice of reason.

Instead, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his, soft and brief and devastatingly real.

He tasted like the wine they'd shared and something uniquely him, and his free hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone as he deepened the kiss with a reverence that made her knees weak. It lasted only seconds, maybe heartbeats, but when they pulled apart, the world had shifted on its axis.

"Minji," he breathed, resting his forehead against hers.

"That shouldn't have happened," she whispered, but her hands were still clutching his shirt, still pulling him closer rather than pushing him away.

"I know." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth, each touch feather-light and devastating. "I know, and I'm sorry, and I can't make myself regret it."

"Me neither," she admitted, the confession torn from somewhere vulnerable and true. "Which is the problem."

They stood there in the hallway, holding each other like teenagers, like people who had found something precious and were afraid to let go. Eventually, Minji forced herself to step back, to put space between them, to remember who she was and what she'd worked for.

"I need to go," she said, her voice unsteady.

"Tomorrow," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Tomorrow," she agreed, because she was already lost, because she'd crossed a line she couldn't uncross, because she was falling for Kim Seokjin in a way that had nothing to do with charts or fame or the idol she'd admired from afar.

She walked to her own room with her fingers pressed to her lips, tasting him, feeling the phantom pressure of his hands, knowing with absolute certainty that nothing about this tour would ever be simple again.

The next morning, Minji arrived at Seokjin's suite for his scheduled pre-soundcheck treatment with her professional mask firmly in place. She'd spent hours staring at the ceiling, rehearsing speeches, reminding herself of consequences, trying to rebuild the walls that had crumbled in a hotel hallway.

But when he opened the door and smiled at her, not the stage smile, not the polite smile, but the private one that was just for her, she felt her resolve waver.

"Good morning," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that hadn't been there three weeks ago.

"Good morning. Sit down, I need to check your shoulder before you rehearse."

He obeyed, but his eyes never left her face as she worked, cataloging her expressions, learning her as thoroughly as she'd learned him. When her fingers pressed into a particularly tight muscle, he hissed but didn't look away.

"About last night," he started.

"Don't," Minji said, focusing on the tissue beneath her hands. "Please. I can't have this conversation right now. Not when I have to be professional in-" she checked her watch "forty minutes."

"Okay," he said softly. "Okay. But later?"

She met his eyes then, saw the patience there, the willingness to wait, to respect her boundaries even as he pushed against them. It made her want to abandon caution entirely.

"Later," she agreed.

But later didn't come that day, or the next. The tour schedule intensified, Tampa, Newark, London, and Minji found herself swept up in the relentless pace of performances, travel, treatments, sleep, repeat. She saw Seokjin constantly, professionally, their interactions limited to hotel rooms and backstage areas where anyone could walk in at any moment.

They developed a language of looks, of almost-touches, of sentences left unfinished that said more than words could. He would find reasons to brush her hand when she adjusted his microphone pack. She would linger a moment longer than necessary when checking his pulse. They were careful, always careful, but the tension between them built with each passing day until Minji felt like she was walking a tightrope, one wrong step away from disaster.

It was in Amsterdam, six weeks into the tour, that the tightrope snapped.

Seokjin had pushed too hard during the concert, a high note held too long, a final bow that had him swaying on his feet. Minji had watched from the wings, her heart in her throat, knowing even before he came offstage that something was wrong.

"Minji," he gasped, collapsing onto the couch in his dressing room, his face pale and sheened with sweat. "I think I overdid it."

She was already there, her hands on his neck, checking his pulse, her medical training overriding everything else. "Where? Show me."

"Ribs," he wheezed. "Left side. Felt something during the last song."

Her hands moved with clinical efficiency, palpating the area, feeling for breaks, for swelling. He winced when she pressed a particular spot, his hand shooting out to grip her wrist.

"Sorry," she whispered, gentling her touch. "I think it's a strain, possibly a small fracture. We need imaging. I'm calling for a car to the hospital."

"No," he said, his grip tightening. "No hospitals, papers, or leaks. The tour-"

"The tour doesn't matter if you're permanently injured!" Minji's voice cracked, her professional composure fracturing. "Jin, you could have punctured a lung. You could have-" She stopped, her throat closing around the possibilities, around the image of him collapsing on stage, of her watching helplessly.

"Hey," he said softly, his other hand coming up to cup her face. "Hey, I'm okay. I'm here. Breathe, Minji. Breathe with me."

She realized she was hyperventilating, tears streaming down her face, her hands shaking where they rested against his chest. She'd seen injuries before, treated worse, maintained her calm through crises that would have broken other people. But this was him, this was Jin, and the thought of him in pain, of him damaged because he wouldn't stop pushing, because he wouldn't let her take care of him.

"I can't," she choked out, pulling away, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. "I can't do this. I can't be your doctor and whatever else I'm becoming. It's not safe. It's not ethical. And I can't watch you destroy yourself because you think you have to be bulletproof for everyone else."

"Minji-"

"No." She grabbed her bag, her movements jerky, uncontrolled. "I'm calling Sejin. He can take you to a private clinic. You need someone who can be objective, who can make the right calls without-" she gestured helplessly between them "without this."

She was at the door when his voice stopped her, quiet and devastating.

"Don't go."

She didn't turn, couldn't let him see her face, the war between her heart and her training written clear across her features.

"Please," he continued, and she heard him stand, heard the wince of pain he tried to suppress. "I know I'm asking too much. I know this is unfair. But I'm not asking as your patient right now. I'm asking as the man who's falling in love with you, who needs you to stay because I don't know how to do this without you."

The words hung in the air, enormous and terrifying and impossibly tender.

"I know I should let you go," he said, closer now, close enough that she could feel his warmth at her back. "I know you deserve someone who doesn't come with cameras and schedules and a million people watching. I know I'm selfish for wanting you to stay. But I'm asking anyway. Stay. Please."

Minji closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the moment, the choice before her that would define everything that came after. She thought of her career, her reputation, the life she'd built on discipline and boundaries and professional excellence. She thought of the empty apartment waiting for her in Seoul, the years of solitude she'd accepted as the price of her ambition.

She thought of him, his laugh, his stubbornness, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in any room.

She turned around.

He was right there, close enough to touch, his face open and vulnerable and hoping. Without letting herself think, she reached up, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him with all the restraint she'd been holding back for weeks.

"I'll stay," she whispered against his mouth. "But we're doing this properly. First you need a check-up, then rest, then we figure out us. Together. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

Seokjin laughed, the sound wet and relieved and joyful, and he pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. "Together," he agreed. "However you want. Whatever you need. Just don't leave."

"I won't," she promised, and for the first time since she'd taken this assignment, she felt the disparate pieces of herself, the doctor and the woman, the professional and the person who wanted, settle into alignment.

It was a risk. It was probably a mistake. But as she helped him to the car, as she held his hand in the backseat on the way to the clinic, as she sat beside him in the dark and planned a future she hadn't dared to imagine, Minji thought that some risks were worth taking.

Some mistakes were actually just fate, disguised.

And she was done fighting hers.

The imaging had come back clean, no fracture, just a severe muscle strain that would heal with rest and proper care. The tour doctor, a stern woman in her fifties named Dr. Park, had cleared Seokjin to continue performing with modifications to his choreography. Minji had received the report via email at 6 AM, along with a terse note reminding her that patient boundaries existed for a reason, and that she'd do well to remember her professional obligations.

She'd read the email three times, her face burning, wondering exactly what Dr. Park had observed, or what Seokjin had said, to prompt such a warning.

Now, twelve hours later, she was kneeling on the carpeted floor of his hotel suite, her medical bag open beside her, preparing the supplies for his pre-concert shoulder treatment. The concert was in one hour. The sun was setting over Amsterdam, painting the room in shades of amber and gold, and Seokjin was sitting on the edge of the couch wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, watching her with a smile that made her want to check her own pulse.

"You're staring," she said, not looking up from the massage oil she was warming between her palms.

"I'm appreciating," he corrected. "There's a difference."

"There's not, actually. Both involve inappropriate eye contact during a medical session."

Seokjin laughed, the sound warm and rich, and stretched his arms above his head with deliberate slowness. The movement pulled the muscles of his abdomen into sharp relief, and Minji forced her gaze to remain on her supplies, on the heating pad, on literally anything that wasn't the line of his hipbones or the scattering of moles across his ribs.

"Dr. Park was very thorough," he said, his tone conversational but carrying an undercurrent of mischief. "She asked a lot of questions about my physical therapy regimen. About my relationship with my therapist."

Minji's hands stilled. "What did you tell her?"

"That my therapist is incredibly dedicated. That she works long hours, pays attention to details, and has absolutely transformed my understanding of hands-on care."

"Jin."

"She seemed impressed," he continued, innocent as a saint. "Said she'd never seen such rapid improvement in a patient's range of motion. Wondered what my secret was."

Minji finally looked up, her professional composure cracking. "You didn't."

"I told her it was the late-night sessions." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his face level with hers. "The personal attention. The way you focus on my problem areas."

"You're going to get me fired," she hissed, but there was no real heat in it, not when he was looking at her like that, not when they were alone in this room with the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them.

"I'm going to get you to admit that you like me," he countered. "Admit it, and I'll stop teasing."

"That's a lie. You'll never stop teasing."

"Probably not," he agreed, grinning. "But it'll be more fun once you admit it."

Minji stood, wiping her hands on her thighs, and moved to stand between his knees. "Arms up," she instructed, her voice clipped. "I need to assess your shoulder before we start the deep tissue work."

He obeyed, raising his arms slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. She stepped closer, close enough that her knees brushed against the couch, close enough to smell his soap and the faint trace of cologne at his throat. Her hands found his shoulder joints, her thumbs pressing into the rotator cuff muscles with professional precision.

"Any pain here?" she asked, guiding his arm through a rotation.

"Only the good kind."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have," he said, and his voice had dropped, losing its playful edge. "Minji, look at me."

She did. She looked up and found him watching her with an expression that was devastating in its openness, want and patience and something frighteningly like adoration.

"You're beautiful when you're professional," he said softly. "The way you focus, the way your forehead furrows when you're concentrating, the way your hands know exactly where to touch." He shivered as her fingers found a knot of tension. "It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

"Stop," she whispered, but her hands didn't stop moving, didn't stop kneading the muscle beneath her palms.

"Make me."

She should. She should step back, should remind him of the boundaries, should be the responsible one. Instead, she let her thumbs press harder into the tension at the base of his neck, let her fingers spread across the breadth of his shoulders, let herself touch him with the intimacy she'd been denying for weeks.

"You're impossible," she said, her voice barely audible.

"And you're blushing," he observed, delighted. "Right here," his own hand came up, his finger tracing the flush on her cheekbone "and here," trailing down to her throat where her pulse was hammering "and probably here too, though I can't see under that very professional, very buttoned-up blouse."

"Jin, we can't-" she started, but he cut her off, his hand sliding around to cup the back of her neck.

"We can," he said, serious now. "We can do whatever we want, as long as we're careful. As long as we're honest. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you don't lie awake at night remembering what it felt like to kiss me, and I'll stop. I'll be a model patient. I'll keep my hands to myself and my comments to myself and I'll suffer in silence."

Minji stared at him, at the challenge in his eyes, at the warmth of his palm against her neck. She thought of the past six weeks, the late nights, the conversations, the way he'd learned her coffee order and her favorite songs and the way she laughed when she was truly happy. She thought of the future, of the remaining two shows of the tour, of the impossible logistics of loving someone whose life belonged to millions of strangers.

She thought of her mother's piano, silent now, and the years of caution that had kept her own life equally quiet.

"I think about it," she admitted, the words torn from somewhere vulnerable and true. "I think about it constantly. It's unprofessional and inappropriate and probably the worst decision I could make, but I can't stop."

Seokjin's smile was sunrise and symphony and everything she'd been afraid to want. "Then don't stop," he said, and pulled her down into a kiss that tasted like victory and surrender and the beginning of something she didn't have a name for yet.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Minji realized her hands were still on his shoulders, her fingers digging into muscle, her body pressed between his knees. She should step back. She should finish the treatment. She should remember that he had a concert in three hours and a body that needed care, not distraction.

Instead, she kissed him again, softer this time, slower, a promise rather than a confession.

"Lie back," she said against his mouth, her voice unsteady. "I still need to treat your shoulder. And then your ribs. And then," she pulled back, meeting his eyes "then we can talk about what happens after the concert."

"After the concert," he repeated, his hands settling on her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her hips. "I like the sound of that."

"You would," she said, trying for exasperation and failing completely. "Now lie down before I remember that I'm supposed to be professional."

He obeyed, stretching out on the couch with his hands behind his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Yes, doctor," he said, and the honorific had never sounded quite so filthy.

Minji picked up the massage oil, her hands trembling slightly, and began to work on his shoulder with a focus that was only partially feigned. She was professional, after all. She was dedicated. She was thorough.

And she was, against all better judgment, completely and irrevocably his.

The treatment took forty minutes, longer than necessary, punctuated by whispered conversations and stolen touches and moments where her hands lingered longer than strictly medical. When she finally helped him sit up, his shoulder loose and warm beneath her palms, he caught her wrist and pulled her close one final time.

"Break a leg tonight," she said, her voice steady despite everything.

"Come watch," he said. "From the wings. I want to know you're there."

"I'll be there," she promised. "I'm always there."

"I know," he said, and kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her chest ache. "That's why I'm falling in love with you, Kang Minji. Not because you fix my shoulder. Because you see me. Because you stay."

She didn't have a response to that, nothing that wouldn't break her completely open. So she just nodded, packed her bag with hands that weren't quite steady, and let herself out into the hotel corridor with his gaze following her all the way.

Professional, she reminded herself, walking to her own room with her heart in her throat.

But for the first time, the word didn't feel like a wall. It felt like a foundation, something they could build on, together, one late-night session at a time.

The concert that night was different.

Minji stood in her usual spot in the wings, clipboard forgotten in her hands, watching Seokjin move across the stage with a new awareness thrumming through her veins. She knew now how his shoulder felt beneath her fingers, knew the exact location of the scar on his ribs, knew the taste of his mouth and the sound of her name in his whispered voice. She knew him, and it changed everything.

He found her during the third song, his eyes scanning the darkness until they locked on hers, and his smile, the real one, the private one, transformed his entire face. He sang the next verse directly to her, or so it felt, his voice carrying a warmth that had nothing to do with the lyrics and everything to do with the secret they were sharing.

After the final encore, when the confetti had settled and the crowd's roar had faded into the night, she waited in his dressing room as she always did. But this time, when he burst through the door, sweat-slicked and glowing with adrenaline, he didn't stop at the couch. He crossed the room in three strides, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her thoroughly, desperately, like he'd been waiting his entire life to do so.

"Jin!" she gasped when they finally broke apart.

"I couldn't wait," he breathed, his forehead pressed to hers. "I spent two and a half hours wanting to touch you, and I couldn't wait another second."

"We're in your dressing room. Anyone could-"

"Let them," he said, and kissed her again.

The door clicked shut behind them, the lock turning with a decisive snap that echoed in Minji's chest. Seokjin pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged, his hands still framing her face like she was something precious, something breakable.

"We're insane," she whispered, but her fingers were already tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away.

"Completely," he agreed, and his thumbs traced the line of her jaw with a reverence that made her stomach flip. "But I've been insane since Chiba, Minji. Since you told me about your mother's piano and I realized I wanted to know every story you have, every memory, every scar."

She closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her, letting herself believe them. "The tour ends in Incheon. Eleven weeks from now. Two final encore concerts, and then..." She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

"Eleven weeks," he repeated, as if tasting the timeframe, weighing it. "That's not an ending, Minji. That's a beginning. That's us figuring out what this looks like when we're not living out of suitcases."

The honesty in his voice terrified her more than any medical emergency ever could. She opened her eyes and found him watching her, his gaze steady and sure, no trace of the performer's mask he wore so well. This was Jin, stripped bare, offering her everything.

"Show me," she said, the words barely audible. "Show me what happens in eleven weeks."

He didn't ask her to clarify. He simply took her hand, threading his fingers through hers with an intimacy that felt more revealing than the kiss they'd just shared, and led her through the connecting door to his hotel suite.

The eleven-week break that followed was a strange, suspended time, a limbo between the life they'd been living and whatever came next. They flew back to Seoul together, sitting side by side in business class, their hands hidden beneath a blanket, talking in low voices about everything and nothing until the flight attendants stopped offering them drinks and the cabin lights dimmed.

Minji had expected him to disappear into the machinery of his celebrity life, expected to be relegated to stolen hours between schedules she couldn't know about. Instead, Seokjin showed up at her studio apartment the morning after they landed, grocery bags in hand, announcing that he was learning to cook and she was going to be his test subject.

"You are not a expert in cooking," she said, staring at the unfamiliar sight of Kim Seokjin in sweatpants, standing in her tiny kitchen with his hair unstyled and his feet bare.

"I did feed six boys for years," he insisted. "I'm basically an expert now."

He burned the eggs. The toast was cold in the center. The coffee was somehow both too bitter and too weak. Minji ate every bite and declared it the best meal she'd ever had, because he was looking at her like she'd hung the moon, because he was there, in her space, choosing her.

They developed a rhythm over those weeks that was different from the tour, slower, deeper, rooted in the ordinary moments that had been impossible on the road. He learned which side of the bed she preferred, the left, closest to the window. She learned that he talked in his sleep when he was stressed, mostly nonsense about choreography and fan chants. They argued about whose turn it was to do dishes, about whether his habit of leaving socks everywhere was a dealbreaker, it wasn't, but she reserved the right to complain, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, she said yes, he said absolutely not, they compromised by ordering half-and-half.

Minji kept her apartment but spent most nights at his place, gradually migrating her medical equipment, her books, her life into the spaces he'd made for her. Seokjin worked on the encore concerts, new arrangements, a scaled-down production that would be intimate in a way the stadium tour hadn't been. He talked about the members constantly, about how the maknaes were finally out of service and wanted to attend the concert, about the group chat that never stopped buzzing, about the future that was starting to feel less terrifying and more like an open door.

It was eight weeks into the break, a rainy Tuesday afternoon, that management called.

Minji was treating Seokjin's shoulder, now a routine rather than an emergency, the rotator cuff healed but still needing maintenance, when his phone buzzed with Sejin's name. The conversation was short, Seokjin's responses clipped and tense, and when he hung up, his expression was unreadable.

"They know," he said, setting the phone down with deliberate care. "About us. Someone saw us at the market last weekend. The photos are…" He gestured vaguely. "They're not explicit, but they're suggestive enough. Holding hands. The kind of thing that looks like more than professional courtesy."

Minji's hands stilled on his shoulder, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What do they want?"

"They want a meeting at the Hybe headquarters.'' He turned to look at her, his eyes serious. "Minji, I'm not going to hide this. I'm not going to pretend you're just my therapist. If they want to make that a problem, then it's a problem I'm willing to face."

She stared at him, at the stubborn set of his jaw, at the fear he was trying so hard to mask with bravado. "Jin, your career. You guys are already starting the comeback album for March."

"My career will survive," he said, reaching up to cover her hand where it rested on his shoulder. "I've been an idol for twelve years. I've given everything to this job. But I'm thirty-two years old, and I want something that's just mine. Someone who's just mine. I want you, Minji, and I'm done pretending I don't."

The meeting the next day was held in a conference room on the twentieth floor, all glass and chrome and uncomfortable silence. Minji sat rigid in her chair, her professional mask firmly in place, while Seokjin sat beside her, not across the table, not separated, but beside her, a united front.

Sejin was there, and the head of artist management, and a woman from legal whose name Minji forgot the moment she heard it.

"Kim Seokjin-ssi," the legal woman began, her voice carefully neutral. "Your contract renewal is up for discussion next year. The company is concerned about optics."

"Optics," Seokjin repeated, his tone mild but carrying an edge.

"You're a public figure. Your personal life reflects on the brand. A relationship with a staff member, particularly one hired in a medical capacity, raises questions about professionalism, about boundaries—"

"Kang Minji is no longer my employee," Seokjin interrupted, his voice steady. "Her contract with the tour ended in Amsterdam. The past eleven weeks, she has been my…" He paused, glancing at Minji, a small smile breaking through. "She's been my girlfriend."

The woman's expression didn't change, but Minji saw Sejin suppress a smile.

"The photos that were taken," the head of management said, leaning forward, "they're being shopped to tabloids. We can buy them, suppress them, but it's expensive. And temporary. Eventually, someone will get a clear shot of you together."

"Then let them," Seokjin said simply. "I'm not hiding her. I'm not ashamed of her. If the company wants to part ways with me over this, then that's a decision I'll have to live with. But I'm not ending this relationship to protect a brand image. But I don't think that the company will do something to make me leave while our comeback is planned for next year."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Minji felt Seokjin's hand search for hers under the table, felt his fingers intertwine with hers where no one could see.

"Nobody's talking about ending anything," Sejin said finally, speaking for the first time. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than Minji remembered, but there was something else there too, resignation, maybe, or understanding. "Seokjin, you've been with this company since you were twenty years old. You've never caused a scandal, never missed a schedule, never given us anything but your best. If you want to date someone, if you want to date your former physical therapist, that's your business."

The woman looked pained. "The optics-"

"Can be managed," Sejin cut in. "A statement about a respectful professional relationship that developed into something more after the conclusion of her contract. Emphasis on the fact that she's a medical professional with impeccable credentials. Spin it as a love story, not a scandal."

Seokjin blinked. "Hyung, you're helping us?"

"I'm helping you," Sejin said gruffly. "You've been happier these past three months than I've seen you in years, Seokjin-ah. And frankly, the encore concerts are sold out regardless of who you're dating. The fans love a romance. We give them a controlled version of the truth, and we move on."

He pulled a folder from his briefcase, sliding it across the table toward Minji. "That said, Minji, the company would like to offer you a position. Private practice, exclusive contract. You would work with all seven members as needed, plus selected other artists. No tour travel unless specifically requested. And the contract includes no restrictions on your personal life, because as I said, trying to regulate the personal lives of adults is a losing battle."

Minji stared at the folder, at the impossible turn her life had just taken. "I need to think about this," she said carefully. "I need to, this is a lot."

"Of course," Sejin said. "Take the week. The offer doesn't expire."

They left the room in silence, Seokjin's hand never leaving hers, their fingers intertwined as they walked through the corridors and into one of the studios BTS used. 

"You're not saying anything," Seokjin observed, squeezing her hand.

"I'm thinking," she said. "About my mother. About how she spent her life playing beautiful music alone in empty rooms because she was afraid. About how I'm not going to do that."

She stopped pacing around the studio, turning to face him. "I love you," she said, the words clear and strong. "I love you, and I don't want to hide anymore. I want the job, and I want you, and I want the life we're building together, even if it's messy and complicated and nothing like what I planned."

Seokjin's smile was sunrise and symphony and everything she'd been afraid to want. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"We get the ugly rescue dog. The one nobody else wants. And you help me learn to cook, And-" she stepped closer, rising on her toes to meet his eyes "and you never stop singing off-key in the shower, because it's terrible and it makes me laugh and I don't want to lose that."

He laughed, that full-bodied laugh that crinkled his eyes and transformed his whole face, and he pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. "Deal," he agreed. "All of it. Especially the dog."

They left the company in a comfortable silence, and after thirty minutes they entered the apartment of Jin. After getting changed they sat next to each other on the balcony, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of amber and gold.

Minji thought of the two concerts waiting for them in Incheon, the final performances that would close this chapter and open whatever came next.

"Three weeks until Incheon," Seokjin said, as if reading her thoughts.

"Three weeks," she agreed. "And then the tour is really over."

"And then we start," he said, turning to look at her, his expression soft and sure. "No more tour schedules. Just us. Whatever that looks like."

Minji leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart. "I think it looks like Sunday mornings and burnt eggs," she said. "And medical conferences where I fall asleep in the back row. And you coming home from practice complaining about your shoulder so I'll touch you."

"That last one is definitely going to happen," he admitted, grinning.

"I know," she said, smiling against his shoulder. "I'm counting on it."

The encore concerts in Incheon were unlike anything that had come before. Seokjin on stage, on the first day with Hoseok and Jungkook and the second day with Jimin and Taehyung. Minji watched from the wings, clipboard forgotten in her hands, as he moved across the stage with a freedom she hadn't seen during the stadium tour, no pressure to be anything other than himself.

He found her during the final song, his eyes scanning the darkness until they locked on hers, and his smile, the real one, the private one, transformed his entire face. He sang the last verse directly to her, or so it felt, his voice carrying a warmth that had nothing to do with the lyrics and everything to do with the future they were building.

After the final bow, after the confetti had settled and the crowd's roar had faded into the night, the lights caught the sweat on his forehead, the emotion in his eyes, the way he scanned the darkness until he found her.

Seokjin left the stage and walked straight towards Minji, past the staff trying to congratulate him, past the makeup artists with towels, past Sejin calling his name. He walked to her, took her hand, and kept walking.

"Jin, your clothes-" she protested, glancing back at the chaos they were leaving behind.

"Let them," he said, squeezing her fingers. "I don't care. I just want to be somewhere real with you."

They took his car, him still in his stage outfit, her still in her professional suit, driving through streets that grew quieter as they left the venue behind. He didn't head toward his apartment. He drove to the Han River, to the spot where they'd come once or twice a week, a secluded stretch of park where the city lights reflected on the water and no one bothered them.

The autumn air bit at their cheeks as they walked to the railing. He leaned against it, finally looking tired, the adrenaline draining out of him in real time.

"I don't know what happens now," he admitted, staring at the dark water. "I've been an idol for twelve years. The schedule told me where to be, what to do, who to be. Tomorrow there's nothing. Just blank space."

Minji leaned beside him, their shoulders touching. "That's terrifying," she said. "And exciting, also let’s not forget that you will fly to America soon, to meet the boys for the comeback preparation."

"How do you do that? See both sides?"

"Training," she said, smiling. "I'm a physical therapist. I know that healing hurts before it gets better. That blank space is just your body, your life, figuring out what comes next."

He turned to look at her, really look at her, his face stripped of performance and pretense. "What if I don't know who I am without the stage?"

"Then you'll figure it out," she said simply. "And I'll be there while you do. Not as your therapist. Not because I'm paid to be. Just because I want to be. Because I love the man you are when no one's watching. The one who talks in his sleep and worries too much about everyone else."

Seokjin laughed, a quiet sound that disappeared into the river wind. "I got you a gift," he said suddenly, reaching into his pocket. "I was going to wait until we got home, but I couldn't wait." He pulled out a small box, black velvet, and her heart stuttered.

"Jin-"

"Not that," he said quickly, flushing. "God, no. It’s too soon. Open it.''

She did, revealing a simple silver bracelet, delicate and unadorned. Inside the band, engraved in tiny letters, were coordinates.

"Goyang," he said, his voice soft. "Where I realized I was going to fall in love with you whether it was smart or not."

Minji ran her thumb over the engraving, feeling the tiny grooves, the weight of the memory. "I didn't fall," she said, looking up at him. "I jumped. There's a difference."

"Show me," he said.

She kissed him there, by the river, with the city glowing behind them and the future uncertain and vast and terrifyingly open. When they pulled apart, he fastened the bracelet around her wrist, his fingers lingering on the pulse point.

"Come home with me," he said. "Not because it's the end of the tour. Not because there's nowhere else to go. Just come home."

She looked at the bracelet, at the man, at the life she'd never planned for but wanted more than anything she'd ever known. "Okay," she whispered. "Let's go home."

They walked back to the car hand in hand, two people stepping out of one story and into another, not knowing the ending but willing to write it together, one ordinary, extraordinary day at a time.

I have no idea what I wrote. I hope it’s good enough and you enjoyed the story while reading it. This was just an unfinished draft that only needed an epilogue and proofreading, so the one-shot I was talking about earlier is coming soon.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Bad date?”

You sighed. “He took me to a steakhouse and got offended when I ordered a salad. Then he told me I should ‘live a little’ and tried to feed me off his fork. When I said no, he pouted for the rest of the date.”

Izzie made a gagging noise. “Men are so embarrassing.”

You crossed your arms, scanning the room. “Is there any space left?”

Izzie and Meredith glanced at each other, then at the bed, where they had effectively sprawled across all of it.

You sighed. “Guess I’ll just go—”

George didn’t even think before he spoke.

“You can lay on me.”

The words hung in the air.

Your eyes met his, brows lifting slightly in surprise.

“I mean,” he stammered, ears burning, “only if you want to! No pressure. I just—there’s not a lot of room, and, um, I don’t mind, so…”

Meredith let out a muffled snort into the pillow. Izzie smirked.

You hesitated for only a second before shrugging. “Fine by me.”

Before George could process that, you were climbing onto the bed, shifting to settle right on top of him.

His brain short-circuited.

You were warm. And soft. And your head rested against his chest in a way that made his heart pound hard enough that you had to feel it.

“You’re comfy,” you murmured, adjusting slightly.

George made an embarrassingly high-pitched sound in response.

Izzie and Meredith giggled.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stay normal. “Uh. Good. Glad to be of service.”

Silence settled over the room, the three of you lying there in a comfortable pile.

And if George was maybe hyper-aware of every breath you took, or the way your fingers idly traced the hem of his shirt—well, that was his secret.

Suspended for two weeks. Apparently, one could get in trouble for assaulting a handcuffed child predator. Had it not been seen by civilians, it may have just been shoved under the rug. Though, it was only one punch to the face, Detective Y/N was surprised she hadn't been dealt a harsher punishment because of the visual. However, even the public knew and loathed what that man had done.

Before the incident the detective had made a break in a cold case she had been looking into. Thumbing through dusty files she ran across a case with similar MO from the same year.

She was fine staying home for a while but, man, those files being left on her desk for longer than they already had gnawed at her conscience.

'Most of the team should be out by now. It would hurt nobody if I grabbed those files to peruse during the rest of my suspension,' she thought to herself before making her way to the precinct.

This was in the bag. She had made it to the right floor and hadn't seen anyone from the team.

"You're not supposed to be here," spoke a voice from behind her.

Wincing, she whipped around. "Barba! I forgot some of my things."

"Uh-huh." The ADA smirked, with his hands in his pockets, and rocked heel to toe with each syllable.

"So, is Olivia in?" Her ears, face, and neck all beamed red. Lying was one thing when she was trying to get at a perp. Lying to Rafael was something else, knowing he could see right through her.

"She should be back any minute. Shall I go get her for you?"

"No! No. Im good," she uttered with great struggle to maintain composure.

"Let's go get your cold case files," he laughed.

"How did you know?" Her face portrayed both amusement and astonishment.

"I know everything."

Having known the ADA for a while, that statement didnt always seem too far from the truth.

Oh no. Footsteps and laughter could be heard from around the corner.

"Olivia," announced the detective, shooting her arm out and stopping Barba. Her eyes shot around her, searching for a hideout. Found one.

Before any other thought she shoved the unsuspecting ADA into the very small storage closet. Backing herself into the room with him, she shut the door.

Barba hit the shelves behind him, "Ow, hey!"

She shuffled herself around to face him and covered his mouth. "Olivia is here!" she whispered.

Rolling his eyes, he tapped her hand for her to remove it.

"Why did you stuff me in here?"

"Because Oliv- oh." She had, without a thought stuffed the handsome ADA into a very cramped space with her. "Whoops." That man had no reason to have to hide from Olivia.

"Yeah. So, I'm going to go."

"No!" She grabbed his hand, stopping him from reaching the door handle. "You can't leave now. If she sees you come out, then she will see me."

He sighed. "Fine. Just know that I can argue this as kidnapping."

"Objection. You just agreed. Also, do you really want to be seen leaving this very small space with me?"

After a small moment's pause, "Fair point."

The laughter and the voices neared them. Random words and Olivia's voice could be deciphered. They were not leaving the area.

"Well, if I'm stuck in here because of you, we are switching positions." He grabbed Y/N's waist and squeezed them tighter together, moving her towards the shelves and him with his back to the door.

The detective's breath hitched and, once more, a blush creeped across her features.

"I've seen you blush twice today, Y/N. I have to say, I think I'm enjoying this time more than the last."

Oh, goodness. "Please, stop talking or I will snap your suspenders so hard they will embed into your skin."

"No good. Too loud. Risky."

"Fine," she grumbled.

He smells good. Cologne wasn't usually something the detective would take note of but whatever he was wearing was nice.

"Hey," Rafael said, pulling her from her thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Do you use a lavender shampoo?"

"Um, yes."

"It smells good."

"Oh, uh, thanks." Her heart raced, not that it was particularly slow to begin with.

"Rafa?"

"Yep."

"You do realize you're still grabbing my waist, right?"

"Whoops" He let go. She immediately regretted having mentioned it.

"You smell good too, by the way." She cleared her throat. "Your cologne."

"Oh, thanks. I just got a new one. Trying it out."

"It's nice." Her eyes moved down from his and glanced at his lips, ever briefly. He smiled and she looked away to break eye contact.

"Alright, see you later!" Olivia announced. A pair of footsteps could be heard walking away.

"Do you think the coast is clear?" asked Barba.

"No. I only heard one pair of footst-"

Before her sentence was finished, Olivia swung the door open and Rafael stumbled out and pulled you along.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't our trusted ADA and suspended detective in the storage, together. Isn't that cozy," Olivia laughed.

"Oh, we weren't-" Rafael gestured between himself and Detective Y/N.

"I'm sure. But you, detective, are supposed to be at home."

"Captain, I am so s-"

"I saw nothing. Including whatever you are here to grab. Just, do me a favor, dont let me catch you again"

With that, the detective rushed to her desk, grabbed the files and turned to leave.

Was it getting caught or Barba that was causing her to still feel as if her heart was beating out of her chest?

"Detective Y/N," Barba called to her again.

She stopped and faced him.

Grinning, he said, "You owe me."