#fluuf

KIM NAMJOON

The backstage lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the cramped dressing room where Namjoon sat slumped in a chair, one leg bouncing absently. His manager had just left after another lecture about punctuality, but his thoughts were elsewhere—specifically, on the small figure darting between racks of costumes with arms full of garment bags.

Sin moved like water, silent and effortless, his white hair catching the fluorescents as he ducked under a rolling rack. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he worked—fingers smoothing fabric, lips pressed together in concentration. Namjoon had seen staff scramble before, but never with this kind of quiet precision.

"Hyung," Sin murmured suddenly, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed the boy approach. Up close, his lashes were unfairly long, casting feathery shadows over the beauty mark beneath his eye. "Your jacket’s hem is loose. I can fix it before the shoot if you—if you want." He held out a tiny sewing kit like an offering, gaze flickering away almost shyly.

Namjoon blinked. It wasn’t the first time Sin had caught details no one else did—last week, he’d quietly handed Jungkook a spare guitar pick mid-rehearsal without being asked—but the warmth in his chest at the gesture was new. "You carry that around?" he asked, taking the kit just to watch Sin’s fingers twitch at the brush of contact.

The sewing kit sat heavy in Namjoon’s palm, its weight disproportionate to its size. Sin’s fingers had lingered just a second too long when he handed it over—or maybe Namjoon had imagined that. But the way the boy’s breath hitched when their skin brushed wasn’t imagined. Neither was the way his cerulean eyes darted to Namjoon’s lips before flicking away, pink mouth parting like he wanted to say something more.

Namjoon should’ve handed the kit back. Should’ve laughed it off with a thanks, kid and let him scurry away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched Sin’s pulse jump under that delicate skin. "You’re always fixing things for us," he murmured. The words came out rougher than intended. "Even things we don’t realize are broken."

Sin’s breath stuttered. He looked caught—like a moth realizing too late it had flown into a web. "I—I like being useful," he whispered, fingers twisting the hem of his oversized staff shirt. The fabric slid off one shoulder, exposing a collarbone so sharp it could cut glass. Namjoon’s throat went dry.

Behind them, a door slammed. Sin flinched, scrambling back as Hoseok’s voice echoed down the hall. The moment shattered, but Namjoon’s chest burned with something new. Something possessive.

The realization hit Namjoon like a stage light dropping from the rafters—sudden, blinding, and with the weight of something that couldn't be undone. He'd been watching Sin for weeks now, ever since that first stolen moment with the sewing kit, but tonight was different. Tonight, Sin knelt in the greenroom fixing Jin's in-ear monitors, his doll-like face scrunched in concentration as his fingers—those quick, delicate fingers—brushed the shell of Jin's ear. Something hot and jagged twisted in Namjoon's gut, and he knew.

He wanted to ruin him.

Not in the way one ruins a shirt by spilling coffee, but in the way a storm ruins a coastline—inevitably, beautifully, leaving something unrecognizably transformed in its wake. The thought should have scared him. Instead, it settled into his bones with the certainty of a chord resolving.

"Hyung?" Sin's voice was barely audible over the chatter of the crew prepping for the encore. He'd materialized at Namjoon's elbow, holding out a water bottle with condensation already beading down its sides. "You looked… thirsty." His cerulean eyes flicked up through pale lashes, and Namjoon could see the exact moment Sin registered the intensity of his gaze—the way his pink lips parted slightly, the beauty mark under his left eye twitching as his breath hitched.

The water bottle slipped from Namjoon’s grip, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t react—couldn’t, not when Sin was looking at him like that, pupils blown wide under the stage lights bleeding through the cracked door. The crew’s voices blurred into white noise, distant as radio static. All he could hear was the hitch in Sin’s breathing when he stepped closer, close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo beneath the sweat-slicked stage air.

"You’re always," Namjoon began, then stopped. His voice came out wrong—low, frayed at the edges like overstretched guitar strings. He watched Sin’s throat bob as he swallowed, watched the way his collarbones peeked from beneath the crooked neckline of his staff shirt. The fabric clung to his shoulders, damp from hauling equipment, and Namjoon’s fingers twitched with the urge to peel it away. "Always right where I need you."

Sin made a sound—small, wounded, like he’d been holding it in for years. His fingers fluttered toward Namjoon’s wrist, then retreated, curling into his palm like he was physically stopping himself. The restraint was unbearable. Namjoon caught his wrist mid-retreat, thumb pressing into the fluttery pulse beneath translucent skin. "Hyung," Sin whispered, and it wasn’t a protest. It was surrender.

Backstage, someone dropped a mic stand with a clatter. Sin jerked like he’d been shocked, but Namjoon didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not when the boy’s lashes were trembling, not when his pink lips were bitten raw from nerves. The beauty mark under his eye looked darker now, a smudge of ink against porcelain. Namjoon wanted to lick it.

The backstage air hummed with the aftershocks of performance—adrenaline, sweat, the electric thrum of bodies still vibrating from the stage. Namjoon’s fingers tightened around Sin’s wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his thumb. The boy’s skin was fever-warm, his breath shallow as if he’d forgotten how to inhale properly. Around them, the crew moved in chaotic orbits, shouting over the rumble of rolling equipment carts, but none of them glanced twice at the two figures pressed close by the shadowed wing curtain.

Namjoon leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the white strands clinging to Sin’s damp temple. "You’re trembling," he murmured, not unkindly. His free hand came up to brush the beauty mark under Sin’s eye—a deliberate, possessive stroke. The boy shuddered, lashes fluttering shut for a heartbeat too long. When they opened again, his cerulean eyes were glassy with something raw and unguarded. It made Namjoon’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the encore.

"I—" Sin’s voice cracked. He wet his lips, and Namjoon tracked the movement with predatory focus. The pink swell of his lower lip glistened faintly where his tongue had touched it. "I should go help with—with the mic packs." The lie was transparent, his gaze darting toward the crew but his body swaying infinitesimally closer to Namjoon’s heat.

A chuckle rumbled low in Namjoon’s throat. He stepped forward, crowding Sin back against the heavy stage curtain until the velvet swallowed the sound of their breathing. "Liar," he breathed, watching Sin’s pupils dilate further. The boy’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his oversized shirt, the fabric sliding to reveal the sharp dip of a collarbone. Namjoon wanted to bite it. Wanted to leave a mark so deep even the stage lights couldn’t erase it.

The curtain muffled the distant thud of mic stands being packed away, reducing the backstage chaos to a dull roar. Sin’s pulse jumped beneath Namjoon’s fingers like a trapped bird, his cerulean eyes wide and unblinking. Up close, his lashes cast shadows so pronounced they looked painted on. Namjoon wondered if they’d feel as delicate as they appeared against his lips. The thought alone made his grip tighten—not enough to hurt, but enough that Sin gasped, his pink mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

"You’re not going anywhere," Namjoon murmured. His thumb slid up the delicate underside of Sin’s wrist, tracing the blue veins there. The boy shuddered, his breath hitching when Namjoon’s knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of his inner elbow. "Not until you tell me why you’ve been watching me during soundchecks." Sin’s eyes flew open wider—caught—and Namjoon grinned, slow and predatory. "Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Those quick little glances when you think no one’s looking?"

A whimper escaped Sin’s throat, high and desperate. His free hand clutched at Namjoon’s sleeve, fingers twisting the fabric like he couldn’t decide whether to push or pull. The beauty mark under his eye darkened as blood rushed to his cheeks, his entire face flushing the same delicate pink as his bitten lips. Namjoon wanted to swallow the sound straight from his mouth.

The curtain shifted behind them as someone passed too close, sending a ripple through the heavy fabric. Sin flinched, his body pressing instinctively into Namjoon’s chest like he could burrow there. The heat of him was intoxicating—a living, trembling thing slotting perfectly against Namjoon’s frame. For a breathless moment, neither of them moved. Then Sin tilted his head up, his lips brushing the stubble along Namjoon’s jaw in what might have been an accident.

The accidental touch burned hotter than stage lights. Namjoon went utterly still, his breath catching as Sin’s lips lingered—hesitant, questioning—against his jaw. The boy’s exhale trembled, warm and damp against Namjoon’s skin, and he could feel the exact moment Sin realized what he’d done. The sharp intake of breath. The way his fingers spasmed against Namjoon’s sleeve.

Before Sin could bolt, Namjoon turned his head—just enough that their lips brushed in a graze so light it might’ve been imagined. Sin made a broken noise, his body arching into the contact like a plant toward sunlight. The curtain behind them swallowed the sound, heavy velvet muffling the outside world until all that existed was the space between their mouths: humid, charged, trembling on the precipice of something irreversible.

"Tell me to stop," Namjoon murmured against Sin’s lips. His thumb dug into the hinge of the boy’s jaw, tilting his face up. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes glassy with want. His pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and Namjoon tracked the movement with a hunger that bordered on violence. "Say the word, and I walk away."

Sin’s throat worked. For one agonizing second, Namjoon thought he might actually speak—might summon whatever shred of self-preservation still clung to that delicate frame. But then Sin surged forward, crushing their mouths together with a desperation that stole Namjoon’s breath. His lips were softer than imagined, parting effortlessly under Namjoon’s with a gasp that vibrated through both of them.

The kiss tasted like stolen sugar—cloying and too sweet, Sin’s lips yielding under Namjoon’s with a helpless little noise that went straight to his gut. He could feel the exact moment Sin’s knees buckled, the boy’s body folding into him as if his bones had turned to liquid. Namjoon caught him effortlessly, one hand splayed across the small of Sin’s back, the other tangled in that impossibly soft white hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, and when he tugged—just enough to tilt Sin’s head back—the boy whimpered, his throat bobbing under Namjoon’s mouth as he kissed down the pale column of skin.

“H-hyung—” Sin’s voice cracked, his fingers scrabbling at Namjoon’s shoulders like he was drowning. The stage curtain swallowed the sound, its heavy folds trapping the humid press of their breathing, the slick slide of lips parting again and again. Namjoon bit down on the beauty mark under Sin’s eye, and the boy jerked against him with a gasp, his hips stuttering forward in an involuntary thrust that had them both freezing.

The realization hit like a drumbeat—Sin was hard, his arousal pressing shamelessly against Namjoon’s thigh through the thin fabric of his staff pants. Namjoon’s own breath came ragged at the discovery, his grip tightening possessively around Sin’s waist. “Fuck,” he growled against the boy’s ear, delighting in the full-body shudder it elicited. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” His thumb brushed the damp hollow beneath Sin’s ear, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse. “Tell me.”

Sin’s lashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes glassy with want. His lips—swollen now, glistening pink—parted on a shaky exhale. “Y-yes,” he admitted, so softly Namjoon had to strain to hear it. “In the—the storage room. When you took your shirt off after rehearsals.” The confession spilled out in a rush, his cheeks flushing darker with every word. “I watched the sweat—the way it dripped down your—”

Namjoon’s breath hitched—caught between a growl and a laugh. The storage room. That had been months ago. Which meant Sin had been watching, wanting, for far longer than Namjoon had realized. The thought sent a vicious thrill down his spine. His grip on Sin’s hair tightened, just enough to pull another whimper from the boy’s kiss-swollen lips. "You little stalker," he murmured, but there was no heat in it—only a dark, possessive amusement. "All this time, and you never said a word."

Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his gaze dropping to Namjoon’s mouth like he was already starving for another taste. "You’re—" He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against Namjoon’s biceps. "You’re you. And I’m just…" The rest of the sentence died in his throat, but Namjoon heard it anyway. Just staff. Just Sin. As if the boy hadn’t carved himself into Namjoon’s ribs with every stolen glance, every hesitant touch.

Namjoon crowded him harder against the curtain, his thigh pressing deliberately between Sin’s legs. The boy gasped, his hips jerking forward on instinct, and Namjoon watched with rapt fascination as pleasure—sharp and unguarded—flashed across his doll-like features. "Look at you," he breathed, dragging his thumb across Sin’s lower lip. "Falling apart just from this." He ground his thigh up, slow and deliberate, and Sin’s entire body shuddered, his nails biting into Namjoon’s shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.

The noise Sin made was obscene—a high, broken sound that Namjoon felt vibrate through his own chest. His lips parted, his tongue darting out to chase the taste of Sin’s gasp, when a sharp clang echoed from the other side of the curtain. Sin froze, his cerulean eyes widening in panic, but Namjoon didn’t let him pull away. "Easy," he murmured against the shell of Sin’s ear, his voice low enough that only the boy could hear it. "They can’t see us." His hand slid down Sin’s back, palming the curve of his ass through the thin fabric of his pants. "But they’ll hear you if you don’t keep quiet."

Sin's fingers dug into Namjoon's shoulders like he was clinging to a cliff edge. The crew's voices swelled nearer—some assistant cursing over tangled mic cables—but all Namjoon could focus on was the way Sin's body arched against his thigh, the damp heat seeping through fabric. The boy's eyelashes fluttered wildly, his breath coming in shallow hitches as Namjoon rolled his hips in a slow, tortuous grind. "H-hyung—" Sin's whisper cracked, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to muffle a moan when Namjoon's hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin behind his knee.

"Tell me what you imagined," Namjoon murmured against the shell of Sin's ear, relishing the way the boy trembled at the vibration. His free hand tugged Sin's shirt collar wider, exposing the sharp dip of his collarbone to the humid backstage air. "In the storage room. When you watched me." He punctuated the question with a nip to Sin's earlobe, and the boy jerked like he'd been electrocuted, his hips stuttering forward in an aborted thrust.

Sin's voice was barely audible, his lips brushing Namjoon's jaw as he gasped out the words. "Y-you—pinning me against the—the prop shelves." His breath hitched when Namjoon's teeth grazed his throat. "Your hands—rougher than they look—" The sentence dissolved into a whine as Namjoon's palm pressed firmly over the tented fabric of his pants, the pressure just shy of cruel.

Namjoon's laugh was a dark, pleased thing. "You like that?" he breathed, dragging his thumb along the straining outline of Sin's cock. The boy nodded desperately, his cerulean eyes blown black with want. "Use your words, sweet thing."

Sin's throat worked soundlessly, his lips forming silent syllables before the words finally tumbled out. "I—I like it," he gasped, his voice cracking on the admission. His fingers twisted in Namjoon's shirt, knuckles whitening as Namjoon's palm pressed harder against him through the fabric. "Please, hyung—"

The plea hung between them, trembling and raw. Namjoon watched Sin's eyelids flutter—watched the way his beauty mark disappeared briefly as his face contorted with pleasure—before he finally relented. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Sin's pants, yanking them down just enough to free his cock. The boy's breath hitched, his entire body going taut as Namjoon's hand wrapped around him, skin against burning skin.

"You're so pretty like this," Namjoon murmured, his thumb swiping over the head of Sin's cock, smearing the bead of precome that had gathered there. Sin whimpered, his hips jerking up into the touch like he couldn't help himself. His cock was flushed pink, the same shade as his bitten lips, and Namjoon couldn't resist leaning down to lick a stripe up the length of him.

Sin's cry was muffled by his own hand clapped over his mouth, his back arching off the curtain as Namjoon's tongue flicked over the sensitive underside of his cock. The taste of him was intoxicating—salt and heat and something uniquely Sin—and Namjoon groaned against his skin, the vibration wringing another broken sound from the boy above him.

Sin’s fingers tangled in Namjoon’s hair, tugging with a desperation that bordered on pain. His hips jerked forward instinctively, driving his cock deeper into the wet heat of Namjoon’s mouth, and the noise he made—half sob, half whimper—vibrated through the hollow of Namjoon’s throat. The curtain behind them muffled the sound, but nothing could hide the way Sin’s knees buckled when Namjoon swallowed him down to the root.

Namjoon pulled back just enough to let Sin’s cock slip from his lips with a wet pop, his breath ghosting over the flushed skin. “Quiet,” he reminded him, though his own voice was rough with want. Sin nodded frantically, his cerulean eyes glazed, his lower lip caught between his teeth hard enough to leave marks. Namjoon wanted to kiss the sting away. Instead, he wrapped his hand around the base of Sin’s cock and stroked slowly, watching the boy’s face twist with pleasure.

“H-hyung—” Sin’s voice cracked, his hips stuttering forward into Namjoon’s grip. His thighs trembled, his entire body taut as a bowstring, and Namjoon could feel the exact moment he teetered on the edge—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers clenched in Namjoon’s hair.

Namjoon stilled his hand abruptly, squeezing just enough to stall Sin’s orgasm. The boy whined, high and desperate, his hips jerking futilely against the restraint. “Not yet,” Namjoon murmured, his thumb brushing over the head of Sin’s cock, smearing precome down the length of him. “You’ll come when I say you can.”

Sin’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as Namjoon’s grip tightened just shy of pain. The boy’s fingers trembled where they clutched at Namjoon’s shoulders, his nails biting through fabric. “Please,” he whispered, the word cracking mid-syllable. His cock twitched in Namjoon’s hand, leaking against his knuckles. “I—I can’t—”

Namjoon tsked, dragging his thumb over the slick head of Sin’s cock in a slow, torturous circle. The boy’s hips jerked, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. “You can,” Namjoon murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted over Sin’s parted lips. “You will.” He punctuated the command with a twist of his wrist, and Sin’s knees nearly gave out, his moan muffled against Namjoon’s collarbone.

Behind them, the crew’s chatter swelled—someone barking orders about mic stands—but the heavy curtain absorbed the sound, leaving only the wet slide of Namjoon’s hand and Sin’s choked whimpers. The boy’s lashes fluttered wildly, his cerulean eyes glassy with unshed tears. Namjoon wanted to lick them away. Wanted to taste the salt on his skin. Instead, he dragged his free hand down Sin’s chest, fingers dipping beneath the rumpled hem of his shirt to trace the sharp ridges of his ribs.

Sin’s breath hitched when Namjoon’s fingertips brushed his nipple—a featherlight touch that had him arching off the curtain with a silent gasp. Namjoon grinned, dark and pleased, and did it again, rolling the bud between his fingers until Sin’s cock throbbed in his grip. “Sensitive here too?” he murmured, watching Sin’s throat work soundlessly. The boy nodded frantically, his lips forming Namjoon’s name without sound.

Sin’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, his cock sliding slick and hot against Namjoon’s palm. The friction drew a ragged gasp from his throat, his fingers scrabbling at Namjoon’s shoulders like he was drowning. Namjoon watched, fascinated, as Sin’s beauty mark disappeared under the flush creeping across his cheeks—the same violent pink as his bitten lips.

"Look at you," Namjoon murmured, tightening his grip just enough to make Sin’s breath stutter. His thumb swiped over the head of Sin’s cock, smearing precome in slow, deliberate circles. "So desperate for it. How long have you been like this?" He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear as the boy shuddered. "Since the storage room? Or was it earlier?"

Sin’s throat worked soundlessly. His eyelashes fluttered, wet with unshed tears, and when he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. "S-since—" He broke off with a whimper as Namjoon twisted his wrist, his hips bucking forward. "Since you—ah—since you handed me your jacket after the—the rain."

Namjoon stilled. That had been months ago—a throwaway gesture when Sin had been shivering in a soaked staff shirt. The realization sent a possessive thrill down his spine. His free hand came up to grip Sin’s chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met. "You’ve been thinking about me that long?" he asked, his voice rough with something darker than amusement. Sin’s gaze flickered away, but Namjoon tightened his hold, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. "Tell me."

Sin’s lips trembled, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as Namjoon’s thumb pressed insistently against his jaw. The beauty mark under his eye stood out starkly against his flushed skin, a smudge of ink on parchment. "Y-yes," he admitted, the word barely more than a whisper. His cerulean eyes flickered down to Namjoon’s mouth, then away, as if the sight alone was too much to bear. "I—I kept the jacket. In my closet. Sometimes I—" His voice cracked, his cheeks burning impossibly darker.

Namjoon’s pulse roared in his ears. The mental image of Sin—sweet, shy Sin—pressing his face into that jacket, fingers skimming over the fabric like it was something sacred, sent a possessive heat curling low in his gut. His grip on Sin’s cock tightened reflexively, and the boy moaned, his hips jerking forward into the contact. "Fuck," Namjoon breathed, his voice rough as gravel. "You kept it?"

Sin nodded frantically, his lashes fluttering as Namjoon’s thumb circled the head of his cock in slow, torturous strokes. "I—I couldn’t help it," he gasped, his fingers twisting in Namjoon’s shirt. "It smelled like you." The confession spilled from his lips like a secret too heavy to carry, his voice cracking under the weight of it.

Namjoon’s breath hitched. He’d never been one for sentimentality, but the thought of Sin clinging to some discarded piece of him, hiding it away like a stolen treasure—it unraveled something primal in his chest. His free hand slid up Sin’s throat, his thumb pressing against the fluttery pulse there. "You’re mine," he growled, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Sin’s eyes widened, his lips parting on a silent gasp. For a heartbeat, the backstage noise faded to a dull hum, the world narrowing to the space between their bodies. Then Sin’s hips stuttered forward, his cock sliding hot and slick through Namjoon’s fist. "Yours," he echoed, his voice breaking on the word like a prayer.

KIM SEOKJIN

The coffee machine gurgled its last pathetic drops into the stained carafe. Seokjin stared at it, bleary-eyed, as if sheer willpower could refill it. "We're out of beans," Sin murmured from behind him, voice so soft it barely registered.

Seokjin turned, blinking. Sin wasn't even supposed to be here this early—none of them were, not after last night’s marathon shoot—but there he was, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers nervously twisting the hem of his oversized hoodie. His hair was a mess, like he'd rolled straight out of bed and into the building, and the beauty mark under his left eye stood out starkly against his sleep-pale skin.

"You look terrible," Seokjin said, because he always said exactly what he thought. Sin just ducked his head, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "So do you, hyung."

The thing was, Sin wasn’t wrong. Seokjin had barely slept, his thoughts circling like vultures over something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just exhaustion, though. It was the way Sin’s cerulean eyes caught the fluorescent lights, glimmering like fractured glass. It was the way he moved—quiet, efficient, like he was afraid to take up space.

The fluorescent lights hummed louder than Sin's voice ever did, and Seokjin found himself leaning in just to hear the way his breath hitched when their sleeves brushed. Sin smelled like vanilla—not the cheap kind, but the rich, almost edible scent that clung to bakery air. It was wrong, Seokjin decided, how someone so quiet could fill a room so completely without trying.

"Hyung?" Sin's fingers twitched toward the empty coffee pot, then away, like he couldn't decide if touching it would be crossing some invisible line. Seokjin wanted to pin that wrist to the countertop just to see what sound he'd make.

Instead, he reached past him for a sugar packet, deliberately letting his chest graze Sin's shoulder. The boy froze, lips parting around an unspoken word. Up close, his beauty mark looked like an inkblot test—what did it say about Seokjin that all he could think was mine?

"You're trembling," Seokjin murmured, catching Sin's pinky finger with his own. The contact lasted less than a second, but Sin's pupils blew wide, dark swallowing cerulean whole. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Neither of them flinched.

The overhead lights flickered—once, twice—as if sensing the static thickening between them. Seokjin didn’t move away. Instead, he let his thumb trace the edge of the counter where Sin’s hand had just been, the ghost of warmth lingering like a promise. "You’re always here before everyone else," he said, voice low enough that it could’ve been mistaken for the hum of the dying coffee machine. "Why?"

Sin’s throat worked as he swallowed, the movement delicate beneath his sleep-rumpled collar. "Someone has to make sure the schedules are ready," he murmured, but his gaze skittered away, landing on the empty pot like it held the answers. Seokjin knew that look—the one Sin wore when he was lying by omission. The boy was terrible at it, his tells written in the flutter of his lashes, the way his fingers curled into his palms as if to physically hold back the truth.

Seokjin leaned in, close enough to count the faint freckles dusting Sin’s nose. "Liar," he breathed, and watched, fascinated, as a flush crept up Sin’s neck, pink as the inside of a seashell. The boy didn’t deny it.

Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echoed—probably a cleaner or an overeager intern—but neither of them moved to put distance between themselves. Sin’s breath hitched when Seokjin’s knee brushed his under the counter, a silent dare. The air between them crackled with something unsaid, something wrong, and Seokjin found himself addicted to the way Sin’s pupils dilated, how his lips parted just slightly, like he was waiting for permission to speak. Or to be kissed.

The footsteps grew louder—three sharp clicks of dress shoes against linoleum—then faded down another hallway. Sin exhaled shakily, his shoulders relaxing a fraction, but Seokjin didn’t move away. He couldn’t. Not when Sin’s pulse fluttered visibly beneath the delicate skin of his throat, not when his pink lips parted around unsteady breaths. "Hyung," Sin whispered, and the honorific sounded less like respect and more like a plea, ragged at the edges.

Seokjin’s fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to map the heat blooming across Sin’s cheeks with his thumbs, wanted to press into the softness of his waist until the boy gasped. Instead, he tilted his head, studying the way Sin’s eyelashes cast shadows like ink blots against his cheeks. "You didn’t answer my question," he murmured, voice dripping with false nonchalance. "Why are you really here, Sin-ah?"

Sin’s breath stuttered. His fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles whitening. "I—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "The coffee. I thought—"

"Liar," Seokjin repeated, softer this time, almost fond. He reached out, slow enough that Sin could pull away if he wanted to, and tucked a stray lock of white hair behind the boy’s ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of Sin’s ear, reveling in the way his breath hitched. "You don’t even drink coffee."

Sin’s breath caught when Seokjin’s fingers lingered at his ear—a touch too deliberate to be accidental, too intimate to be professional. The overhead lights buzzed louder, drowning out the frantic rabbit-thump of his pulse. "Hyung," he whispered again, but the word dissolved into nothing as Seokjin’s thumb brushed the sensitive spot just below his earlobe.

Seokjin watched, rapt, as Sin’s eyelashes fluttered shut—not in rejection, but in surrender. The boy’s lips parted on a shaky exhale, pink and slightly chapped from biting them raw all night. Mine, the thought surged again, primal and unbidden. Seokjin had never considered himself possessive, but the way Sin trembled under his touch, like a leaf caught in a storm, lit something feral in his chest.

The silence between them stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Sin finally dared to lift his gaze. His cerulean eyes were glassy with something Seokjin couldn’t name—fear? Want? Both?—and the beauty mark under his left eye seemed to taunt him. Look what you’re doing to him, it whispered. Seokjin’s fingers twitched with the urge to press his mouth to it, to taste the salt of Sin’s skin.

"You know," Seokjin murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted over Sin’s parted lips, "staff aren’t supposed to lie to their superiors." His voice was velvet-wrapped steel, the kind of tone that sent interns scrambling. But Sin didn’t scramble. He stayed—rooted in place, his hoodie sleeve slipping down to reveal the delicate bones of his wrist.

The moment stretched like caramel between them—sticky, sweet, unbearable. Sin’s lips trembled, still parted around that unspoken confession, and Seokjin thought, This is how saints fall. Not in some grand, dramatic renunciation, but in the quiet hum of a fluorescent-lit kitchen at dawn, with a boy who smelled like vanilla and looked at him like he held the sky in his hands.

"Tell me," Seokjin murmured, thumb tracing the hinge of Sin’s jaw. The boy shuddered, his breath hitching as Seokjin’s fingers dipped lower, skimming the flutter of his pulse. "Or should I guess?" His voice dropped to a whisper, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. "Did you come early to set up the schedules? Or to see me?"

Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers twisting tighter into his hoodie. The fabric stretched taut over his knuckles, white as bone. "Hyung," he whispered, and this time it cracked down the middle, raw as a fresh wound.

Seokjin’s grin was all teeth. "There it is." He pressed closer, caging Sin against the counter, relishing the way the boy’s hips jerked instinctively toward his. "You wanted this." It wasn’t a question. The proof was in the way Sin’s pupils swallowed his irises whole, in the damp press of his palms against Seokjin’s chest when he finally—finally—stopped pretending he didn’t want to touch.

Sin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just a wet, ragged gasp as Seokjin’s knee slid between his thighs, pressing just enough to make his breath stutter. "N-no," Sin managed, but his fingers curled into Seokjin’s shirt, clinging like he’d drown otherwise. The hypocrisy of it—his body arching into the contact while his voice denied it—sent a thrill down Seokjin’s spine.

"Liar," Seokjin purred for the third time, nipping at Sin’s earlobe. The boy whimpered, his knees buckling. Seokjin caught him effortlessly, one hand splayed across the small of his back, pressing him flush against his chest. Sin’s heartbeat thrummed against him, frantic as a hummingbird’s wings. "You’re shaking," Seokjin murmured, lips skimming the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. "Scared?"

Sin shook his head violently, his white hair catching the light like spun sugar. "N-not scared," he breathed, but his voice wavered. Seokjin could feel the way his pulse jumped when his fingers traced the delicate line of his throat, thumb pressing gently against his Adam’s apple.

Sin's denial hung between them, thin as the steam curling from the abandoned coffee pot. Seokjin's thumb pressed harder—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the frantic flutter beneath Sin's skin. The boy gasped, his hips jerking forward, and oh, that was interesting. Seokjin's lips curled into a smirk as he dragged his knee higher, slow and deliberate, until Sin's breath stuttered into something desperate.

"You're terrible at lying," Seokjin murmured, mouth brushing the shell of Sin's ear. His free hand slid down to grip Sin's hip, fingers digging into the softness there. "Your body betrays you." Sin whined, high and reedy, as Seokjin's teeth grazed his earlobe. The sound went straight to Seokjin's gut, hot and insistent.

The overhead lights flickered again, casting Sin's face in fractured shadows—his parted lips, the way his lashes stuck to his cheeks in damp clumps. Seokjin wanted to ruin him. Wanted to press him into the counter until the laminate left marks on his thighs, wanted to lick the salt from his trembling collarbones.

Sin's fingers finally uncurled from his hoodie, shaking as they hovered over Seokjin's waistband. "Hyung, I—" His voice cracked, raw.

Sin’s sentence died as Seokjin’s phone buzzed violently against the countertop—once, twice, three times—the screen flashing with a manager’s name. The sound was obscenely loud in the humming silence between them. Sin flinched like he’d been struck, his fingers jerking away from Seokjin’s waist as if burned.

Seokjin didn’t move. Didn’t even glance at the phone. He kept his knee pressed firmly between Sin’s thighs, his thumb still resting against the boy’s jumping pulse. "Ignore it," he murmured, lips brushing the damp curve of Sin’s temple. The boy whimpered, his hips twitching forward involuntarily. The counter dug into his lower back, surely leaving marks, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

The phone buzzed again. Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes darting to the screen like a trapped animal seeking escape. "Hyung, they’ll—"

"Let them come." Seokjin’s voice was a dark promise as he crowded Sin harder against the counter, his free hand sliding up to tangle in that messy white hair. He tugged—just enough to make Sin’s head tilt back, baring the long line of his throat. "Let them see how pretty you are when you fall apart."

The phone buzzed a fifth time before falling silent. Sin’s exhale shuddered through him, his body tensing under Seokjin’s hands like a bowstring pulled too tight. His lips parted—whether to protest or plead, Seokjin couldn’t tell—but the words never came. Instead, Sin’s teeth sank into his lower lip, the pink flesh whitening under the pressure. A challenge. A surrender.

Seokjin’s grip tightened in Sin’s hair, tilting his head back further until the boy’s throat stretched taut beneath his gaze. He could see the frantic flutter of Sin’s pulse, could taste the salt-sweet panic on his skin when he leaned in to drag his tongue along the exposed column of his neck. Sin gasped, his hips jerking forward, and the friction of Seokjin’s knee between his thighs drew a broken sound from his lips.

"Quiet," Seokjin murmured against his skin, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers scrabbling at the counter’s edge for purchase. The boy was unraveling beneath him, his usual shyness burned away by something hotter, hungrier. Seokjin could feel it—the way Sin’s body arched into his touch, the way his thighs trembled when Seokjin’s hand slid lower, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen, footsteps echoed—sharp, purposeful—but Seokjin didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, his mouth finding the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, lips brushing the damp skin. Sin shook his head violently, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His fingers curled into Seokjin’s shirt, clinging like he’d drown otherwise.

The footsteps grew louder—sharp, measured, unmistakably headed toward them. Sin tensed, his breath catching in his throat, but Seokjin only smirked against his skin, dragging his teeth over the beauty mark until Sin whimpered. "Hyung," Sin gasped, his voice cracking, "they’ll—"

"Let them." Seokjin’s grip tightened in Sin’s hair, tilting his head back further until the boy’s throat arched like a bow. He traced the frantic pulse with his tongue, savoring the way Sin shuddered, his hips jerking forward helplessly. The counter dug into his lower back, the edge surely leaving bruises, but Sin didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

The footsteps paused just outside the kitchen door. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers scrabbling against Seokjin’s chest—not pushing him away, but clinging, as if torn between fear and want. Seokjin nipped at his collarbone, grinning when Sin’s thighs tightened around his knee. "You’re so loud," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. "What if they hear you?"

Sin’s cheeks burned. His lips parted around a silent plea, but before he could speak, the door creaked open. Seokjin didn’t move—didn’t even glance up—just pressed Sin harder against the counter, his knee shifting deliberately between the boy’s thighs. Sin’s breath stuttered into a wet gasp, his hips jerking forward instinctively.

The door swung open fully, revealing their manager—sharp-eyed, perpetually exhausted, and holding a clipboard like a weapon. Sin froze, his breath trapped in his throat, fingers digging into Seokjin’s shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons in the fabric. But Seokjin—Seokjin didn’t even flinch. He just tightened his grip on Sin’s hip, pressing him harder against the counter, and turned his head just enough to meet their manager’s gaze over Sin’s shoulder. His smirk was slow, deliberate, a dare wrapped in silk.

A beat of silence. The manager’s gaze flickered between them—Sin’s flushed cheeks, the way Seokjin’s knee was wedged between his thighs, the possessive curl of his fingers in Sin’s hair. Then, with a sigh that sounded more resigned than surprised, he tapped his clipboard against the doorframe. "Five minutes," he said flatly, "then we start soundcheck." The door clicked shut behind him, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

Sin exhaled sharply, his entire body trembling. "Hyung," he gasped, voice cracking, "he saw—"

"And?" Seokjin nipped at his jaw, relishing the way Sin’s pulse jumped beneath his lips. "You think he doesn’t know?" His thumb brushed the beauty mark under Sin’s eye, smearing the dampness there. "You think anyone doesn’t know?"

Sin’s breath hitched—sharp, audible—as Seokjin’s fingers traced the delicate line of his throat, thumb pressing just enough to feel the frantic flutter beneath his skin. The boy’s pulse was a wild thing, trapped and desperate, and Seokjin wanted to chase it with his teeth. "Know what?" Sin whispered, but his voice wavered, betraying him. His fingers twisted tighter into Seokjin’s shirt, knuckles white against the fabric.

Seokjin laughed—low, dark—and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Sin’s ear. "That you’re mine," he murmured, the words dripping like honey, thick and sweet. Sin shuddered, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and the friction of Seokjin’s knee between his thighs drew a broken gasp from his lips. The sound went straight to Seokjin’s gut, hot and insistent.

The overhead lights buzzed, casting Sin’s face in fractured shadows—his parted lips, the damp clumps of his lashes, the beauty mark beneath his eye like a brand. Seokjin wanted to ruin him. Wanted to press him into the counter until the laminate left marks on his thighs, wanted to lick the salt from his trembling collarbones.

Sin’s fingers finally uncurled from Seokjin’s shirt, shaking as they hovered over his waistband. "Hyung, I—" His voice cracked, raw.

Seokjin caught Sin’s wrist mid-air, fingers encircling the delicate bones with practiced ease. "Say it," he murmured, pressing Sin’s palm flat against his own chest. Beneath the fabric, his heartbeat thundered—a traitorous rhythm that betrayed the calm in his voice. "Tell me what you want."

Sin’s lips trembled, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The kitchen air hummed with the scent of stale coffee and something sweeter—fear, want, the electric tang of sweat drying on skin. His fingers flexed against Seokjin’s sternum, nails scraping lightly through the fabric. "Y-you," he stammered, then choked on the rest, his cerulean eyes darting away as if the confession might burn him.

Seokjin’s grip tightened. He guided Sin’s hand lower, over the taut plane of his abdomen, until his fingertips brushed the waistband of his jeans. "Here?" he prompted, voice rough as gravel. Sin made a sound like a wounded animal, his thighs clamping around Seokjin’s knee. The friction was delicious, deliberate, and Seokjin rewarded him with a slow roll of his hips that dragged a whimper from Sin’s throat.

The door creaked again—this time without the courtesy of a knock—but neither of them turned. Seokjin knew that gait: the measured, impatient steps of their head manager. "Two minutes," the man barked, then paused. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken judgment. Seokjin smirked against Sin’s temple, biting down just hard enough to make the boy gasp.

Sin's breath hitched audibly as the manager's footsteps retreated again. His fingers twitched against Seokjin's waistband—half-terrified, half-desperate—before curling into fists. "Hyung," he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice, "we can't—"

Seokjin silenced him with a thumb pressed to his lower lip, dragging it down to expose the pink dampness beneath. "We can," he murmured, and the certainty in his voice made Sin shudder. The overhead lights flickered again, casting Seokjin's smirk in jagged shadows. "Unless you're saying you don't want this?"

Sin's denial died in his throat as Seokjin's knee shifted higher, the pressure deliberate. A sound escaped him—raw, unbidden—and his hips jerked forward of their own accord. The proof was undeniable; the way his body arched into Seokjin's touch betrayed him more thoroughly than words ever could.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen, a muffled announcement crackled over the PA system. Soundcheck in ninety seconds. Seokjin didn't move. Instead, he traced the beauty mark beneath Sin's eye with his tongue, savoring the way the boy's breath stuttered. "You taste like salt," he murmured, lips skating down to nip at Sin's jaw. "Like you've been running from this all morning."

The PA system crackled again—another muffled warning—but Seokjin’s fingers were already sliding beneath Sin’s hoodie, tracing the dip of his waist. The boy arched into the touch, his breath hitching when Seokjin’s nails scraped over the delicate skin above his hipbone. "Hyung," Sin gasped, but his thighs clenched tighter around Seokjin’s knee, his body betraying him in a dozen tiny, trembling ways.

Seokjin hummed against his throat, lips dragging over the mark he’d left earlier. "Tell me," he murmured, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath Sin’s ribs. "When you woke up this morning—" His teeth grazed the boy’s pulse point, drawing a whimper. "—were you thinking about me?"

Sin’s fingers twisted in Seokjin’s shirt, knuckles white. His cerulean eyes were glassy with want, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the color whole. "Y-yes," he admitted, voice fraying at the edges. The confession seemed to unravel him further; his hips jerked forward, seeking friction, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

Seokjin’s grin was sharp, victorious. He pressed closer, crowding Sin against the counter until the edge dug into the backs of his thighs. "Knew it," he breathed, nipping at Sin’s earlobe. The boy whimpered, his hips stuttering forward helplessly. "Knew you’d be like this." His hand slid lower, fingers skimming the waistband of Sin’s sweatpants. "Sweet for me. Desperate."

The PA system buzzed again—final call for soundcheck—but Seokjin barely registered it over the sound of Sin’s ragged breathing. The boy’s fingers trembled where they clutched at his shirt, his hips rolling forward in tiny, aborted movements like he couldn’t help himself. Seokjin smirked against his throat, dragging his teeth over the mark he’d left earlier just to feel Sin shudder. "You’re a mess," he murmured, not unkindly, as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Sin’s sweatpants. The boy gasped, his thighs clamping around Seokjin’s wrist like a vice.

Sin’s breath hitched when Seokjin’s fingers traced the sensitive skin just below his navel, his entire body tensing like a live wire. "H-hyung," he stammered, voice cracking, "we—they’re waiting—" The words dissolved into a moan as Seokjin’s thumb pressed into the divot of his hipbone, rough and deliberate.

"Let them wait," Seokjin growled, nipping at Sin’s jaw. His fingers dipped lower, brushing the wiry curls at the base of Sin’s stomach, and the boy whimpered, his back arching off the counter. Seokjin could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the salt-sweet tang of his skin mingling with the faded vanilla of his hoodie. It was intoxicating—the way Sin came apart beneath him, all trembling limbs and bitten-red lips, like some delicate thing being unwrapped.

Sin’s breath stuttered when Seokjin’s fingers finally, finally wrapped around him, his hips jerking forward into the contact. "Fuck," he gasped, his cerulean eyes fluttering shut, lashes casting shadows like ink blots against his cheeks. Seokjin watched, rapt, as Sin’s lips parted around silent pleas, his throat working as he swallowed back moans.

The PA system screeched again—a final, staticky warning—but Seokjin barely heard it over the wet hitch of Sin’s breath as his fingers tightened. Sin’s hips jerked forward, his thighs trembling where they bracketed Seokjin’s wrist, and the counter dug into the small of his back hard enough to leave bruises. Seokjin could already picture them—purple blossoms blooming beneath his hoodie, hidden but there, proof of this moment.

Sin’s fingers scrabbled at Seokjin’s shoulders, blunt nails digging through fabric. "Hyung, please—" His voice shattered into a moan as Seokjin’s thumb swiped over the slick head of his cock, slow and deliberate. The sound was filthy, raw, perfect. Seokjin wanted to bottle it, wanted to press play on repeat until it rewired his brain.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen, footsteps pounded down the hall—frantic, impatient. Seokjin didn’t care. He dragged his lips up Sin’s throat, tasting salt and the faint tang of his citrus shampoo. "Come for me," he murmured against the hinge of Sin’s jaw, fingers twisting just so. Sin whimpered, his entire body tensing like a bowstring pulled too tight. His cerulean eyes were glassy, unfocused, his lips bitten raw and parted around ragged gasps.

The door burst open—their manager, red-faced and furious—but Seokjin didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when Sin was trembling apart beneath him, his hips stuttering forward in desperate little jerks. "Now," Seokjin growled, and Sin’s back arched off the counter with a choked-off cry, his release hot and slick over Seokjin’s fingers.

The manager's shout was lost beneath the sharp gasp Sin couldn't swallow back—raw and fractured, the sound of something delicate snapping. Seokjin kept his grip firm, working Sin through it with slow, deliberate strokes even as their manager's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. "What the fuck—"

Sin's thighs trembled violently around Seokjin's wrist, his hoodie sleeve slipping down to reveal the crescent moons his own nails had left in his palm. His cerulean eyes were glazed, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the color whole. A bead of sweat traced the curve of his jaw, catching on the beauty mark beneath his eye before Seokjin licked it away, savoring the salt.

Their manager took a step forward, face purpling. "Soundcheck was ten minutes ago—"

"Then you should've knocked," Seokjin said mildly, finally withdrawing his hand. Sin whimpered at the loss, his hips jerking forward instinctively, but Seokjin just smirked and wiped his fingers on the boy's hoodie. The fabric was already damp with sweat, clinging to Sin's collarbones in transparent patches.

MIN YOONGI

The practice room smelled like sweat and spilled energy drinks. Yoongi lounged on the couch, arms crossed, watching the new staff member—Sin—fumble with a tangled mess of microphone wires. The kid was painfully earnest, fingers trembling as he tried to coil them properly, cheeks flushed pink under the harsh studio lights.

"Hyung," Jin called from across the room, tossing a water bottle his way. "Stop staring like a creep."

Yoongi caught it without looking. "Not staring," he muttered. But he was. There was something about the way Sin bit his lip when he concentrated, the way his white hair stuck up in soft, sleep-mussed tufts despite it being well past noon. He looked like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into the chaos of their world.

Sin finally managed to wrangle the cables into submission, his shoulders relaxing as he exhaled. Then he caught Yoongi’s gaze—and froze. His cerulean eyes widened, lips parting just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to speak or bolt.

The moment stretched too long—Sin’s lips still parted, Yoongi’s stare unbroken—until Jungkook’s sneaker squeaked against the floor, breaking the tension like a snapped guitar string. Sin flinched, dropping the coiled wires with a clatter, and Yoongi watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "S-sorry," Sin murmured, scrambling to pick them up, his fingers clumsy again. The beauty mark under his left eye caught the light when he bent down, a tiny ink blot on porcelain skin.

Yoongi uncrossed his arms and slid off the couch. He didn’t know why he did it—maybe the way Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when he was nervous, or how his oversized sweater slipped off one sharp shoulder—but he crouched beside him, their knees almost brushing. "You’re doing it wrong," he said, voice low. He reached for the wires, his fingers deliberately grazing Sin’s. The kid’s breath hitched.

Behind them, Jimin wolf-whistled. "Yoongi-hyung’s being nice? Did hell freeze over?"

Yoongi ignored him, focusing instead on the way Sin’s pulse jumped in his throat. He could smell the faint sweetness of his shampoo—something floral, out of place in the musky practice room. "Like this," Yoongi murmured, guiding Sin’s hands with his own, twisting the cables into a neat loop. His thumb pressed into Sin’s palm, just to feel the heat of his skin. Sin’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t pull away.

The wires coiled perfectly in Yoongi’s hands—tight, efficient, exactly how he liked things—but he let his fingers linger against Sin’s anyway, just to feel the way the kid’s breath stuttered. It was stupid, reckless, the kind of thing that could get him in trouble if anyone noticed. But no one was looking close enough. Not really.

Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when Yoongi finally pulled away, his cheeks flushed pink under the studio lights. "Th-thank you," he mumbled, voice so soft it was nearly swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner.

Yoongi shrugged, leaning back on his heels. "You’ll get it," he said, though he wasn’t sure he wanted him to. There was something addictive about the way Sin needed him, even for something as small as this.

Across the room, Namjoon was scribbling lyrics in a notebook, Hoseok stretching his legs against the mirror. Normal. Routine. But Yoongi’s pulse was anything but. He watched Sin fiddle with the hem of his sweater, the fabric slipping off one shoulder again, exposing the delicate curve of his collarbone.

Sin didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Yoongi’s fingers finally left his, the absence of warmth making his skin prickle. He clutched the neatly coiled wires to his chest like a shield, his pulse thudding in his ears. The studio lights felt too bright suddenly, the air too thick—everyone’s laughter, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the distant hum of the air conditioner—all of it pressed against him like a weight.

And then there was Yoongi.

Yoongi, who was still crouched beside him, close enough that Sin could see the faint smudge of eyeliner under his eyes, the way his hoodie hung loose around his sharp collarbones. His gaze was heavy, unreadable, lingering on Sin’s lips for a beat too long before flicking back up to meet his eyes. Sin’s stomach twisted. He didn’t understand why his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

"Hyung," Jungkook called from across the room, tossing a crumpled energy drink can into the trash with a clatter. "Stop scaring the new kid."

The trash can rattled from Jungkook’s throw, the sound sharp enough to make Sin flinch again. His fingers tightened around the wires, knuckles whitening, but Yoongi didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in, close enough that Sin could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his dark lashes cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones. "You’re not scared of me, are you?" Yoongi murmured, voice low enough that only Sin could hear. It wasn’t a question—it was a challenge, the kind that curled around Sin’s ribs and squeezed.

Sin’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His throat felt too tight, his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. He wanted to say no, wanted to be brave, but the weight of Yoongi’s stare pinned him in place. The studio lights caught the silver rings on Yoongi’s fingers, the glint of them distracting as he reached out—slow, deliberate—to tug Sin’s slipping sweater back onto his shoulder. His fingertips brushed bare skin, just for a second, and Sin’s breath hitched.

Behind them, Jimin snorted. "Hyung, you’re gonna give him a heart attack."

Yoongi ignored him, his gaze never leaving Sin’s face. He tilted his head, studying the way Sin’s eyelashes trembled, the way his pink lips pressed together like he was afraid of what might slip out. Cute. Fragile. His. The thought came unbidden, sudden and possessive, and Yoongi’s fingers twitched with the urge to trace the beauty mark under Sin’s eye, to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

Yoongi’s fingers lingered at the edge of Sin’s sweater, his thumb brushing the delicate curve of his shoulder before finally pulling away. The air between them was charged, thick with something unsaid—something that coiled low in Yoongi’s stomach, hot and insistent. He’d never been the type to hover, to want like this, but Sin’

Sin’s sweater slipped again the moment Yoongi’s fingers left it, as if mocking his attempt at restraint. A loose thread caught the light, dangling precariously near the dip of Sin’s collarbone. Yoongi exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to lean back before he did something stupid—like bite it.

Jungkook’s voice cut through the haze. “Hyung, you’re being weird.”

“Am I?” Yoongi drawled, eyes still locked on Sin’s trembling hands. The kid had a habit of folding into himself, shoulders hunched like he expected the world to collapse onto him at any second. It made Yoongi want to peel him apart, layer by layer, until he found whatever fragile thing hid beneath all that nervous energy.

Sin finally found his voice, though it cracked halfway through. “I—I should go check the soundboard.” He scrambled to his feet, wires clutched tight, but his knee knocked against Yoongi’s on the way up—a clumsy, electric brush of contact. The gasp that left Sin’s lips was barely audible, but Yoongi caught it, filed it away like a stolen secret.

Sin practically fled to the soundboard, his back hitting the equipment rack with a soft thud. His fingers trembled as he plugged in the cables, the studio’s hum suddenly deafening in his ears. He could still feel the ghost of Yoongi’s fingertips on his shoulder, the way his gaze had burned like a brand. The wires slipped from his grip again, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.

Across the room, Jimin sidled up to Yoongi, hip-checking him with a grin. “You’re gonna break him before he even finishes his first week,” he teased, voice sing-song. “What’s with the sudden interest in the new kid?”

Yoongi shrugged, but his eyes tracked Sin’s every movement—the way his sweater rode up when he stretched to adjust a dial, the sliver of pale skin exposed above his waistband. “He’s useful,” he muttered, though the lie tasted bitter. Sin was all thumbs and stuttered apologies, his incompetence almost endearing.

Jin snorted, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Useful? He dropped three mic stands this morning.”

The overhead fluorescents buzzed like trapped insects, flickering just enough to cast shadows that danced across Sin’s wrists as he fumbled with the soundboard knobs. His reflection in the monitor screen was fractured—pale hair mussed, lips bitten red, eyes wide like he’d been caught mid-theft. Behind him, Yoongi’s voice rumbled something low to Jimin, and Sin’s fingers spasmed, sending a shriek of feedback through the speakers.

Hoseok yelped, clapping hands over his ears. “Yah! Are you trying to kill us?”

Sin’s apology died in his throat as Yoongi stood, chair scraping loud enough to make the room hold its breath. He moved with the lazy precision of a predator who knew his prey couldn’t outrun him—shoulders loose, hands in pockets, gaze fixed. Sin’s back hit the equipment rack again, the cold metal seeping through his sweater as Yoongi stopped just inches away, close enough that Sin could count the silver hoops in his ears.

“You’re shaking,” Yoongi observed, voice pitched low. He reached out, slow as syrup, and plucked a stray cable from Sin’s death-grip. His fingers traced the length of it deliberately, thumb brushing the jack before plugging it in with a click that echoed in Sin’s ribs. “Breathe, kid.”

Sin exhaled sharply, his breath a shuddering thing between them. Yoongi's proximity was suffocating—not because he was crowding him, but because every atom in Sin’s body was acutely aware of the way Yoongi’s hoodie smelled faintly of sandalwood and the sharp tang of energy drinks. The cable slipped from his fingers again, landing with a muted thud against the soundboard.

“S-sorry,” Sin stammered, but Yoongi caught his wrist before he could bend to retrieve it. His grip wasn’t tight—just enough to still Sin’s trembling, his thumb pressed to the flutter of pulse beneath delicate skin. Sin’s mouth went dry.

“Stop apologizing,” Yoongi murmured. His gaze flicked down to Sin’s lips, lingered there a beat too long. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Behind them, Jimin coughed pointedly. “Except maybe violating workplace safety standards.”

Sin’s wrist burned where Yoongi held him, the heat of his grip seeping through skin to bone. The soundboard’s LED lights blinked erratically, casting jagged shadows across Yoongi’s jaw—sharp enough to cut, Sin thought deliriously. His knees wobbled, but Yoongi’s grip tightened fractionally, steadying him without a word.

Jimin’s laughter fizzed through the air like soda bubbles. “Hyung, if you make him cry, HR’s gonna have your head.”

Yoongi didn’t look away from Sin’s face. “He’s not crying,” he said, thumb stroking the inside of Sin’s wrist—slow, proprietary. The callouses on his fingertips caught on Sin’s skin, rough enough to make him shiver. “Are you?”

Sin shook his head so fast his vision blurred. The studio smelled like ozone and Yoongi’s cologne, something dark and expensive that clung to the back of Sin’s throat. His sweater had slipped again, pooling around his elbow, and Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the exposed collarbone like he wanted to sink his teeth into it.

Sin’s pulse stuttered under Yoongi’s thumb, the rhythm frantic as a trapped hummingbird. The soundboard’s LED lights bled into his peripheral vision—red, green, red—like some kind of warning signal he was too dazed to interpret. Yoongi’s grip shifted, fingers sliding down to lace with his, and the sudden intimacy of it punched the air from Sin’s lungs.

“Hyung,” Jimin singsonged, popping a grape into his mouth. “You’re monopolizing the new hire.”

Yoongi didn’t glance back. “He’s helping.” His voice was all lazy indifference, but his fingers tightened around Sin’s, just enough to make the kid’s breath hitch. The contrast was dizzying—the rough pads of Yoongi’s fingertips against the softness of Sin’s palm, the way his rings pressed cold into Sin’s skin while his thumb traced slow, burning circles.

Sin’s knees buckled.

Sin's knees hit the floor with a soft thud, his fingers still tangled in Yoongi's grip. The studio lights blurred at the edges of his vision, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and something darker, something that coiled low in his stomach. Yoongi didn't let go—if anything, his hold tightened, his fingers pressing into the delicate bones of Sin's wrist like he was mapping the pulse points beneath his skin.

"Careful," Yoongi murmured, voice low enough that only Sin could hear. His breath ghosted over Sin's ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "You'll break something."

Sin's lips parted, but the words evaporated before they could form. Yoongi's gaze was heavy, unreadable, flickering between Sin's eyes and his mouth like he was deciding which part of him to devour first. The beauty mark under Sin's left eye caught the light when he blinked rapidly, and Yoongi's thumb twitched against his wrist, as if resisting the urge to touch it.

Behind them, Jungkook cleared his throat. "Uh. Are we still rehearsing, or…?"

The silence stretched taut between them, Sin’s pulse thundering loud enough that Yoongi could almost hear it over the hum of the soundboard. He could feel the way Sin’s fingers twitched in his grip—like a trapped bird testing its cage—but he didn’t pull away. Instead, Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes widening as Yoongi leaned in, close enough to count the faint freckles dusting his nose.

"Hyung," Jimin called, his voice dripping with amusement. "You’re blocking the monitor."

Yoongi didn’t move. Sin’s lower lip trembled, pink and bitten raw, and the urge to press his thumb against it, to soothe the sting, coiled hot in Yoongi’s gut. "You’re shaking again," he murmured, his free hand lifting to brush a stray lock of white hair from Sin’s forehead. The kid’s breath stuttered, his eyelashes fluttering like moth wings.

Sin’s voice was a whisper, frayed at the edges. "I—I’m not—"

The studio door slammed open with a bang that made Sin flinch violently, his shoulder blades hitting the soundboard hard enough to send a crackle of static through the speakers. Namjoon stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a single eyebrow arched at the scene before him—Yoongi crouched over Sin like a wolf over fresh kill, fingers still tangled possessively in the boy’s wrist.

“We’re on a schedule,” Namjoon said, voice dry as old parchment. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed a passion for audio engineering, Yoongi-hyung?”

Yoongi’s grip didn’t loosen, but his thumb stroked once over Sin’s pulse point—a silent promise—before finally releasing him. Sin’s arm dropped limply to his side, the skin of his wrist flushed pink where Yoongi’s rings had pressed into it. He looked dazed, lips slightly parted, his sweater slipping off one shoulder again like it had a personal vendetta against modesty.

Jin tossed another grape into the air, catching it with a smirk. “Our Yoongi’s just mentoring the new kid. Very… hands-on approach.”

The studio lights flickered as Sin scrambled to his feet, his knees still weak under Yoongi's lingering gaze. His sweater clung to one shoulder precariously, but he didn't dare adjust it—not with the way Yoongi's eyes darkened every time the fabric slipped. The mic wires lay forgotten on the floor between them, a tangled mess that mirrored Sin’s racing thoughts.

Namjoon cleared his throat pointedly, tapping his watch. "Soundcheck in five. Unless someone’s planning to serenade our new staff member instead?"

Jimin muffled a laugh into his sleeve while Jungkook tossed a crumpled water bottle at Yoongi’s head. It missed—barely—bouncing off the soundboard with a hollow thunk. Sin flinched at the noise, his fingers twitching toward the fallen cables like he could fix the chaos with sheer desperation. Yoongi watched the way his nails dug into his palms, leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"Relax," Yoongi murmured, close enough that his breath ghosted over Sin’s cheek. He plucked a wire from the floor, his fingers brushing Sin’s knuckles deliberately. "You’ll hurt yourself."

Sin’s breath stuttered when Yoongi’s fingers lingered over his, the rough pads of his fingertips tracing the ridges of his knuckles like he was memorizing them. The studio lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his hoodie slipped just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat. Sin’s gaze flickered down, then up again, only to find Yoongi watching him with a hunger that made his stomach twist.

Behind them, Namjoon sighed. “Soundcheck. Now.”

Yoongi’s lips quirked, but he didn’t move. “You heard the man,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Sin could hear. His thumb pressed into Sin’s palm, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling away. The absence of his touch was a physical ache.

Sin swallowed hard, scrambling to gather the fallen wires. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something hotter, something that coiled low in his belly every time Yoongi looked at him like that. Like he wanted to unravel him.

The crackle of static filled the studio as Sin fumbled with the mixer, his fingers slipping on the dials. Every knob felt foreign under his touch, every LED glare accusatory. His reflection in the black glass of the monitor showed a boy with mussed white hair and a beauty mark like an inkblot—someone who didn’t belong here, between platinum records and spilled energy drinks. Someone Yoongi shouldn’t be looking at like that.

Namjoon’s voice cut through the haze. “Sin-ssi, levels.”

Sin jumped, his elbow knocking against a fader. The speakers screeched feedback, sharp enough to make Hoseok wince. “S-sorry!” He scrambled to correct it, but his hands shook too badly—until a warm presence materialized behind him, arms caging him against the soundboard. Yoongi’s chin brushed his temple as he reached around him, long fingers sliding over Sin’s to adjust the gain.

“Like this,” Yoongi murmured, his breath hot against Sin’s ear. He twisted the knob with deliberate slowness, pressing Sin’s fingers into the grooves. The dial clicked into place, the static dissolving into clean silence. Sin’s heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough he was sure Yoongi could hear it.

The silence stretched thin, taut as a wire about to snap. Sin could feel Yoongi’s chest against his back, solid and warm, his breath stirring the baby hairs at the nape of Sin’s neck. The soundboard’s LEDs blinked lazily, casting Yoongi’s hands in shifting hues of blue and red as they lingered over Sin’s—larger, rougher, dotted with silver rings that caught the light like scattered stars.

Namjoon coughed pointedly. “We’re losing daylight.”

Yoongi didn’t move. His thumb traced the ridge of Sin’s knuckle, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling away. The absence of his touch left Sin’s skin tingling, oversensitive, like he’d been branded.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Yoongi murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that vibrated straight through bone. “It’s just sound.”

The overhead fluorescents buzzed like trapped flies, their harsh glare casting sharp shadows across Sin’s trembling fingers. He could feel Yoongi’s stare burning into the nape of his neck—hot, unrelenting—as he fumbled with the soundboard’s EQ settings. The knobs slipped under his damp palms, his reflection in the black monitor glass a mess of white hair and flushed cheeks.

Behind him, Yoongi exhaled through his nose, the sound almost amused. “You’re turning it the wrong way,” he murmured, closer than Sin expected. His breath ghosted over Sin’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Before Sin could react, Yoongi’s hands covered his, guiding them with deliberate slowness. His rings pressed cold against Sin’s knuckles, the contrast of metal and warmth making Sin’s breath hitch.

JUNG HOSEOK

The coffee machine whirred loudly, drowning out the hum of conversation in the break room. Sin pressed the button a second time, as if that would make it work faster, his fingers tapping nervously against the counter.

"You're gonna break it if you keep doing that," came a voice from behind him, warm and teasing. Sin turned to see Hoseok leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual bright smile playing at his lips.

"Ah—sorry, Hoseok-ssi," Sin mumbled, immediately stepping back from the machine like it had burned him. His cheeks flushed pink under Hoseok's gaze.

Hoseok chuckled, pushing off the wall to stroll closer. "Relax, I’m joking. Though you do look like you’re about to fight that thing." He reached past Sin, his arm brushing lightly against Sin’s shoulder as he pressed the button himself. The machine obediently sputtered to life.

The scent of coffee filled the air as the machine finally dispensed its contents, steam curling between them in lazy tendrils. Hoseok watched Sin's fingers twitch—small, delicate things, like they belonged to a porcelain doll rather than a boy who hauled equipment backstage. He'd noticed that before, how Sin moved like he was afraid of taking up space, even though his presence was impossible to ignore.

"You always this jumpy?" Hoseok asked, nudging the cup toward him. His voice was softer now, almost curious. Sin's cheeks flushed deeper, and Hoseok found himself staring at the beauty mark beneath his eye, a tiny imperfection that somehow made him more perfect.

Sin hesitated before taking the cup. "I—I don't mean to be." His voice was barely above a whisper, and Hoseok had to lean in to catch it. The proximity sent a strange thrill through him, one he couldn't quite name.

It wasn't until Sin accidentally spilled coffee on Hoseok's sleeve that the realization hit. Sin's panicked apologies, the way his hands fluttered over the stain like he could undo it—Hoseok should've been irritated. Instead, he caught Sin's wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his fingers. "It's just a shirt," he murmured, but his own heartbeat wasn't much steadier.

The break room door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the chatter from the hallway. Hoseok didn’t let go of Sin’s wrist. He should have—it was just a spilled coffee, just a moment—but something about the way Sin’s pulse jumped under his fingertips made him hold on a second longer. Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes wide, and Hoseok realized, with a slow, creeping certainty, that he liked this. Liked how flustered Sin got, how his lips parted like he was about to say something but thought better of it. Liked the way his own chest tightened when Sin looked at him like that—like he was something fragile and terrifying all at once.

“You’re not in trouble,” Hoseok said, though his voice came out lower than he intended. He thumbed the inside of Sin’s wrist absently, feeling the delicate bones there. “Unless you want to be.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, half-teasing, half-something else entirely. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, and Hoseok’s stomach did a slow, dangerous flip.

Someone knocked on the door—three sharp raps—and Sin jerked back like he’d been burned. The spell broke. Hoseok let his hand drop, but the ghost of Sin’s skin lingered on his fingertips. “I should—I have to—” Sin stammered, already sidling toward the door, his ears pink. Hoseok let him go, but not without noticing how Sin’s gaze flickered back to him, just once, before he slipped out.

The next few days were a quiet torment. Hoseok caught himself watching Sin more than he should—the way his white hair curled at the nape of his neck when he’d been sweating under stage lights, how he bit his lower lip when concentrating. Once, during a rehearsal, Sin had knelt to adjust a cable, and Hoseok had stared at the curve of his throat for a beat too long. Jimin nudged him with a grin. “Distracted?” he’d asked, and Hoseok had laughed it off, but the heat crawling up his neck betrayed him.

The realization settled into Hoseok’s bones like a fever—slow, insistent, impossible to shake. He’d always been tactile, always quick to sling an arm around someone’s shoulders or ruffle their hair, but now his hands itched with restraint. Every accidental brush against Sin’s wrist, every time their shoulders bumped in the narrow hallways backstage, felt like lighting a match too close to dry kindling. Dangerous. Delicious.

Sin, for his part, had become a study in contradictions. One moment, he’d dart away like a startled rabbit when Hoseok entered the room; the next, he’d linger just a second too long after handing Hoseok a water bottle, their fingers grazing in a way that couldn’t possibly be accidental. It was maddening.

It all came to a head during a late-night recording session. The others had trickled out one by one, leaving Hoseok sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, while Sin quietly tidied up the studio. Hoseok watched through half-lidded eyes as Sin bent to pick up a discarded headphone cable, the fabric of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above his waistband. Something hot and reckless coiled in Hoseok’s stomach.

“You’re still here,” Hoseok murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. Sin startled, nearly dropping the cable. “I—yes. Just finishing up.”

Hoseok sat up slowly, the couch creaking under his weight. The studio was bathed in the dim glow of standby lights, casting Sin’s profile in soft shadows—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lower lip caught between his teeth as he coiled the cable around his fingers. A silence stretched between them, thick enough to taste.

"You don’t have to do that," Hoseok said, nodding toward the mess of equipment. His voice was quieter than he intended, almost intimate in the empty room. Sin’s hands stilled. "It’s my job," he murmured, but there was a hesitance there, a question. Hoseok could see the pulse fluttering at the base of his throat.

Something reckless unfurled in Hoseok’s chest. He stood, closing the distance between them in three slow strides. Sin didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, as Hoseok reached out to pluck the cable from his hands. Their fingers brushed—deliberately this time—and Sin’s breath hitched. "You’re always so… careful," Hoseok murmured, twirling the cable absently before letting it drop to the floor. "Like you’re afraid of breaking something."

Sin’s lashes fluttered, his gaze darting to Hoseok’s mouth and away. "I—" He swallowed. "I don’t know what you mean."

Hoseok exhaled through his nose—a quiet, controlled sound—and stepped closer, crowding Sin against the edge of the mixing console. "Don’t you?" he murmured. His thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath Sin’s beauty mark, tracing the curve of his cheekbone. Sin’s breath stuttered, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own shirt like he needed something to hold onto. The studio’s air conditioning hummed softly, but neither of them noticed the chill.

"You’re shaking," Hoseok observed, though his own hands weren’t entirely steady. He slid his fingers into Sin’s hair, tangling in the soft white strands. It was softer than he’d imagined. Sin made a small, helpless noise in the back of his throat, his eyelashes casting shadows over his flushed cheeks. "Tell me to stop," Hoseok whispered, though his grip tightened slightly, like he already knew Sin wouldn’t.

Sin’s lips parted—not in protest, but in anticipation. Hoseok watched the way his tongue darted out to wet them, pink and nervous, and something hot coiled low in his stomach. He leaned in, close enough that their breaths mingled, close enough to count the faint freckles scattered across Sin’s nose. "Hoseok-ssi," Sin breathed, barely audible, and the honorific sent a jolt through Hoseok’s veins.

The first kiss was tentative—just the ghost of pressure, a question. Sin made another sound, high and fragile, and Hoseok swallowed it, pressing him harder against the console. Sin’s hands finally uncurled from his shirt, fluttering up to clutch at Hoseok’s sleeves like he was afraid he’d float away otherwise. Hoseok deepened the kiss, licking into Sin’s mouth with a hunger that surprised even himself, and Sin melted into it, pliant and eager.

Sin’s fingers trembled against Hoseok’s sleeves, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer. The console’s edge dug into the small of Sin’s back, but he barely registered the discomfort—not when Hoseok’s mouth was hot and insistent against his, not when his pulse roared in his ears like a storm. When Hoseok finally pulled back, just enough to let them both breathe, Sin’s lips tingled, swollen and warm.

“You—” Sin started, then stopped, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. Hoseok watched the motion, mesmerized, his fingers still tangled in Sin’s hair. “I—I shouldn’t—” Sin tried again, but the words died when Hoseok thumbed his lower lip, dragging it down slightly to reveal the wet shine beneath.

“Shouldn’t what?” Hoseok murmured, his breath fanning across Sin’s face. He could feel the way Sin’s chest rose and fell rapidly, could see the way his pupils were blown wide, eclipsing the cerulean of his irises. “Tell me.”

Sin’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow furrowing slightly. Hoseok waited, patient, amused, his other hand sliding down to rest lightly on Sin’s hip. The fabric of Sin’s shirt was thin, and Hoseok could feel the heat of his skin beneath it.

Sin’s fingers twitched against Hoseok’s sleeves, his nails digging in just enough to leave crescent moons in the fabric. “I shouldn’t—” His voice was a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the studio equipment. “—want this.” The admission slipped out like a secret, and Hoseok’s stomach lurched at the rawness of it.

Hoseok’s thumb stilled on Sin’s lip. “Why not?” he murmured, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his breath coming in shallow pants. “Because—” Sin’s voice cracked again, and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because you’re you, and I’m just—”

Hoseok didn’t let him finish. He kissed him again, harder this time, swallowing the rest of Sin’s words before they could take shape. Sin gasped into it, his body arching off the console as Hoseok’s hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, pressing them flush together. The heat between them was almost unbearable, a live wire sparking under skin.

When Hoseok pulled back this time, his lips were slick, his pupils blown black with want. “You’re not just anything,” he breathed, his voice rough. His fingers traced the line of Sin’s jaw, down the column of his throat, stopping just above the collar of his shirt. “You’re Sin.” The way he said it—like a prayer, like a curse—sent a shiver down Sin’s spine.

The studio lights flickered, casting long shadows across the mixing console as Sin’s breath shuddered against Hoseok’s lips. His fingers trembled where they clung to Hoseok’s sleeves, knuckles white with the effort of holding on. The air between them crackled, thick with something neither of them dared name aloud.

Hoseok’s thumb brushed the hollow of Sin’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse there. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, voice low and rough. Sin’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting on a shaky exhale. “I—I don’t know how not to,” he admitted, the words barely more than a whisper. Hoseok’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Let me help with that.”

His hand slid up the back of Sin’s shirt, fingers splaying over the delicate arch of his spine. Sin gasped, his back bowing into the touch, and Hoseok took advantage of the movement to press him harder against the console. The edge dug into Sin’s thighs, the discomfort drowned out by the heat of Hoseok’s mouth trailing down his jaw.

A sharp knock at the studio door shattered the moment. Sin jerked back so violently he nearly toppled over, saved only by Hoseok’s quick grip on his waist. The door creaked open before either of them could speak, revealing Namjoon silhouetted in the hallway light. “Hobi? You still—oh.” Namjoon’s eyebrows shot up, taking in Sin’s flushed face, Hoseok’s hand still curled possessively around his hip.

Namjoon froze in the doorway, his gaze flickering between them—Hoseok’s fingers tightening reflexively on Sin’s waist, Sin’s lips pink and swollen, his white hair mussed where Hoseok’s hands had been tangled in it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Namjoon cleared his throat and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Uh,” he said, uncharacteristically slow, “am I interrupting something?”

Hoseok didn’t move, didn’t let go. His pulse hammered in his throat, but his voice was steady when he answered, “Depends.” Sin, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards, his entire body rigid with panic. His fingers twitched against Hoseok’s sleeve, a silent plea.

Namjoon’s lips quirked, though his eyes remained unreadable. “Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, gaze darting to Sin’s trembling hands before settling back on Hoseok. “Manager’s looking for you. Last-minute schedule change.”

Hoseok exhaled through his nose, his grip loosening just enough for Sin to slip free. Sin immediately stumbled back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cerulean eyes wide and glassy. “I—I should go,” he stammered, already sidling toward the door with the grace of a spooked deer. Hoseok caught his wrist before he could bolt. “Sin.”

Sin froze at the touch, his pulse jumping beneath Hoseok’s fingers like a trapped bird. Namjoon’s gaze lingered on their joined hands for a beat too long before he turned toward the coffee machine with deliberate nonchalance, giving them the illusion of privacy. Hoseok’s thumb traced the delicate bones of Sin’s wrist, his voice dropping to a murmur only Sin could hear. “Look at me.”

Sin’s breath hitched, but he obeyed, lifting his gaze with trembling effort. His pupils were still blown wide, his lips bitten red. Hoseok’s chest tightened at the sight. “Breathe,” he instructed, softer now, squeezing Sin’s wrist once before letting go. Sin swallowed hard, his fingers curling into his palm where Hoseok had touched him, as if trying to preserve the warmth.

Namjoon cleared his throat again, the coffee machine hissing steam into the silence. “So,” he drawled, leaning back against the counter with feigned casualness, “this is new.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp—calculating. Hoseok shrugged, though his heartbeat hadn’t settled. “Not really.”

Sin made a small, strangled noise, his cheeks flushing impossibly darker. Namjoon’s lips twitched. “Uh-huh.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, gaze flicking to Sin’s white-knuckled grip on his own sleeves. “Sin-ssi,” he said, gentler now, “you don’t have to—hyung.” The honorific slipped out before Sin could stop it, his voice cracking mid-word. Hoseok’s stomach swooped.

Namjoon set his coffee down with deliberate slowness, the ceramic clinking against the countertop. His gaze lingered on Sin’s trembling fingers before sliding back to Hoseok. "You two," he said, voice carefully neutral, "might want to be more careful." The unspoken where people can see hung in the air like static.

Sin’s breath shuddered out, his shoulders hunching like he could make himself smaller. Hoseok’s jaw tightened. He reached out, fingertips brushing Sin’s wrist—a silent stay—before turning to Namjoon. "We weren’t—"

"Hobi." Namjoon cut him off with a look, one eyebrow arched. "The studio?" His voice dropped, glancing at the door. "Anyone could’ve walked in."

Sin made a tiny, wounded noise, his nails digging into his palms. Hoseok’s chest ached. He stepped closer, shielding Sin from Namjoon’s gaze without thinking. "It won’t happen again," he muttered, though the lie tasted bitter.

The silence in the studio stretched thin enough to snap. Sin’s fingers twisted in his shirt hem, his breath shallow. Namjoon exhaled, rubbing his temple like he could physically push the image of them from his mind. “Just—clean up,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the abandoned headphones on the floor. “Before someone else sees.”

Hoseok’s jaw worked, but he nodded, bending to retrieve the coiled cable Sin had dropped earlier. The plastic was still warm from Sin’s hands. When he straightened, Sin was already at the door, his shoulders hunched, his white hair mussed where Hoseok’s fingers had been.

“Sin,” Hoseok called, softer now. Sin hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His knuckles were white. Namjoon tactfully busied himself with the coffee machine, its steam hissing between them.

Hoseok stepped closer, close enough to see the way Sin’s pulse fluttered at his throat. “Look at me,” he murmured. Sin’s lashes trembled, but he turned, just enough for Hoseok to catch the sheen in his cerulean eyes.

Sin’s breath hitched as Hoseok’s fingers brushed his wrist, feather-light but deliberate. The studio lights flickered again, casting jagged shadows across Hoseok’s sharp cheekbones. “You’re still shaking,” Hoseok murmured, his thumb tracing the delicate veins beneath Sin’s skin. Sin swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “I—I don’t know how to stop.”

Namjoon cleared his throat pointedly from across the room, the coffee machine whirring to life behind him. Hoseok didn’t move, his gaze locked on Sin’s flushed face. “Later,” he promised, so low only Sin could hear it. The word curled between them like smoke, heavy with unspoken meaning. Sin’s fingers twitched, his nails digging half-moons into his palms.

The door clicked shut behind Sin with finality, leaving Hoseok alone with Namjoon and the hum of the studio equipment. Namjoon exhaled through his nose, setting his coffee down with deliberate slowness. “You’re playing with fire,” he said, voice flat. Hoseok rolled the headphone cable between his fingers, the plastic still warm. “I know what I’m doing.”

Namjoon’s eyebrow arched. “Do you?” He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Because it looks like you’re about to set yourself on fire.” Hoseok’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick with tension, until Namjoon sighed. “Just—be careful, Hobi. He’s not—”

The studio door clicked shut behind Sin, the sound sharp and final in the sudden silence. Hoseok stared at the empty space where Sin had been, his fingers twitching with the ghost of warmth from Sin’s wrist. The air still smelled faintly of Sin’s shampoo—something sweet and clean, like fresh linen—and it made Hoseok’s chest ache with something dangerously close to longing.

Namjoon cleared his throat, the sound jarring in the quiet. “You’re gonna get caught,” he said, voice low. Hoseok flexed his fingers, still feeling the ghost of Sin’s pulse beneath them. “I don’t care.”

Namjoon’s expression softened, just slightly. “You should.”

The studio lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows. Hoseok turned away, gathering the abandoned headphones with deliberate slowness. His knuckles brushed the console where Sin had been pressed against him minutes ago—still warm. His stomach twisted.

PARK JIMIN

"You dropped something."

The voice was soft but carried an edge of amusement. Sin froze mid-step, fingers twitching at his sides as he turned to see Park Jimin leaning against the practice room doorway, holding up a crumpled receipt between his fingers.

"Oh—thank you," Sin murmured, stepping forward quickly to take it. His fingers brushed Jimin’s, and he jerked his hand back as if burned. The receipt fluttered to the floor between them, unnoticed.

Jimin chuckled, bending down to pick it up again—slowly, deliberately—before pressing it into Sin’s palm. This time, his grip lingered, warm and firm. "Clumsy," he mused, tilting his head. "You’re always dropping things around me."

The receipt wasn't the only thing Sin had been dropping lately—his composure, his ability to breathe normally, the careful distance he'd maintained between himself and the members. Jimin's touch lingered like a brand, and Sin could still feel the ghost of his fingers against his palm as he hurried down the hallway.

The next morning, Sin arrived early to set up the practice room, arranging water bottles and adjusting the sound system with trembling hands. He didn't notice Jimin leaning in the doorway again until the older man cleared his throat. "You're here before sunrise," Jimin observed, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him, too deliberate to be an accident.

Sin's pulse skittered. "I—I like to be prepared," he stammered, fumbling with a bottle cap. Jimin moved closer, his gaze flickering over Sin's flustered movements. "Prepared for what?" he murmured, plucking the water bottle from Sin's grip and taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Sin's face.

The others began trickling in, and Sin retreated to the corner, pressing his back against the cool mirror as he watched Jimin dance. There was something predatory in the way Jimin's body moved—graceful, yes, but with a hunger underneath. And then, mid-spin, Jimin's eyes locked onto Sin's. A smirk curled his lips, as if he'd known Sin was staring all along.

The air conditioning hummed too loud in the empty practice room, or maybe it was just the blood rushing in Sin’s ears. He’d stayed late again—always the last one to leave, always the first to arrive—but tonight, the shadows stretched longer, and the silence pressed closer. He knelt by the speaker cables, winding them into neat coils with unsteady fingers, when the door creaked open.

Jimin stood there, backlit by the hallway fluorescents, one hand still on the doorknob. "You’re here late," he said, voice honey-thick. Sin’s throat went dry. Jimin stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him with a finality that made Sin’s stomach flip. The older man’s socks whispered against the floor as he approached, stopping just close enough for Sin to catch the faint citrus of his cologne. "Do you always work this hard?" Jimin asked, tilting his head. His smile was lazy, but his eyes were sharp—watching, always watching.

Sin’s hands stilled on the cables. "I—it’s my job," he managed, eyes fixed on the floor. A warm finger hooked under his chin, tilting his face up. Jimin’s thumb brushed the beauty mark beneath his eye, slow, deliberate. "Your job," Jimin repeated, as if tasting the word. "Is that the only reason?"

The question hung between them, charged and dangerous. Sin’s pulse hammered against his ribs. Jimin’s thumb traced the curve of his cheekbone, down to the corner of his mouth. "You’re trembling," he murmured. His other hand settled on Sin’s waist, steadying him—or trapping him. Sin couldn’t tell.

Sin’s breath hitched as Jimin’s thumb lingered at the corner of his lips, pressing just enough to part them slightly. The practice room lights hummed above them, casting long shadows that made Jimin’s gaze darker, hungrier. "You know," Jimin murmured, voice dipping into something low and intimate, "I’ve been watching you. Not just today—every day." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on Sin’s waist, pulling him closer until their chests nearly brushed. "You’re always so careful with everyone else. But with me…" He trailed off, smiling when Sin shivered. "With me, you fall apart."

Sin’s mind scrambled for coherence, but the heat of Jimin’s touch, the proximity, the way his cerulean eyes gleamed like they’d already won—it was too much. "I don’t—" he started, but Jimin’s thumb pressed firmer against his lip, silencing him. "Don’t lie," Jimin whispered. "I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. Like you’re starving." His other hand slid up Sin’s back, fingers threading into the messy strands of his white hair. "What would you do if I let you have a taste?"

The question curled hot and heavy between them, and Sin’s knees threatened to buckle. He’d imagined this—hadn’t dared to, really, but his traitorous mind had supplied the images anyway: Jimin’s mouth on his, Jimin’s hands mapping his skin, Jimin’s voice reduced to wrecked whispers. But fantasy was nothing compared to the reality of Jimin’s breath mingling with his, the way his pupils dilated as Sin’s tongue darted out to wet his own lips—accidentally brushing Jimin’s thumb in the process.

Jimin’s grip tightened instantly, his breath stuttering. "Ah," he breathed, something feral flashing in his eyes. "There it is." Before Sin could process the shift, Jimin yanked him forward, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. Sin gasped into it, hands flying up to clutch at Jimin’s shoulders as the older man licked into his mouth, possessive and claiming. The speaker cables forgotten at their feet tangled around Sin’s ankles as Jimin backed him against the mirror, the cold surface biting through his thin shirt.

A moan tore from Sin’s throat when Jimin’s knee slid between his thighs, pressing up just enough to make him arch. Jimin laughed against his lips—dark, delighted—and bit down on Sin’s bottom lip hard enough to sting. "You taste even better than I imagined," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch Sin’s dazed expression, his kiss-swollen lips parting on shaky breaths. His fingers tightened in Sin’s hair, tilting his head back. "Look at you. Falling apart already."

Sin’s pulse rabbited under his skin, his thoughts scattering as Jimin’s free hand slipped under his shirt, calloused fingertips skimming up his ribs. "Hyung—" he choked out, but Jimin shushed him with another bruising kiss, swallowing the whimper that followed when his thumb brushed a nipple. The mirror fogged with their mingled breath, the practice room air thick with the scent of sweat and Jimin’s cologne—citrus turned cloying, intoxicating.

Jimin broke the kiss abruptly, stepping back just far enough to survey Sin’s wrecked state—flushed cheeks, trembling limbs, his shirt rucked up to expose the pale plane of his stomach. A slow smirk curled his lips as he reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion. Sin’s breath caught at the sight of toned muscle, the sweat-slick skin gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "Your turn," Jimin purred, closing the distance again to nip at Sin’s earlobe. "Unless you want me to do it for you?"

Sin’s fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, his mind hazy with the scent of Jimin’s skin, the heat of his breath against his ear. But before he could even gather the coordination to lift it, Jimin’s hands were already there, sliding beneath the fabric, palms skimming up his sides with a possessiveness that made Sin’s knees weak. The shirt was yanked over his head in one swift motion, discarded somewhere near the tangled cables, and suddenly the cool air of the practice room hit his feverish skin—only to be replaced by the searing heat of Jimin’s body pressing flush against him.

Jimin’s lips found the hollow of his throat, teeth scraping just enough to leave a mark, and Sin gasped, his hands flying to Jimin’s shoulders for balance. "Hyung—" he whimpered, but the protest died in his throat when Jimin’s tongue soothed the bite, lapping at the spot as if savoring the taste. The older man hummed against his skin, the vibration sending a shudder down Sin’s spine. "You’re so pretty like this," Jimin murmured, dragging his mouth lower, nipping at the jut of Sin’s collarbone. "All flushed and desperate for me."

The words coiled low in Sin’s stomach, hot and heavy, and he arched into the touch, his fingers tangling in Jimin’s hair. He’d never been touched like this—never been wanted like this—and the intensity of it threatened to unravel him completely. Jimin’s hands slid down to grip his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Sin let out a broken sound when Jimin suddenly dropped to his knees before him, looking up through his lashes with a smirk that was anything but innocent.

"Tell me," Jimin murmured, fingers hooking into the waistband of Sin’s pants, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. "Have you ever let anyone take care of you?"

Sin's breath stuttered in his chest, his fingers clutching at the air where Jimin's shoulders had been seconds before. The older man's gaze was molten, his lips parted just enough to show the tip of his tongue darting out to wet them. Sin swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the silence of the practice room. "I—no," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The confession burned hotter than Jimin's hands on his hips, more intimate than the teeth marks blooming on his collarbone.

Jimin's smirk deepened, fingers tightening in the fabric of Sin's pants. "Good," he purred, the word curling around Sin like smoke. "Then I'll be your first." With that, he tugged Sin's pants down in one smooth motion, leaving him bare from the waist down except for the thin fabric of his underwear, already damp with evidence of his arousal. Sin's hands flew to cover himself instinctively, but Jimin caught his wrists, pinning them to the mirror with a strength that belied his delicate frame. "Don't hide from me," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of Sin's thigh that made him jerk. "I want to see you."

The first touch of Jimin's tongue through the fabric had Sin's knees buckling, his breath escaping in a punched-out moan. Jimin chuckled, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through Sin's body. "So sensitive," he mused, nuzzling at the damp spot before finally—finally—hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling Sin's underwear down, freeing his aching cock. The cool air of the practice room was nothing compared to the heat of Jimin's breath ghosting over him, the anticipation alone enough to make Sin's stomach clench.

Then Jimin's mouth was on him, hot and wet and perfect, and Sin's vision whited out for a second, his back arching off the mirror with a choked cry. Jimin hummed around him, the sound vibrating through Sin's entire body, one hand coming up to stroke what his mouth couldn't take. Sin's fingers scrabbled against the mirror, desperate for purchase, but Jimin had him trapped—between his body and the wall, between pleasure and madness.

Sin’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, a broken whine tearing from his throat as Jimin’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock. The older man’s grip on his wrists tightened, pressing him harder against the mirror, the cold surface biting into his overheated skin. Jimin pulled back just enough to smirk up at him, lips glistening. “You taste even better than I thought you would,” he murmured, before swallowing him down again, deeper this time, until Sin could feel the back of Jimin’s throat.

The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Sin’s thighs trembled, his toes curling against the floor as Jimin worked him with a practiced ease that sent sparks shooting up his spine. Every flick of Jimin’s tongue, every hollowed cheek, every muffled groan against his skin pushed Sin closer to the edge, until his vision blurred and his breaths came in ragged gasps. “Hyung—I’m—” he choked out, fingers twitching uselessly against the mirror.

Jimin pulled off with a filthy sound, his lips still brushing Sin’s throbbing cock as he spoke. “Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough. Sin forced his eyes open, meeting Jimin’s darkened gaze, the hunger there undeniable. “I want to watch you fall apart,” Jimin breathed before taking him in again, this time with a slow, torturous rhythm that had Sin’s nails scraping against the glass.

The pressure coiled tighter in Sin’s stomach, his entire body tensing as pleasure crashed over him in waves. He came with a strangled cry, back arching off the mirror as Jimin swallowed every drop, his tongue lapping at him until Sin whimpered from oversensitivity. Jimin released him with a final kiss to the inside of his thigh, then rose to his feet, licking his lips with deliberate slowness.

Sin sagged against the mirror, his legs trembling too hard to hold him up, but Jimin caught him before he could slide to the floor. The older man’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against his chest, and Sin could feel the hard line of Jimin’s arousal pressing into his hip. The reality of it—that he’d done this to Jimin, that Jimin was still achingly hard for him—sent a fresh wave of heat through his spent body.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Jimin murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. His hands roamed over Sin’s bare back, tracing the dip of his spine with a possessiveness that made Sin shiver. “All pliant and wrecked because of me.” He punctuated the words with a sharp nip to Sin’s earlobe, then chuckled when Sin whimpered. “But we’re not done yet, sweet thing.”

Before Sin could process the words, Jimin spun him around, pressing his chest against the mirror. The cold surface shocked his overheated skin, and he gasped, his breath fogging the glass in front of him. Jimin’s body molded against his back, his erection pressing insistently between Sin’s thighs. “Hyung—” Sin started, but Jimin cut him off with a hand fisting in his hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat.

“Tell me you want this,” Jimin demanded, his voice rough with need. His free hand slid down Sin’s side, fingers skimming the jut of his hipbone before dipping lower, teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “Tell me, or I stop right now.”

Sin's breath hitched, his reflection in the mirror blurring as Jimin's teeth grazed his pulse point. The words stuck in his throat—half-formed, trembling—but the ache between his legs spoke louder than any confession ever could. "I—" he managed, voice cracking, before Jimin's fingers tightened in his hair, pulling just enough to sting. "Say it," Jimin murmured against his skin, lips dragging down the column of his throat. His other hand slipped between Sin's thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin there, and Sin's knees nearly gave out.

"I want it," Sin gasped, the admission tearing from him in a rush of heat. "I want you, hyung—please—"

Jimin's answering growl vibrated against his shoulder blade as he reached for the waistband of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. The first press of him against Sin's entrance was electric—a slow, burning pressure that had Sin's fingers scrambling against the mirror, his breath fogging the glass in frantic bursts. Jimin paused, his grip on Sin's hipbone bruising. "Relax," he ordered, voice thick with restraint, but Sin was beyond coherence, his body taut with want.

Then Jimin was pushing in—slow, so slow—and the stretch burned in the best way, stealing Sin's breath as he was filled inch by torturous inch. Jimin's groan reverberated through him, hot and ragged against his ear. "Fuck—you're so tight—" His hips snapped forward suddenly, seating himself fully, and Sin's cry echoed off the practice room walls, high and broken.

Sin’s fingers splayed against the mirror, his reflection distorted by the fog of his panting breaths. Jimin’s grip on his hips was ironclad, holding him still as he adjusted to the stretch, the burn melting into a heat that coiled low in his belly. “Hyung—” he whimpered, the name cracking halfway as Jimin rolled his hips experimentally, dragging a moan from Sin’s throat.

Jimin’s laugh was dark against his shoulder. “You take me so well,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear as his hands slid up his sides, mapping the trembling planes of his body. “Like you were made for this.” His thrusts started slow, deliberate, each one punching a broken sound from Sin’s lips. The mirror rattled faintly with their movements, the cold glass a stark contrast to the feverish heat of Sin’s skin.

Sin’s vision blurred, his knees threatening to buckle as Jimin’s pace quickened, each snap of his hips driving him deeper, harder. The older man’s fingers tangled in his hair again, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Jimin’s teeth sank into the tender skin there, a claiming bite that had Sin crying out, his back arching. “Mine,” Jimin growled against his pulse, the word vibrating through him like a live wire.

The pleasure built like a storm, crackling under Sin’s skin, threatening to tear him apart. Jimin’s hand slid down his chest, fingers pinching a nipple roughly, and Sin’s gasp morphed into a sob as the dual sensations threatened to unravel him. “Close—” he choked out, his voice raw, but Jimin only chuckled, his breath hot against Sin’s neck.

Sin’s body arched against the mirror, his reflection fracturing with every thrust—his lips parted around ragged gasps, his cerulean eyes glassy with pleasure. Jimin’s fingers dug into his hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks, his rhythm relentless as he chased his own release. “Look at yourself,” Jimin rasped, forcing Sin’s head up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. “Look how pretty you are when you’re mine.”

The sight of himself—flushed and wrecked, Jimin’s body moving against his—sent a jolt of heat through Sin’s veins. His cock twitched between his legs, already half-hard again despite the oversensitivity. Jimin noticed, of course, his smirk curling against Sin’s shoulder. “Greedy,” he purred, dragging his teeth over the bite mark he’d left earlier. His hand slid down Sin’s stomach, fingers wrapping around his length with a firmness that made Sin’s thighs tremble. “You want to come again?”

Sin could only nod, his throat too tight to speak. Jimin’s grip tightened, his strokes matching the pace of his thrusts, and Sin’s vision whited out for a second, his entire body tightening like a coiled spring. Jimin’s breath hitched against his ear, his hips stuttering. “Fuck—Sin—” His voice cracked, his fingers tightening almost painfully around Sin’s cock. “Come for me. Now.”

The command snapped the last thread of Sin’s control. He came with a shattered cry, his release streaking the mirror as his body convulsed. Jimin followed moments later, his hips jerking erratically as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against Sin’s shoulder.

KIM TAEHYUNG

The coffee machine hissed like a displeased cat, spraying lukewarm liquid onto Taehyung’s sleeve. He blinked at the stain, then at the intern scrambling to mop it up with napkins. "S-Sorry, sunbaenim!" the boy stammered, fingers fluttering like startled birds.

Taehyung hadn’t noticed him before—too busy with schedules, with performances, with the weight of being Kim Taehyung. But now, with those wide cerulean eyes fixed on him, lips bitten pink with anxiety, he couldn’t look away. The kid—Sin, his badge read—was pretty in a way that made Taehyung’s throat tighten.

"You’re new," Taehyung said, voice lower than he intended. Sin nodded, ducking his head so a strand of white hair fell over his beauty mark. Up close, he smelled like sugar and fabric softener.

Jin called from the couch, "Stop terrorizing the staff, Tae." But Taehyung wasn’t terrorizing anyone. He was just… watching. Sin’s hands were small. His nails were painted clear, glossy. When he handed Taehyung a fresh coffee, their fingers brushed, and Taehyung’s pulse jumped.

The next morning, Taehyung found himself lingering near the staff break room like a stray cat waiting for scraps. He told himself it was just curiosity—just idle interest in the new intern with the doll-like face and trembling hands. But when Sin emerged, balancing a precarious tower of lyric sheets, Taehyung's body moved before his brain could protest. He intercepted the papers mid-collapse, fingers grazing Sin's wrist in the process. "Careful," Taehyung murmured, watching the pink flush crawl up Sin's neck like sunrise over snow.

Sin's gratitude was a whispered thing, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "T-Thank you, sunbaenim." His eyelashes fluttered—long, pale, catching the fluorescent lights. Taehyung had the sudden, absurd urge to count them. Instead, he leaned closer, close enough to see the faint freckles dusting Sin's nose like cinnamon spilled on milk.

Jungkook caught him at it three days later, cornering Taehyung by the vending machine with a knowing smirk. "You're staring again," he sing-songed, stealing Taehyung's Pocari Sweat. "At the intern." The word dripped with implication. Taehyung scowled, but his pulse betrayed him, hammering against his ribs at the mere mention. He hadn't meant to memorize Sin's schedule—hadn't meant to notice how his laugh sounded like wind chimes, or how he bit his lower lip raw when concentrating.

It was Jimin who spelled it out, blunt as always: "You like him." They were sprawled in the practice room, sweat cooling on their skin. Taehyung opened his mouth to deny it, but the lie curdled on his tongue. Because—yes. He liked the way Sin's hair caught the light like spun sugar. Liked how his voice softened when speaking to the elderly cleaning staff. Liked, most damningly, the possessive ache in his chest whenever someone else made Sin smile.

The realization hit Taehyung like a misplaced stage light—blinding, painful, impossible to ignore. He was sitting in the green room, half-listening to Namjoon’s lecture about tour logistics, when Sin shuffled in with a tray of honey lemon tea. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing wrists so delicate Taehyung could’ve circled them with thumb and forefinger. A drop of sweat trailed down Sin’s neck, disappearing under his collar, and suddenly Taehyung’s mouth went dry. He wanted to lick it off. Wanted to pin those slender wrists against the nearest wall and taste the salt on his skin. The violence of the craving startled him so badly he choked on his own spit.

Jin thumped him on the back, amused. "You okay there, lover boy?" Taehyung didn’t answer. Across the room, Sin was blinking at him with those liquid-crystal eyes, concern knitting his brow. The sight made something primal uncoil in Taehyung’s gut—Mine, his hindbrain insisted. Ours to ruin.

He started leaving gifts in Sin’s locker. At first, it was innocent things—a strawberry milk, a warm scarf when the AC was too high. Then came the handwritten notes, tucked between the pages of Sin’s lyric binders. Your voice sounded pretty today, one read. Another, smudged with Taehyung’s nervous sweat: Don’t let Manager-nim make you stay late again. I’ll wait for you.

Sin never mentioned them. But Taehyung caught him once, pressing one of the notes to his chest when he thought no one was looking. The way his lashes fluttered—like he was committing Taehyung’s words to memory—sent heat licking up Taehyung’s spine.

The third time Taehyung caught Sin humming one of their b-side tracks under his breath—soft and off-key in the supply closet—he snapped. Not loudly. Not violently. But with the quiet finality of a predator realizing its prey had been within reach all along. He pressed his palm flat against the closing door, watching Sin jolt like a startled rabbit. "You know the lyrics," Taehyung murmured, stepping inside. The closet smelled of paper and Sin’s peach-scented shampoo.

Sin’s throat worked soundlessly as Taehyung crowded him against the shelves. "I—I listen to your albums, sunbaenim." The admission was barely a whisper, but it sent electricity crackling down Taehyung’s spine. Their albums. Their music. Sin’s eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks as he stared at Taehyung’s collarbone instead of his face. The space between them was thick with something Taehyung couldn’t name—something that made his fingers twitch with the urge to claim.

"You shouldn’t," Taehyung said, tilting Sin’s chin up with one finger. The kid’s pulse fluttered against his touch like a trapped bird. "Call me ‘sunbaenim’ when we’re alone." Sin’s breath hitched, lips parting around an unspoken question. Taehyung answered it by dragging his thumb across that pink lower lip, smearing the gloss there. The sound Sin made—small, wounded—was sweeter than any encore.

Three floors below, the other members were rehearsing their choreography. Taehyung could hear the faint thump of bass through the vents. But here, in this dim-lit closet, time had slowed to syrup. Sin’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his cerulean eyes gone wide and dark. Taehyung wondered if he’d scream if bitten. If he’d cry if pinned. The thoughts should’ve horrified him. Instead, they pooled hot and heavy in his gut.

The overhead bulb flickered once—a stuttering heartbeat of light—as Taehyung's thumb lingered on Sin's lower lip. He could feel the kid trembling, not with fear but something far more intoxicating: anticipation. Sin's tongue darted out instinctively, catching the pad of Taehyung's thumb in a fleeting, wet brush. The contact sent a jolt through them both, static sharp enough to taste.

"Hyung," Taehyung corrected, voice gone rough as gravel. He watched the word reshape itself behind Sin's teeth, the syllables turning molten before they escaped in a breathless exhale. The honorific dripped between them like honey—thick and golden with implication. Sin's lashes fluttered shut for a heartbeat too long, and Taehyung knew then. Knew the kid had practiced this in some quiet corner of his mind, whispering it to the dark like a prayer. The realization punched through him like a fist to the diaphragm.

Taehyung crowded closer, letting the shelf dig into his back just to feel Sin's knees buckle against his thigh. "Say it again," he demanded, sliding his hand up to cradle the delicate hinge of Sin's jaw. He wanted to crack him open, wanted to lick the sweetness from his bones. Sin made a noise like a whimper, fingers twisting in the hem of his own sweater.

"Hyung," Sin repeated, and oh—oh—the way his voice curled around it, shy and yearning, tipped Taehyung over some invisible edge. He didn't remember moving, but suddenly his mouth was on Sin's, swallowing the gasp that followed. Sin tasted like stolen sugar packets and the peppermint gum he always chewed nervously. Taehyung bit down on his plush lower lip just to hear him keen, just to feel those doll-like hands fist in his shirt like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world.

The overhead light buzzed like a dying insect as Taehyung swallowed Sin’s gasp whole, hands bracketing the boy’s hips against the shelves hard enough to bruise. Paper reams toppled around them in a white avalanche, but neither noticed—not when Sin’s fingers were clutching Taehyung’s biceps like lifelines, not when Taehyung could feel the frantic flutter of the kid’s heartbeat through two layers of fabric. He licked into Sin’s mouth with the single-minded focus of a man starving, chasing the peppermint-sharp taste of him until they were both panting.

Sin broke away first, lips glistening and swollen. “Sunbae—hyung, we can’t—” The protest died when Taehyung sucked a bruise into the pale column of his throat, right over his jumping pulse. The mark bloomed violet almost instantly, vivid against Sin’s milk-pale skin. Mine, Taehyung thought savagely, biting down just to hear Sin’s breath stutter. The closet smelled like sweat and Sin’s peach shampoo now, thick enough to drown in.

Outside, footsteps echoed down the hall—Manager-nim’s familiar brisk stride. Taehyung didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed closer, one hand sliding under Sin’s untucked shirt to trace the delicate dip of his waist. Sin made a noise like a sob, hips jerking forward involuntarily. The friction was electric, even through layers of fabric. “Quiet,” Taehyung murmured against his mouth, thumb rubbing circles over Sin’s hipbone. “Unless you want them to hear.”

Sin went rigid, eyes widening in dawning horror as the footsteps paused outside the supply closet. The doorknob rattled—once, twice—before Manager-nim muttered something about faulty locks and moved on. The second the footsteps faded, Sin sagged against Taehyung like a marionette with cut strings, breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. His lips were parted slightly, pink and swollen from Taehyung’s teeth, and the sight sent another jolt of heat straight to Taehyung’s gut.

“You’re shaking,” Taehyung observed, voice low and rough. He dragged his thumb over the bruise blooming on Sin’s throat, relishing the way the boy shuddered. It wasn’t fear—no, Sin’s pupils were blown wide, his fingers clutching at Taehyung’s sleeves like he was afraid he’d float away otherwise. Taehyung leaned in, close enough to feel Sin’s exhale against his lips. “Do you want me to stop?”

Sin’s breath hitched. For a long moment, he didn’t speak—just stared up at Taehyung with those liquid-crystal eyes, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then, slowly, deliberately, he shook his head. The movement was so slight Taehyung might’ve missed it if he weren’t watching so closely. But he was. He always was.

Taehyung’s grin was slow, predatory. “Use your words, baby.”

Sin’s throat worked soundlessly, his lips forming shapes around words that wouldn’t come. Taehyung watched, fascinated, as a drop of sweat traced the curve of Sin’s collarbone—a slow, meandering path that disappeared beneath the rumpled fabric of his shirt. The air between them crackled with something taut and humming, like the moment before a powerline snaps.

"N-No," Sin finally managed, voice fraying at the edges. His fingers tightened in Taehyung’s sleeves, knuckles blanching white. "Don’t… stop." The admission seemed to cost him, his cheeks flushing that perfect, feverish pink Taehyung wanted to bottle and keep.

Taehyung exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. "Good boy." The praise rolled off his tongue like honey, thick and deliberate. He felt Sin shiver against him, those doll-like eyelashes fluttering shut for a heartbeat too long.

The supply closet was too small, too hot—the scent of paper and peaches cloying now, suffocating in its sweetness. Taehyung crowded closer, slotting a knee between Sin’s thighs just to hear the punched-out little gasp it earned him. Sin’s hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking friction, and Taehyung’s vision whited out for a second at the contact.

The overhead light buzzed louder as Taehyung pressed Sin harder against the shelves, the metal frame groaning under their combined weight. Sin’s fingers scrabbled at Taehyung’s shoulders, nails biting through fabric, as if he couldn’t decide whether to push or pull. Taehyung made the choice for him—grabbing both wrists in one hand and pinning them above Sin’s head, relishing the way the boy arched into the contact. “Fuck,” Taehyung hissed against his throat, teeth scraping over the bruise he’d left earlier. Sin’s hips stuttered forward again, a silent plea, and Taehyung nearly came undone at the sheer desperation of it.

Somewhere beyond the closet door, a muffled voice called Taehyung’s name—probably Yoongi, probably wondering where he’d vanished during break. Taehyung ignored it, too busy mapping the way Sin’s breath hitched when he rolled his hips just so. The kid was trembling like a plucked string, his normally porcelain skin blotched pink from collarbone to cheeks. Taehyung wanted to ruin him properly, wanted to see how far that blush could spread. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, licking a stripe up Sin’s throat. “All messy for me.”

Sin made a noise halfway between a whimper and a moan, his knees buckling. Taehyung caught him effortlessly, one hand sliding down to grip the back of his thigh, hiking it up around his waist. The new angle had Sin gasping, his free hand flying to Taehyung’s bicep to steady himself. “Hyung, please—” The word cracked midway, and Taehyung swallowed the rest with another searing kiss, his tongue sliding against Sin’s in a rhythm that left no room for misinterpretation.

The doorknob rattled again—more insistent this time—followed by a sharp knock. “Taehyung-ah?” Jin’s voice, laced with amusement. “You in there?”

Taehyung froze, Sin's gasp hot against his lips. The boy's fingers dug into his biceps like claws, his whole body rigid with panic. Taehyung could taste the adrenaline on his tongue—sharp and metallic—as Sin's pulse hammered against his thumb where it still pressed to his throat. The overhead light flickered again, casting shadows that made Sin's dilated pupils look bottomless.

"Taehyung-ah, we need you for soundcheck," Jin called, punctuating the words with another knock. Paper reams shifted under Taehyung's sneakers as he leaned back just enough to see Sin's face properly. The kid looked wrecked—lips swollen, hair mussed, that damned beauty mark half-hidden by a fallen strand of white. A thin sheen of sweat glistened along his collarbone, right above the blooming bruise Taehyung's mouth had left. The sight sent a possessive thrill down his spine.

One second. Two. The doorknob jiggled. Taehyung pressed a finger to Sin's lips—quiet—before turning his head slightly toward the door. "Be right out, hyung," he called, voice miraculously steady.

Jin's pause was audible. "…You better be decent."

Taehyung’s grin was all teeth. “Define decent,” he shot back, watching Sin’s eyes go impossibly wider. The kid’s breath hitched audibly, his fingers tightening around Taehyung’s wrists like he was afraid the ground might drop out from under them. Outside, Jin snorted.

“Five minutes,” Jin said, footsteps retreating with deliberate loudness. The second they faded, Sin sagged against the shelves like a puppet with cut strings, his exhale shaky and uneven. Taehyung didn’t let go—couldn’t, not when Sin’s lower lip was still glistening from his mouth, not when the evidence of his teeth marked that porcelain throat.

“You okay?” Taehyung murmured, though the answer was obvious. Sin’s pupils were blown so wide his cerulean irises were nearly swallowed, his pulse fluttering like a caged bird under Taehyung’s thumb. The kid nodded jerkily, then seemed to think better of it when the movement made his knees buckle. Taehyung caught him effortlessly, hands spanning the delicate dip of Sin’s waist.

The silence between them was thick with unsaid things—with the weight of what had just happened, what could happen if Taehyung didn’t walk away right now. He should. He knew he should. But Sin’s fingers were still twisted in his shirt, his breath coming in shallow little puffs against Taehyung’s collarbone.

JEON JUNGKOOK

“You’re in my way,” Jungkook muttered, not bothering to look up from his phone as he sidestepped the figure frozen in the hallway. The words came out sharper than he meant—less irritation, more exhaustion—but the boy flinched anyway, pressing himself against the wall like he was trying to vanish into it. Jungkook barely registered him, already halfway down the corridor before something made him pause.

He glanced back.

The kid—Sin, right? One of the new staff—stood with his shoulders hunched, head bowed so low his white hair curtained his face. His fingers twisted nervously around the hem of his oversized sweater. Jungkook frowned. He hadn’t even been that harsh. Why did he look like he’d just been scolded by a drill sergeant?

“Hey,” Jungkook called, softer this time. Sin’s head snapped up, cerulean eyes wide. There was something unnervingly delicate about him—like porcelain, like if Jungkook raised his voice again, he might shatter.

The moment Sin's eyes met his—wide, wet, like polished gemstones catching light—Jungkook felt something jagged snag in his chest. It wasn't guilt. Guilt was soft, familiar. This was sharper, hotter, a wire pulled taut behind his ribs. He watched Sin's throat bob as he swallowed, the beauty mark under his left eye twitching with the motion.

"You don't have to—" Jungkook started, then stopped. His fingers flexed at his sides, restless. The kid looked fragile. Not just physically—though the oversized sweater drowning his frame suggested that too—but like his very presence was provisional, like he'd apologize for existing if given half a chance. It made Jungkook want to fix it. Which was absurd. He didn't fix things. He broke them.

Sin shifted, fingers still worrying at his sweater cuff. "S-sorry, sunbaenim," he murmured, voice so quiet Jungkook had to lean in to catch it. The honorific curled oddly in his stomach. Sunbaenim. As if Jungkook had earned it. As if he wasn't just some asshole who'd nearly bowled him over in a hallway.

Jungkook exhaled through his nose. "You didn't do anything wrong." The words came out gruff, but Sin's shoulders relaxed a fraction. His lips—stupidly pink, like he'd bitten them raw—parted slightly. Jungkook's gaze dropped. Lingered.

The realization hit Jungkook like a misplaced dance step—unexpected, throwing his balance off-kilter. Sin was still standing there, frozen under the fluorescent hallway lights, his cerulean eyes flickering between Jungkook’s face and the floor like he couldn’t decide which was safer. There was something about the way his fingers trembled against his sweater cuff, the way his beauty mark seemed to darken when he bit his lip—tiny, insignificant details that shouldn’t have mattered, and yet Jungkook found himself cataloging them anyway. His chest tightened.

“You’re—” Jungkook started, then stopped. What was he supposed to say? You’re too close when Sin was pressed against the wall like a startled animal? You’re staring when Jungkook was the one who couldn’t look away? He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated with himself. Sin flinched again, and something hot coiled in Jungkook’s gut—not anger, but something worse, something that made his fingers twitch with the urge to reach. To touch the delicate curve of Sin’s wrist, to see if his skin was as soft as it looked. The thought unsettled him. Since when did he care about touching anyone?

Sin’s voice was barely a whisper. “I-I should go—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than Jungkook intended, and Sin’s eyes widened. Jungkook forced his tone lower, gentler, though it grated against his nerves. “You don’t have to run.” From me, he didn’t add. But the unspoken words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Sin’s lips parted—stupidly pink, stupidly soft—and Jungkook’s gaze dropped again. He’d never noticed how small Sin’s mouth was. How easily it would fit under his thumb.

Sin’s breath hitched when Jungkook stepped closer—just one step, but it was enough to make the hallway feel suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Jungkook didn’t know why he did it. He just knew that the way Sin’s lashes fluttered, the way his pulse jumped visibly in his throat, sent something electric skittering down his spine. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Staff were background noise, interchangeable faces he barely registered. But Sin? Sin was a distraction wrapped in oversized fabric, a problem Jungkook hadn’t asked for and didn’t want to solve. And yet here he was, crowding him against the wall like he had any right to.

“You’re shaking,” Jungkook murmured, eyes dropping to Sin’s hands. The kid curled his fingers into fists, but not fast enough—Jungkook had already seen the tremble. Something dark and possessive twisted in his chest. Who had made him like this? Who had taught him to fold into himself like a paper crane, to apologize for taking up space? The thought of someone else reducing Sin to this—nervous, fragile—made Jungkook’s jaw clench. He didn’t realize he’d reached out until his fingertips brushed Sin’s wrist. The contact was light, barely there, but Sin gasped like he’d been burned.

Jungkook should have pulled away. Instead, his fingers tightened, circling that delicate bone. Sin’s skin was softer than he’d imagined, warm and slightly damp with sweat. Jungkook’s thumb pressed into the pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter beneath. “Breathe,” he ordered, voice low. Sin’s eyes—god, those eyes—darted to his, wide and liquid. For a second, Jungkook forgot why this was a bad idea. All he could think was mine.

The realization hit him like a kick to the ribs. Mine? Since when did he think in those terms? Since when did he want like this? It wasn’t just curiosity, wasn’t just the novelty of someone who reacted to him like he was something terrifying and magnetic all at once. It was the way Sin’s breath stuttered when Jungkook leaned in, the way his lips parted like he was waiting for something he didn’t even know how to ask for. Jungkook had never been patient, had never cared enough to wait, but right now, he wanted to take Sin apart slowly, to map every tremor and sigh.

Sin's pulse fluttered under Jungkook's fingertips like a trapped bird, and the absurdity of it all hit him like a misplaced high note—since when did he notice things like this? Since when did he care about the hitch in someone's breath, the way their lashes trembled when they were trying not to blink? Sin's wrist was so slight in his grip, the bone prominent beneath skin that felt like warmed silk. Jungkook's thumb pressed harder without permission, as if testing the give of him, and Sin made a sound—barely a whimper, but it seared through Jungkook's veins like liquor.

"Sunbaenim," Sin whispered, and the title curled around Jungkook's spine, possessive and wrong and right in a way that made his teeth ache. He'd been called that a thousand times by staff, by fans, by people who didn't matter—so why did it feel different when Sin said it? Why did it sound like surrender?

Jungkook's free hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers brushing the fringe of white hair from Sin's forehead. The kid flinched, but didn't pull away, his cerulean eyes darting to Jungkook's mouth like he was tracing the shape of something dangerous. "You keep looking at me like that," Jungkook murmured, voice dropping into something rougher than he intended. "Like you're waiting for me to bite."

Sin's breath hitched. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips—a nervous habit, probably, but Jungkook's gaze zeroed in on the movement with a focus that bordered on predatory. The hallway was too bright, too quiet, the hum of the overhead lights suddenly oppressive. He could hear every shaky inhale Sin took, could see the way his sweater slipped off one narrow shoulder, revealing a collarbone that looked like it was carved from marble. Jungkook's fingers itched to mark it.

Sin’s collarbone gleamed under the harsh fluorescents—pale, unmarked, begging for Jungkook’s teeth. The thought crashed into him like a rogue wave, sudden and violent. He shouldn’t be noticing the way Sin’s throat worked when he swallowed, shouldn’t be cataloging the exact shade of pink his lips turned when he bit them. Staff weren’t supposed to be noticed. They were ghosts in the background, interchangeable shadows who existed to hand him water bottles and adjust microphones. But Sin—Sin was a fucking distraction. Every tremble of his fingers, every flicker of those cerulean eyes, pulled at something low and restless in Jungkook’s gut.

The kid was still pressed against the wall, his sweater slipping further off one shoulder. Jungkook’s grip on his wrist tightened reflexively. Sin whimpered. The sound was small, barely audible, but it sent a jolt through Jungkook’s nerves, sharp and electric. He’d heard that noise before—in the studio, late at night, when he pushed himself too hard and his muscles screamed. This was different. This wasn’t pain. This was fear, raw and sweet, and Jungkook wanted to bottle it. Wanted to peel Sin apart layer by layer until he figured out what other sounds he could wring from him. The realization should have disgusted him. Instead, his pulse kicked harder.

“Sunbaenim,” Sin whispered again, and this time, his voice cracked. Jungkook’s free hand moved without thought, thumb brushing the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. The kid froze. His lashes fluttered—dark against his porcelain skin—and Jungkook’s breath caught. He’d touched a hundred people before—dancers, stylists, fans—but none of them had ever felt like this. Sin’s skin was fever-warm, smooth as spun sugar, and when Jungkook dragged his thumb down the curve of his cheekbone, Sin’s breath stuttered like a dying engine.

Jungkook leaned in. Close enough to count the freckles dusting Sin’s nose. Close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. Close enough that when Sin’s lips parted on a shaky exhale, Jungkook could see the wet glint of his teeth. This is a mistake, some distant part of his brain warned. He ignored it. The air between them was charged, thick with something Jungkook didn’t have a name for—something that made his fingertips burn where they touched Sin’s skin.

Sin’s eyelashes fluttered like moth wings against his cheeks—too fast, too fragile—and Jungkook’s fingers twitched with the urge to pin them in place. The kid’s pulse rabbited under his grip, frantic and alive, and Jungkook wondered absently how hard he’d have to press to leave bruises blooming under that porcelain skin. The thought shouldn’t have thrilled him. But when Sin’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lips again, Jungkook’s vision tunneled to that wet shine, to the way Sin’s teeth caught his bottom lip when he trembled.

“Stop that,” Jungkook growled, tightening his hold on Sin’s wrist. The kid froze, eyes widening further—impossible, when they were already drowning in his face—and Jungkook realized with a jolt that his own breathing had gone ragged. He could feel Sin’s heartbeat in his fingertips, could count each stuttering thump like it was Morse code spelling out danger.

Sin’s sweater slipped another inch, revealing the sharp dip of his collarbone, the pale stretch of skin where his neck met shoulder. Jungkook’s mouth watered. He’d never bitten anyone before—not like this, not with intent—but the urge to sink his teeth into that unmarked flesh was sudden and visceral. To claim. To ruin. To own. The realization should have horrified him. Instead, his free hand lifted, fingertips brushing the exposed hollow of Sin’s throat. The kid gasped, a sound so small it barely existed, but Jungkook felt it vibrate against his fingers like a plucked string.

“Sunbaenim,” Sin whispered again, voice cracking halfway through. Jungkook’s thumb pressed harder against his pulse point, silencing him. The honorific curled hot and wrong in his gut—sunbaenim, like Jungkook had earned his deference, like he wasn’t currently crowding him against a wall with intentions he couldn’t name. Sin’s eyes darted to Jungkook’s mouth, lingered, then skittered away like he’d been burned. The flicker of attention sent heat pooling low in Jungkook’s stomach. He leaned closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated when Jungkook’s breath ghosted over his lips.

The overhead lights buzzed like a swarm of wasps, too loud in the sudden hush between them. Sin’s eyelashes cast fragile shadows on his cheeks—Jungkook could see each individual lash, could trace the way they trembled when Sin swallowed. His throat worked under Jungkook’s fingertips, the pulse there erratic, frantic. Jungkook’s thumb pressed harder, just to feel it jump. Sin made another noise, high and thin, and Jungkook’s gut twisted with something hot and possessive.

“You keep calling me that,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough. His free hand slid up Sin’s arm, fingertips skating over the delicate dip of his elbow. The kid shivered violently, his sweater slipping further down his shoulder. “Sunbaenim.” He let the word roll off his tongue, slow and deliberate, testing the weight of it. Sin’s breath hitched. Jungkook’s lips curled. “You say it like you mean it.”

Sin’s eyes—god, those eyes—flickered to his, wide and wet. His lips parted, pink and glistening, but no sound came out. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to his mouth. He’d never wanted to taste someone before. The realization should have startled him. Instead, he leaned in, close enough that their breaths tangled, close enough to count the faint freckles scattered across Sin’s nose. The kid smelled like citrus and something sweet, something Jungkook couldn’t name but wanted to devour.

Sin’s fingers twitched against Jungkook’s wrist, feather-light, hesitant. Jungkook stilled. The touch was barely there—a ghost of pressure, a question mark—but it sent a current skittering up his spine. No one touched him like this. Not unless he allowed it. Not unless he wanted it. And yet Sin’s fingertips lingered, trembling against his skin, like he was afraid Jungkook would vanish if he pressed too hard. The thought sent something sharp and unfamiliar lancing through Jungkook’s chest.

Sin's fingers trembled against Jungkook's wrist—barely touching, barely breathing—and Jungkook's pulse kicked violently under that featherlight contact. No one touched him without permission. No one dared. But Sin's fingertips lingered like he didn't know the rules, like he hadn't been warned, and the absurdity of it burned through Jungkook's veins hotter than any defiance.

"Who told you," Jungkook murmured, leaning in until his lips grazed the shell of Sin's ear, "that you could touch me?" His voice came out rough, low enough that the words vibrated between them. Sin froze—Jungkook felt it in the sudden stillness of his wrist, in the way his breath stuttered to a stop—but he didn't pull away. Cowardice or courage? Jungkook couldn't tell. He only knew that the warmth of Sin's fingers against his skin was maddening, that the tentative press of them made his throat tighten with something dangerously close to want.

Sin's eyelashes fluttered, casting shadows across his cheeks. "S-sorry, sunbaenim," he whispered, but his fingers didn't move. The contradiction—apology and disobedience tangled together—sent a sharp thrill down Jungkook's spine. He'd never been good at resisting challenges.

Jungkook's grip on Sin's wrist tightened. "Liar," he breathed, and watched Sin's lips part on a gasp. The kid was shaking again, fine tremors running through him like live wires, but his fingers stayed curled against Jungkook's wrist. A spark of something bright and reckless flared in Jungkook's chest. He shifted, crowding Sin harder against the wall, close enough that their chests brushed with every ragged inhale. Sin's sweater had slipped further, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, the pale dip of his throat. Jungkook's teeth ached.

Jungkook's breath hitched when Sin's fingers tightened—just slightly—against his wrist. The pressure was barely there, a tentative question rather than a demand, but it sent a current of electricity skittering up his arm. Sin's thumb brushed the delicate skin of Jungkook's pulse point, mirroring the way Jungkook had touched him moments ago, and the symmetry of it punched the air from Jungkook's lungs.

"You're not sorry," Jungkook murmured, voice rougher than he intended. Sin's eyelashes fluttered—dark against the porcelain of his cheeks—but he didn't deny it. The defiance, silent as it was, coiled hot in Jungkook's gut. He leaned in until his lips grazed the shell of Sin's ear, close enough to feel the shudder that wracked the kid's frame. "You want to touch me."

Sin's breath stuttered, warm against Jungkook's jaw. His fingers twitched, but didn't retreat. The hesitation—the way his touch lingered like he was afraid Jungkook would vanish—sent something sharp and unfamiliar lancing through Jungkook's chest. No one touched him like this. Not unless he allowed it. Not unless he wanted it. And Sin—fragile, trembling Sin—was doing it without permission, without fear.

The realization should have angered him. Instead, Jungkook's grip on Sin's wrist gentled, his thumb brushing the delicate bones there in something that wasn't quite apology, wasn't quite praise. Sin made a sound—soft, startled—and Jungkook's pulse kicked violently in response.

Sin’s fingers curled tighter around Jungkook’s wrist—just for a second—before they went slack again, as if he’d caught himself doing something forbidden. Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose. The kid’s touch burned like a brand, fleeting but searing, and Jungkook found himself chasing it when Sin tried to pull away, twisting his wrist to trap those trembling fingers against his skin. Sin made a noise—small, startled—and Jungkook’s pulse thundered in his ears.

“You don’t get to—” Jungkook started, then stopped. His throat felt tight, his voice rougher than he intended. What was he even saying? You don’t get to touch me and stop? You don’t get to make me feel this and walk away? The words tangled on his tongue, useless. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes darting between Jungkook’s grip on his wrist and the way their chests nearly brushed with every uneven breath. The kid looked wrecked—lips bitten pink, sweater slipping off one shoulder, collarbone exposed like an offering. Jungkook’s mouth went dry.

✧༺♡༻✧ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✧༺♡༻✧˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ⋆｡˚ ☽˚｡⋆✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧