#hard fall

The shuttle finally arrives. Yoongi climbs on and keeps to himself the whole way. At the store, he heads straight for the pharmacy aisle. Grabs the Plan B box first. Then a Gatorade. Then condoms—just in case you aren’t pissed off and do want to have more amazing sex with him. Then, for good measure and to give the guys a reason not to grill him too hard, some more alcohol, and peanut M&M’s, because you mentioned craving them the night before.

The cashier doesn’t ask questions. Neither do the security guards when he gets back to the checkpoint. One glance at the Plan B box and they just nod and wave him through like he’s a soldier returning from battle.

When he gets back to camp, the sun is up but the tent is still zipped shut. Jimin, Taehyung, and Jin catch sight of Yoongi, of the bag in his hand, and exchange a knowing look before retreating toward the showers to give the two of you privacy.

Yoongi exhales and ducks back inside the tent.

You’re still asleep, blissed out and warm under the blanket. He kneels beside you, eyes soft. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, and your nose, and your temple.

You stir. Smile. “You’re back…”

Then, all at once, it hits you. Like a slap.

Your stomach flips as last night flashes through your mind—his mouth on yours, your legs around his waist, the ache between your thighs. The high of it. The way you didn’t think. The way you didn’t stop.

Your chest tightens. You bolt upright. “Shit. Oh my God—Yoongi—we didn’t—fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

Your voice shakes. You feel cold and flushed at the same time. You’re supposed to be careful. You’re supposed to be the one who always has things under control. And now—

“I know,” Yoongi says, quiet, already reaching into the bag.

You freeze, confused. “Wait…how do you know?”

“Taehyung mentioned it last night. Then Jimin told me what you said.”

You stare at him as he pulls the box from the bag. The Plan B. Your breath catches.

Some of the panic eases, but not the guilt. Not the feeling that you’d let something slip. That somehow, despite everything, you’d let yourself be careless. And yet, his quiet preparation, the way he thought of you before you even had the chance to panic—makes your heart flip over in your chest. It’s nice, you think, maybe a little dangerous, to be cared for like this. To be held in the hands of someone who sees the fall coming and reaches out first.

You blink, eyes stinging a little, but you manage a nod. “Okay. Good. Thank you.”

Yoongi brushes his thumb over your cheek, his touch grounding. “We’ve got it covered. You’re okay.”

You nod again, more slowly this time, heart pounding but beginning to settle. Your hand closes over his. You still feel shaken, but he’s here. He didn’t run. And that means something.

It means everything.

You take the pill with a sip of Gatorade, then pause and glance at the bottle. “You got my favorite flavor.”

Yoongi shrugs, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “You mentioned it yesterday.”

You spot the candy next. “Wait…are those M&M’s?”

He nods. “You were talking about them in line at the beer tent.”

Your heart flips again. “You remembered?”

He just nods like it’s nothing, even though it clearly isn’t. “Yeah. Figured it might help.”

The two of you settle, sitting cross-legged on the blanket, shoulders brushing as the morning light pours in soft and golden. You talk for a while—nothing heavy. Just music, the festival, the weird dream Yoongi had before the thud woke him up. You feel steadier. Safer. Like the sharp edges have rounded off again.

Eventually, Yoongi stretches out beside you, resting on one elbow, eyes on yours. “So,” he says casually, “when was the last time you had sex before last night?”

You laugh, surprised. “Over a year ago. Maybe longer.”

His brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, slightly embarrassed. “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d be breaking the streak this weekend, that’s for sure.”

Yoongi smirks. “Glad I could be of service.”

You shove his shoulder playfully, but your grin gives you away. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I mean,” he leans in a little, voice low, “you did look pretty cocky last night too.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “Yoongi.”

“What?” he grins, eyes dancing. “Just saying. I wouldn’t be mad if we accidentally broke that streak again. Soon.”

You bite your lip, pulse kicking up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His gaze drops to your mouth. “You make it hard to think straight. I keep wanting more.”

You inhale, heartbeat wild. “Then maybe stop thinking.”

Yoongi hums. “Dangerous suggestion.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, your fingers brushing his. “But it’s been a reckless kind of weekend.”

His lips curl. “Best kind.”

And you smile, for real this time, because the storm is past and you’re still here. With him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

By 10am, the tent is stifling, so you both emerge blinking into the sunlight to start the process of getting ready for the day’s shows. Jin passes you a mirror and a makeup bag while Jimin sits braiding Taehyung’s hair into uneven plaits.

Before anyone gets far, you plant your feet and hold up a pack of electrolyte powder like it’s holy scripture. “Nobody drinks a drop of alcohol until they drink this. I’m not babysitting your dehydrated asses.”

Groans and protests ring out but you’re firm. You go around personally handing everyone their bottle, watching each sip with your hands on your hips.

Once they’re halfway compliant, you finally duck into your tent and change into your outfit for the day— a high-waisted denim skirt, platform boots, and a pink crop top that reads RM's Princess in bedazzled silver gems.

You mix yourself a drink in a red solo cup, humming as you stir in some lemon and a splash (or maybe a few good glugs) of vodka. You turn to rejoin the group—only to choke on your sip.

Yoongi is standing there. In. The. Exact. Same. Shirt.

You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your drink. “Oh my god, are you kidding me?!”

Yoongi looks down at his top, then up at you with that tiny smirk. “What? I thought it suited me.”

Jin claps once, pointing between you. “One of you is going to have to change.” He breaks into his trademark windshield wipers laugh, wheezing.

“You change,” you say, still grinning.

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi replies. “I look fantastic.”

“You look deranged,” Jimin says. “But like, hot-deranged. I support it.”

Taehyung’s mouth is full of cheese puffs but he mumbles, “Couples who match stay together.”

Your grin doesn’t fade, but something shifts behind your eyes. You laugh it off, of course you do, but your brain is already running in quiet little circles. Couples who match...

You wonder, fleetingly, if that’s what this is—just matching outfits and shared drinks and banter under the sun. A weekend thing. A festival thing. Something the heat and the music and the glitter makes feel bigger than it is. But then Yoongi catches your eye across the camp and tips his cup toward yours with a wink. And your heart does that stupid thing again. That little leap. That little what if.

You don’t let yourself linger on it. Not right now. Not when everyone’s buzzing and beautiful and the day’s only just begun.

But even as you turn away, even as you toss your head and join the noise, the thought lingers like the taste of lemon on your tongue: What if this doesn’t end with the weekend? You push the thought out of your head and join back into whatever the boys are doing. 

You and Yoongi slip out of camp earlier than the others, drawn by the promise of the photo booth at the camping hub and the kind of light that only exists before noon at a festival—soft and golden, before the sun gets too mean. The walk is easy, the mood light.

Halfway there, you veer toward a slushie truck with a hand on Yoongi’s wrist. “Free samples,” you grin. “It’s fate.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but follows without complaint. The slushie hits your tongue like a miracle—icy, syrupy bliss—and you both moan dramatically in unison, then laugh at yourselves.

“Okay, worth it,” he admits, wiping his mouth.

At the photo booth, there’s no line, just a breeze curling through the open tent flaps and the hum of a nearby speaker playing an old Shinee song. You drag Yoongi inside and sit close, your knees knocking.

First photo: you grab his face and smash your cheek to his, grinning so wide it crinkles your eyes.

Second photo: you twist and kiss his cheek, and he plays along, covering his mouth with both hands like he’s scandalized.

Third photo: he turns to you gently, fingers curling along your jaw. His kiss is soft and slow, perfectly timed with the shutter.

When the strips print out, you both reach for them at the same time, and you can’t stop smiling. They’re perfect—warm light, flushed cheeks, the kind of photos that don’t need filters. You tuck yours carefully into your phone case.

From there, you head toward the front gates, even though they won’t open for another hour and a half. Moonchildren are already gathering, their shirts, signs and purple hearts giving them away immediately. You feel the same low thrum of excitement vibrating in your bones—the deep knowing that today is his day.

Yoongi carries the bigger bag, the one you over packed this morning. It’s stuffed with snacks, two handheld fans, sunscreen, a small blanket, a sweater, wet wipes, a portable charger, and whatever else you thought might save you from wilting later. The main stage is brutal during the day, no shade at all until sundown—but you’ll survive. You always do. For RM, you would stand on the sun.

While you wait, your competitive instincts kick in, and you start arguing about who should sprint for the barricade once the gates open. It’s inevitable that one of you will have to stay behind while they check the larger bag. 

“I’m faster,” you say, confidently.

“You’re chaotic,” Yoongi counters. “You’ll trip over your own excitement.”

“You have the bag!”

“I’ll throw the bag.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

You're both bickering through grins, shifting on your feet as more fans trickle in. The sun climbs higher. The gates stay shut. The moment pulses with potential—of a show, of a day, of whatever this thing is between you and him that neither of you wants to name just yet.

The second the gates open, you're off like a shot.

Dust kicks up under your boots as you sprint for center barricade, weaving through the early rush of festival-goers. Behind you, you can hear Yoongi shout something—probably a warning—but you don't stop. Not when you've got a perfect opening and the barricade in sight.

Security pulls him aside because of the oversized bag, and you throw a quick glance over your shoulder to catch him holding up his hands in mock surrender as a guard rifles through the snacks, fans, sunscreen, and extra layers. You’ll owe him for this later.

The front row is already dotted with a few familiar faces—Moonchildren, RM fans just as eager as you are—but it isn’t packed yet. You slide in between two people with a breathless, elated laugh, your fingers locking around the cold metal bar.

Fifth. You’re the fifth person on center barricade.

You take a second to catch your breath, chest rising and falling as the heat of the sun starts to press down on your shoulders. But your grin doesn’t fade.

Yoongi jogs up a moment later, bag slung back over one shoulder, scowling half-heartedly. “Unfair. You’re fast.”

“You’re lucky I saved you a spot,” you tease, nudging your hip against his. “They could’ve filled up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulls out one of the fans and hands it to you, then cracks open a bottle of water. “At least tell me I didn’t haul ass across a field for nothing.”

You flash him a smile, eyes already trained on the stage being prepped. “You didn’t. We’ve got a perfect view. Center barricade. It’s happening.”

He bumps your shoulder and settles in beside you, matching your grip on the rail. The rail you soon won’t be able to touch because it’s too hot. Around you, the pit starts to fill, voices buzzing with excitement, music thrumming in the background like a heartbeat.

The first act starts and the heat becomes harder to ignore. You're sweating already, but the energy in the crowd helps distract you. The sun is relentless. You twist your hair up and Yoongi quietly hands you a hair tie from the bag. His fingers brush the nape of your neck and linger for a beat too long. When you glance at him, he's already looking at you, a slow smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

He doesn’t seem the type to be touchy in public, but something about the heat, the music, the way you look right now—it short-circuits his restraint. He lets his fingers brush your hand when you reach for your water. Presses his knee against yours until the contact feels permanent. During the second set, he hooks an arm around your waist without thinking, tugging you back against him. You lean into it without comment.

Taehyung appears first, glitter across his cheeks and a flower crown askew on his curls. He thrusts an extra crown toward you. "Put it on, Post-It Princess," he says with a wink, and you do, laughing as the petals tickle your forehead. Jimin and Jin aren’t far behind, weaving through the crowd to find you.

Jin takes one look at you and Yoongi and raises an eyebrow. “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he says.

Jimin just beams and pulls out his phone. “Selfie time.”

The four of you cram together, sweaty and glowy and chaotic. Yoongi ducks out of the frame but you catch him smiling as he watches you.

Jimin brings you a tray of skewers and lemonade he hustled from a vendor. “Eat before you pass out,” he says, holding a skewer to your lips like it’s a test of loyalty. You take a bite and make a satisfied noise.

When you finally open the bag Yoongi carried all morning, you grin. Everything is exactly where you packed it. None of the snacks have been touched. “You guys didn’t eat anything?” you ask.

Yoongi shrugs. “Figured you had a plan.”

Your chest warms. Silly, maybe. But it feels like being seen.

Between sets, Yoongi sinks down beside you. Then, surprisingly, he stretches out and rests his head across your lap. Your fingers move to his hair without thinking, brushing through the soft strands as he closes his eyes. His face is peaceful in the hazy light, lips parted just slightly.

You glance up and Jin is watching with a knowing look. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and nods like: yeah, we see it.

As the third set begins, you can feel a light buzz building from the drinks, the sun, the joy. The pit is full now. Your friends dance around you, spinning and shouting lyrics, completely alive.

Yoongi stands behind you now, arms on the barricade on either side of you, close enough that you feel his breath when he leans in and murmurs, “Still okay?”

You nod, pressing your head back to his shoulder. “Perfect.”

When the next act ends, the stage goes dark for setup. There’s one more performer before RM. Taehyung, Jimin, and Jin take off to meet friends or hunt down food, but you and Yoongi stay. The pit is electric, buzzing with the promise of what’s coming.

He doesn’t move far from you. Instead, he takes your hand, fingers interlaced lazily while the sun begins its descent.

And you sit there, center barricade, flower crown wilting, glitter smudged, heart full.

Yoongi stretches out beside you, his head resting on the barricade while you sit, the heat of the day starting to soften as the sun lowers. He’s quieter now, just taking everything in, but his eyes flicker to you every now and then, as if he can’t help himself. His gaze holds, and when it does, you feel a subtle warmth creep into your skin.

You glance at him, still catching your breath from the last set, and feel an unspoken pull between the two of you. For someone who isn’t big on PDA, Yoongi’s been a little...touchier today. His fingers brush against yours, not by accident, and his arm grazes your shoulder more than once. Every time it happens, your heart skips a beat.

“What?” you ask, voice teasing but laced with a hint of curiosity.

Yoongi gives you a half-smile, leaning in a bit closer. “Nothing. Just thinking about last night.”

You feel your breath hitch at the mention of it, heat flooding your face. You’d been so caught up in the chaos of the day that you hadn’t really thought about the way his lips had felt on your skin, the way he’d kissed you with a hunger that had made everything else disappear. The way his hands had touched you like he didn’t want to let go, even for a second.

“What about last night?” you manage, trying to sound casual despite your racing heart.

Yoongi’s eyes glint, and his voice lowers, almost a growl. “You were...distracting.” His words linger in the air like a challenge, and you feel the space between you both heat up.

You look away for a second, collecting yourself, but the grin that spreads across his face tells you that he’s enjoying this, enjoying the way he’s getting under your skin.

“You should’ve known better,” you say, leaning closer to him, voice dropping to match his tone. “I warned you, I’m trouble.”

“Oh, I know,” Yoongi replies, the corners of his lips curling as his gaze flicks from your lips to your eyes. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

A beat of silence passes before you, feeling the heat of his words settle in your chest. You bite your lip, letting the tension stretch between you before you pull out your phone.

“Come on,” you say, breaking the tension but still feeling that electric hum between you. “We’re taking selfies. We look too good today to not document it.”

Yoongi groans dramatically. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.” You smirk, pointing the camera at both of you. “Smile. You’re too cute to ignore.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. When you click the first picture, his eyes flicker over to yours, mischievous and playful. You angle the phone again, snapping more shots as you both get into it, laughing and leaning closer with each picture.

“Wait, hold up,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “I think we need one more...but this time, I want to see if you can do better than that grumpy face of yours.”

Yoongi leans in a little more, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispers, “I think I’ve been holding back all day. Want me to show you?”

Your stomach flutters at the challenge in his voice, and before you can think twice, he leans in to kiss your temple, his lips lingering there a moment too long. The camera clicks as the moment catches on film, and you pause, your pulse racing.

For a second, neither of you says anything, the air thick with the unspoken.

“Damn,” you murmur, breaking the silence, “we really do look good together.”

Yoongi hums, a playful smirk still tugging at his lips. “Told you.”

You check the photos, your fingers trembling a little. You swipe to the next one, seeing the way Yoongi had caught your eye just as he kissed your cheek, and something inside you tightens—something that’s been building ever since you met his gaze for the first time today.

You’re still reeling a bit from how close everything feels—how close he feels—when you notice Yoongi unlock his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through something with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts his position slightly, letting his leg press against yours as he gets comfortable again.

You glance down, curious, and your eyes immediately widen. You clock it instantly—that’s AO3.

Worse: you recognize the fic. Instantly.

He scrolls past a banner you know by heart, a stunning red-and-black graphic with clean font and jagged lines of war paint across a pair of silhouetted faces. Your heart jumps into your throat.

“Wait.” You practically launch yourself sideways, staring at the screen. “Is that—War? By glosswrites?”

Yoongi freezes. Like, full body goes stiff, thumb hovering mid-scroll.

You gasp. “It is! Oh my god. I love that fic! That’s, like, one of my top five Namkook fics of all time. No, scratch that, top three. Glosswrites is a genius. Their prose? The dialogue? The pacing in the siege arc? Unreal.”

Yoongi clears his throat and stares down at his phone like he wants it to disappear. His ears go red. “Uh.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do you look like you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar?”

He shifts again, clearly flustered. “...I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

You blink. “Say anything about what?”

He hesitates. Then, in a voice so low you almost don’t catch it: “I’m...glosswrites.”

You stare.

You stare.

Then, your hand flies to his shoulder. “SHUT. UP.”

Yoongi winces but laughs, turning away slightly like he can hide the way his cheeks are turning pink. “I didn’t think you’d read any of my stuff. Or recognize it.”

“You idiot, of course I recognize it!” You hit his arm lightly, half-scolding and half-overjoyed. “Are you kidding? You wrote Kingdom Come, Saltwater and Bone, and that absurdly emotional post-apocalyptic Namseok fic, didn’t you?”

He nods sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That one got away from me.”

You gape at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. “Yoongi! I have cried real tears over your fics. I’ve stayed up until four a.m. refreshing the tag for an update. You made me care about political intrigue.”

Yoongi laughs again, eyes crinkling. There’s something in his expression that’s half embarrassment, half soft pride. “Damn. I really wasn’t expecting this reaction.”

“I’m obsessed with your writing,” you say, tone a little breathless. “You make heartbreak feel like poetry.”

His smile falters just a little, turning more sincere. “Thank you. Really.”

There’s a long beat where neither of you says anything. You’re still buzzing with the revelation. You look at him differently now. This person you’ve been falling into all day is also the architect of worlds that have lived rent-free in your head for years.

And he’s looking at you like he’s relieved you know.

You shake your head, grinning. “I can’t believe I hooked up with glosswrites.”

Yoongi chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Please don’t say it like that.”

You lean in closer, teasing, “Glosswrites. Kiss me again.”

“Stop,” he mutters, but he’s laughing, his ears still pink. “You’re gonna ruin my mystique.”

“Oh babe,” you say, curling an arm around his shoulder, “it’s too late for that. You’re mine now, and I know your secret.”

“Guess I’ll have to kill you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to rest against yours.

“Mm, let me reread Saltwater and Bone first.”

He groans, but his hand slips into yours without a second thought.

The sound system booms to life again, pulling you both back to the present. The stage lights flash in rapid bursts as the next artist steps up—someone with a strong cult following and a gritty, underground sound that makes the whole pit come alive with renewed energy.

You shift, stretching your legs while Yoongi leans against your side, still scrolling absently on his phone, probably checking comments. You glance at him with a smirk.

“Still reading your own reviews, glosswrites?”

He groans into your shoulder. “You're never letting this go, are you?”

“Never. I feel like I need to re-read everything now that I know it’s you. The longing scenes? The angst? Yoongi. You wrote that stuff.”

He lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. “And?”

You lean in, dropping your voice. “And now I can’t stop thinking about the scene in War where Jungkook says, ‘If I die, I want it to be with your name in my mouth.’ You wrote that.”

Yoongi flushes, and you grin with wicked delight.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, biting back a smile.

You nudge his knee. “Can’t help it. You’re hot and emotionally devastating. What a combo.”

The set on stage builds slowly—dark synths, flashing strobes, heavy bass that makes the ground tremble beneath your feet. The artist before RM throws the crowd into a frenzy with two unreleased tracks.

“I produced one of these,” he says casually, just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

You whip toward him. “What? Which one?!”

He just shrugs with a smug little grin, eyes sparkling.

By the time the set winds down, the anticipation in the air is tangible. People are chanting, screaming, checking their phones and recording the stage. Everyone knows who’s next.

The giant LED screen flickers to black for a long moment.

Then a low hum begins to rise—like the sound of static filtered through deep water. The bass line pulses faintly under it, then grows. A single spotlight flares center stage, casting a long, stretched shadow.

You grab Yoongi’s hand instinctively, and he laces his fingers through yours.

And then—RM.

He steps out from the smoke, hoodie half-zipped, chain catching the stage lights, posture calm but charged like a storm about to break. The entire crowd loses it. People are screaming, hands in the air, crying, chanting his name.

RM raises a mic. No fanfare. No big opening drop.

Just:

“Let’s talk.”

The pit erupts.

Yoongi whistles low. “He always knows how to start.”

You nod, eyes locked on the stage, already breathless. “God, he’s so cool.”

Yoongi leans toward you, still holding your hand. “He really is.”

RM launches into Intro: Persona, his voice crisp and sharp, weaving between the lyrics and the beat with practiced ease. The crowd sings every word like it’s gospel, and your heart thuds in time with the music.

There’s something powerful and raw about watching him perform—like he’s stripping himself bare in front of thousands and daring anyone to look away.

You glance sideways. Even Yoongi, for all his calm, has that look on his face—the one he only gets when something is really hitting. Like admiration, pride, and a little awe all at once.

RM rolls seamlessly into Do You, and the crowd surges forward like a wave. His delivery is sharp, rhythmic, full of bite—words slicing through the heat and dust as he prowls the stage. He spits each lyric with the kind of conviction that makes you feel like he’s aiming them right at your chest.

“You do you and I’ll do me,” he shouts, and thousands scream it back.

You and Yoongi jump and shout right along with them, your hands still loosely clasped between you. It's sweaty, chaotic, overwhelming—but it’s perfect. The kind of moment that feels like it belongs to just the two of you, even with thousands of people pressed in on all sides.

By the time Yun comes on, the sun has dipped low enough to give the stage an eerie golden glow. RM's tone shifts—slower, weightier. His voice pours over the crowd like honey and thunder. The visuals on the screen behind him flicker with old video footage: abandoned alleyways, dried fields, a shot of a cracked statue’s face.

You blink through the heat, suddenly aware of how still it’s gone in the pit. Everyone's listening.

RM pauses between verses and says, “For the ones still figuring themselves out...I’m right there with you.”

The silence that follows is reverent. You feel it sink into your skin.

Yoongi leans in and murmurs, “He’s good at this part. The unraveling.”

You nod slowly. “He makes being lost sound like a roadmap.”

There’s no reply from Yoongi, just the brush of his thumb along the inside of your wrist, grounding you as RM transitions into Forg_tful. The melody is softer, almost tender, like a lullaby for every scar you thought would never fade.

He sings, not just raps—his voice fragile in the best way, like something made of paper and light.

You feel the sting in your throat before you even realize you're getting choked up.

Yoongi squeezes your hand. You glance at him through blurred eyes, and he doesn’t say anything—just gives you that quiet look of his, like he sees everything and won't ask a single question you’re not ready to answer.

Then the bass drops back in for Still Life, and the crowd roars to life again.

RM grins wide under the lights, bounces across the stage, and yells, “Y’all still alive out there?!”

The pit answers with pure chaos. You scream, jump, laugh—and when Yoongi pulls you into his chest with both arms slung around your waist, you don’t even think, just melt into it.

He mouths the lyrics along with RM, pressed close to your ear:

“I’m still life / But I’m movin’.”

And in that moment, you are. Every part of you is alive, humming, held, understood.

The lights dim again, and you think maybe it's time. Maybe it's really happening.

Then the synth line from Joke hits like a warning shot.

The crowd erupts. Yoongi jolts upright beside you, and you both instinctively grip the barricade as RM walks out under a wash of white light, already spitting bars like the stage is on fire. His presence is magnetic. He’s commanding every inch of the space, making the mic an extension of his body. His tongue twists with impossible speed and precision, each word slicing through the air like shrapnel.

You don’t even try to sing along—you just scream and jump and grab Yoongi by the wrist as the bass drops and the entire pit moves like one living thing. It’s chaos. It’s glorious. It’s RM unchained.

As the song ends, RM breathes heavy into the mic, smirking like he knows exactly what he just did. He lets the silence linger, soaking in the energy. When he speaks, it’s soft, reverent.

“This next one’s for the people who’ve ever felt a little out of place,” he says, his voice quieter now, lower. “You’re not alone.”

Then the first notes of Lonely float out. The vibe stays up because this song is a fucking bop. The crowd only gets louder as he sings, “I’m fucking lonely, lonely, lonely…”

RM bounces around the stage, lit only by soft blue lights. When it ends, he doesn’t speak right away. He takes in the crowd with a look on his face like he can’t believe this is actually happening. 

And then: "This is the last one."

The opening strings of "Wild Flower" begin, delicate and trembling. The crowd doesn’t scream—they exhale. As if they’ve been holding their breath for years.

RM closes his eyes when he sings the chorus. Youjeen’s voice pours from the speakers like thunder wrapped in velvet, and the entire field seems to swell with the sound. The visuals behind him erupt—images of fireworks blooming into flowers, wild and free, petals carried by wind and ash.

You’re openly crying now, and so is the person next to you. Even Yoongi wipes under his eyes with a quiet sniff.

When RM hits that final “I just wanna be—wanna be a rock,” the sound is deafening. Every voice joins him. It feels like release. Like peace. Like defiance and surrender all at once.

And then it’s over.

He bows once, deep and long. “Thank you,” he says. Just two words, but they ring with everything.

The lights fade.

Yoongi turns to you slowly, tears still shining in his lashes. “Holy shit.”

You nod, voice gone, heart too full to speak. You just grab his hand and hold it like an anchor.

Because this? This was everything.

You're both quiet for a moment after RM’s set—still soaking it in. The field feels like it’s buzzing, but neither of you rushes to leave. You and Yoongi just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, a little dazed, like waking up from a beautiful dream you don’t want to forget.

Eventually, he bumps your hip with his. “Drink?”

You nod, and he threads his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. Like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

You wind your way through the crowd, his hand never leaving yours, until you find a drinks stand. He orders something fruity, you go for something cold, and then you’re wandering off toward the far corner of the venue with your cups in hand, the music from the other stage just a distant thump now.

You settle in a grassy patch beneath the shadow of an art installation—some kind of massive chrome sphere that reflects the setting sun. The sky is stained gold and peach. Yoongi flops down dramatically, his legs sprawled wide, his cup tilted toward yours like a toast.

“To Namjoon,” he says, voice a little rough.

“To Namjoon,” you echo, tapping the rim of your cup to his.

You sip in silence for a beat before Yoongi reaches out, resting a hand on your thigh like he’s just placing it there for a second. But it lingers. His thumb moves—slow little circles that make your breath catch. He’s watching you, too. Lazily. Like he’s savoring something only he can taste.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here,” he murmurs. “With you. After that.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “You sound like you’re about to write a poem.”

He leans in. “I might. But it’d get me banned from AO3.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Yoongi.”

He just laughs—quiet, low, and pleased with himself.

And then his lips are on your neck. Not rushed. Just soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, the edge of your ear, down to your collarbone. The warmth between you builds, a slow simmering thing. You shift, knees brushing, his hand sliding higher. His touch isn’t desperate—it’s confident. Comfortable. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’re trouble,” he says, barely a whisper.

“And you’re a menace,” you reply, catching his chin and pulling him into a kiss that tastes like fruit and heat and something a little dangerous.

When you pull back, breathless, cheeks flushed, you say, “We should walk.”

He stands with a groan, offering you a hand. “Yeah, before I do something regrettable right here in the grass.”

You giggle, but take his hand anyway. Together, you wander off again—this time toward the Always Tampax pop-up. It’s impossible to miss: glowing neon letters, loud music, and the heavy thump of bass pulsing from within.

Inside, it’s a fever dream.

The walls are lined top to bottom with pads, tampons, and menstrual cups. There’s a glowing dance floor in the middle. People are grabbing boxes like they’re free drinks. A DJ is spinning under a giant tampon chandelier.

You burst out laughing. “Is this…the tampon club?”

“Looks like it,” Yoongi says, spinning a box in his hand. “Best stocked club in town.”

“Take as much as you want!” a worker calls out, dancing past in a glittery jumpsuit.

You take a few packs, stuffing them into your bag. Yoongi grins and grabs one for himself too. “Emergency stash. Never know.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You stumble out the back exit, still laughing—and freeze.

There’s a trailer behind the pop-up. Sleek. White. A sign taped to the door reads: REAL BATHROOMS. FLUSHING TOILETS. SINKS WITH SOAP. Like a mirage in the desert.

No one else is around.

You exchange a look.

The stall is tiny, barely enough room to turn around in—but that only makes it worse. Or better.

He’s on you as soon as the door locks—mouth hungry, hands fast, pulling you in like he’s waited all day. You gasp into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair. The energy between you is heady, electric, a continuation of everything RM’s set stirred up.

Yoongi presses you against the wall, one hand on your hip, the other slipping up the back of your shirt, warm and firm and just a little possessive.

“You looked so fucking good watching him,” he growls against your throat. “Could barely keep my hands to myself.”

“You didn’t,” you manage to whisper, smiling into his mouth.

He kisses you again, slow and deep this time. Not teasing anymore. Just wanting.

Yoongi doesn’t waste time. His hands are on your waist, then your hips, pulling you flush against him as your back presses to the metal stall wall. You barely have time to gasp before he’s kissing you—hot, deep, like he needs it. Like he’s starved for it.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” he breathes into your mouth.

You smile against his lips, teasing. “Just by existing?”

“Worse,” he mutters, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, palms sliding up the bare skin of your back. “Looking like that. Laughing like that. Dancing on me during RM’s set like you wanted to break me.”

You tug at the drawstring of his shorts in retaliation, laughing softly as he groans. “Maybe I did.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and breathless. His pupils are blown, lips swollen. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice raw.

You don’t hesitate.

Then it’s frantic—your mouths crashing back together, your fingers yanking his shirt up, his hands everywhere at once. You’re not sure who reaches first, but suddenly he’s pulling a square foil packet from the pocket of his shorts with a smirk and a half-laugh.

“Gotta be safe this time,” he says, almost sheepish, but his voice is low and rough.

“Seriously?” you whisper, breath catching, half-laughing, half-turned on beyond reason.

“Girl Scout energy,” he murmurs, already yanking your skirt up for easier access. “Always prepared.”

Your breath stutters as you help him, both of you moving fast and clumsy, like you can’t get close enough quick enough. Clothes shoved aside just enough. Skin against skin, heat meeting heat. The stall is small, but you make it work—bodies pressed together, hands braced against cool metal, your mouths locked like you’re afraid to stop.

When he finally sinks into you, you gasp—biting your lip to stay quiet, forehead pressed to his. Yoongi groans low and broken, his hands gripping your thighs to anchor himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel like a fever dream.”

Your response is lost in a moan you muffle against his neck, your nails digging into his back as he starts to move—slow at first, teasing, until your hips catch his rhythm and he picks up pace. The cramped space only heightens everything—every breath, every whisper, every desperate sound. The stall rocks just enough to make you both laugh mid-moan, trying to stay quiet and failing miserably.

You whisper his name like a prayer, over and over, and he kisses you every time like it’s the only thing grounding him.

By the time it’s over, your clothes are disheveled, your lips swollen, and your heart’s pounding like you’ve just sprinted the length of the main stage.

Yoongi kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. Reverent. “That…was insane.”

You grin, cheeks hot. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He leans back slightly, fixing your hair like it matters, and smirks. “Tampon club forever.”

You laugh so hard you have to bite your knuckle to keep quiet.

Then you flush, wash your hands in the tiny sink, and steel yourselves.

The walk back through the Always Tampax pop-up is a blur of flashing lights and pulsing bass. You both try to look casual, but you're giggling like teenagers, bumping shoulders, doing everything not to meet the eyes of the employees handing out free pads and tampons.

Yoongi grabs a box off the wall on your way through, still smirking. “Souvenir?”

You swat his arm, breathless with laughter. “Shut up.”

It’s around 11:30 when you and Yoongi slip out of the pop-up, blinking against the dark sky now lit only by strobes, projections, and the glittering glow of festival signage. The grounds still buzz—like the desert itself is vibrating with leftover energy. You lace your fingers through his as you start heading toward the Red Bull Mirage, half-thinking the others might’ve migrated there.

You’re right.

Jimin, Taehyung, and Jin are in rare form, leaning on the pop-up bar, absolutely plastered and shamelessly flirting with the Red Bull reps like they’re auditioning for a music video. Taehyung has glitter on his collarbones and no real sense of volume control; Jimin is twirling his sunglasses like it’s a dance prop, and Jin…well, Jin is shirtless, loud, and demanding samples like a celebrity chef at Costco. He is still sipping from his fish shaped flask. 

You groan affectionately and lean into Yoongi. “Our children.”

“They need supervision,” he deadpans, and you can’t help but laugh.

Despite yourself—and the reality of your bank account—you buy a round of vodka Red Bulls for the group. A poor financial choice, maybe. But the day’s been good. Better than good. And, frankly, they deserve it. Especially if they’re going to be hearing you and Yoongi rustling around the tent again later tonight.

Taehyung shrieks when he sees the drinks and throws himself dramatically into your arms before snagging one. “You’re a goddess,” he says. “An angel. A sugar mama in desert form.”

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, but you’re grinning.

The five of you wander off, still laughing, and collapse onto a stretch of grass tucked behind one of the smaller art installations. The music from nearby stages pulses in the distance, layered with ambient lights and bursts of laughter from strangers.

You sit in a loose circle. Jimin and Taehyung are falling all over each other, limbs tangled as they drink and giggle and whisper. Yoongi’s pressed against your side, head resting on your shoulder, one hand lazily draped across your thigh. His touch is gentle now, warm and grounding.

Jin, glowing with sweat and pure Jin energy, is animatedly recounting his wildest moments from the Yuma tent earlier. Something about a stilt-walking DJ, a guy in a fur coat, and a beat drop so filthy it made a stranger cry.

“I swear to god,” he says, gesturing wildly with his cup, “I saw someone propose and someone puke in the same five seconds.”

You snort. “Festival romance and reality, hand in hand.”

Everyone laughs.

The circle quiets after a while. You finish your drinks slowly, the buzz setting in just right. The night air is cool now, breezy against the heat that still lingers on your skin. Yoongi turns his face toward your neck, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. No one comments. No one needs to.

You lean back slightly, just enough to take it all in.

The lights. The music. The taste of Red Bull still on your tongue. The thrum of bass in your chest. Your friends—beautiful and ridiculous and yours. Yoongi, solid against you, warm and safe. You feel cracked wide open in the best way, joy spilling out where stress used to sit.

And for the first time in months, you feel whole.

So damn happy you could cry.

You’re just starting to debate whether to lie back in the grass or gather yourselves when Jin suddenly claps his hands like a dad at a cookout.

“Alright, my turn to contribute to this night of decadence,” he announces, wobbling to his feet. “Who’s hungry?”

All hands go up immediately.

“I saw a dumpling stand near the dome installation,” Jin says, eyes gleaming. “And a taco truck. And maybe some kind of fusion birria thing that made me emotional just walking past it.”

“God bless you,” Jimin whispers, reaching out like he’s seen a vision.

“I’ll be back in ten,” Jin says heroically, adjusting his nonexistent shirt and sauntering off into the crowd, looking like the drunkest bachelor at a wedding.

Yoongi’s still nestled close to your side, and you rest your head against his for a moment. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your wrist, the two of you content in your bubble of music, heat, and late-night joy.

When Jin returns, he comes bearing glory: two brown paper bags overflowing with tacos, dumplings, spring rolls, and something covered in sauce and cheese that no one can name but everyone accepts like gospel.

You relocate to a quieter spot, closer to the edges of the venue, away from the last stage still thumping. You all drop to the ground again, forming a loose circle lit by the soft ambient glow of a nearby art sculpture shaped like a glowing rib cage.

The food is divine—warm, salty, spicy, greasy. Perfect.

Jimin moans through a bite of his taco. “This is the best decision you’ve ever made, Jin.”

“I’ve made a lot of good decisions,” Jin says smugly, licking his fingers. “Like taking my shirt off. You’re welcome.”

Taehyung is curled up next to Jimin, messily devouring a dumpling with chili oil all over his lips. “We should eat like this every day,” he mumbles.

Yoongi passes you a spring roll and brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “You’re glowing,” he says quietly, just for you.

“It’s the sauce,” you say with a grin.

“It’s not.”

You don’t say anything, just lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek before going back to your food. You’re full, a little buzzed, and absolutely basking in the warmth of the moment—your friends, the food, the lights, the air heavy with music and memories already forming.

For now, there’s nowhere to be but here.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

You leave the venue in a loose pack, Jin leading the way like some kind of wine-drenched tour guide, still narrating his culinary triumphs as you all wind your way through the glowing art installations and past the last of the festival stragglers.

Taehyung has one arm slung around Jimin’s waist, the other hand holding a half-finished canned cocktail he snagged from someone on the way out. Jimin’s sipping from a tall cup of something neon and probably deadly, but he looks radiant under the moonlight, giggling as Tae nuzzles into his neck.

You’ve got your own drink, something citrusy and way too strong, and Yoongi's sipping from a flask he swore he wasn’t going to bring. You bump hips a few times as you walk, your bodies naturally leaning toward each other.

"You're a menace," you murmur as he takes another swig.

"You're the one who made me drink water before the bathroom incident," he fires back, smirking. "I consider this revenge."

The path to the campgrounds is alive with other festival-goers—groups with glow sticks, couples wrapped in dusty hoodies, someone playing guitar near one of the towers with a turtle on it. It all feels like one long afterglow, stretched out and humming.

When you reach your cluster of tents, Jimin immediately ducks into the supply tent and emerges like a champion.

“Who wants shots?” he sings, holding up a sleeve of tiny red solo cups in one hand and a full bottle of tequila in the other.

The answer is everyone.

You grab a small bag from your personal cooler and begin distributing water bottles, each prepped with Liquid I.V. and labeled in black Sharpie. You shove one into Yoongi’s hand before he can even think about touching a cup.

“Hydrate first, cowboy,” you warn.

He pouts but obeys, cracking the bottle open and downing half of it. “You’re so responsible when you’re tipsy. It’s alarming.”

“It’s the Virgo moon,” you reply without missing a beat.

Everyone takes a seat in the makeshift circle between tents, the fairy lights overhead blinking softly. Jin takes his shot like a champ. Taehyung downs his with a flourish and then demands a second. Jimin’s perched in Yoongi’s lap, teasing him as he sips water, and you’re already reaching for the next round.

The night isn’t winding down—it’s evolving. Buzzing. Glowing. And none of you are ready for it to end.

The tequila makes quick work of everyone.

By the second round of shots, Jin’s thrown his arm around Jimin’s shoulder and is dramatically reenacting the moment he got trapped in a crowd of shirtless ravers at Yuma earlier. “I thought I was going to die in there. Sweaty. Hot. Glitter in places I didn’t know could hold glitter.”

“Oh no,” Jimin says, resting his chin on Jin’s shoulder. “Poor baby. Do you need…mouth-to-mouth?”

“Only if you’re the one giving it,” Jin fires back with a wink.

Taehyung gasps like he’s been personally betrayed, grabs Jimin by the jaw, and kisses him square on the mouth in retaliation. It’s warm and playful and sloppy—Jimin laughs into it, kissing back just as dramatically before turning and grabbing Jin by the collar.

“Fine. You get one too,” he says, kissing him with a flourish.

Jin whoops, nearly tipping over from where he’s perched on a folding chair, and Taehyung cackles as he pours more tequila into a waiting solo cup. “We’re starting a revolution,” he declares, pointing at no one in particular.

“Of kissing?” you ask, already laughing.

“Of joy,” Taehyung corrects. “And bisexuality.”

The night is electric with that kind of high that only comes from heat, alcohol, and too much love between friends. You’re pressed into Yoongi’s side, his arm around your waist, both of you sharing the same fleece blanket someone dragged out of a tent earlier.

He leans in close, his voice low in your ear, “Are they always like this?”

You glance at him and grin. “Honestly? This is pretty tame.”

He laughs, squeezing your hip. “I love it here.”

There’s music coming from someone’s Bluetooth speaker—something funky, bass-heavy, perfect for slow dancing or grinding or just drunkenly swaying. Jin’s trying to convince Taehyung to start a strip tease, while Jimin dramatically pours shots for an invisible audience.

You and Yoongi just watch it all, cheeks sore from smiling, toes curled into the dusty grass. He kisses the side of your head. You nudge your nose into the collar of his hoodie.

Jimin flops down in the grass again and throws his legs across Taehyung’s lap. “I love you idiots so much,” he declares.

“Shut up and take another shot,” Jin says, but his grin gives him away.

You look around the circle. There’s dirt on your calves, glitter on your arms, the faint sting of sunburn under your shirt—and you’ve never felt more beautiful, more alive, more surrounded by your people.

Yoongi leans in. “Third shot?”

You raise your cup. “Let’s make it four.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The music from someone’s Bluetooth speaker fades in and out with the breeze, but you’re barely listening. Not when Yoongi’s knee keeps bumping into yours. Not when his fingers graze yours every time he takes a sip of his drink.

You glance over, catch him already looking at you. His dark eyes unreadable and lips parted like he might say something but changes his mind. You don’t look away.

“Quit staring, menace.” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours.

“Can’t help it.” He smirks, but it’s slow and lazy, the kind that says he’s been thinking things he probably shouldn’t say out loud. Not here. Not with everyone still around.

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t shy away when he shifts closer, his thigh brushing yours again, firmer this time. You can smell his cologne now—warm and woodsy, familiar. Dangerous.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” you say, voice dipping lower, “and I’m gonna think you’re trying to get in trouble.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to your mouth like gravity’s got a grip on him. “Maybe I am.”

There’s barely a beat of silence before he adds, quieter now, just for you. “Wanna sneak off?”

The words settle in your stomach like a spark looking for fuel.

Your gaze flicks to the others—Jimin dancing, Taehyung throwing popcorn at him—and then back to Yoongi. His hand rests lightly on your leg, fingers splayed over the denim of your skirt, thumb tracing lazy circles that make your breath catch.

You pretend to consider it, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Lead the way.”

Yoongi’s grin sharpens, eyes gleaming with something wicked as he stands and offers you his hand like it’s a promise. You take it without hesitation.

Yoongi already had someone prepare a space, and it was honestly kind of perfect. The back seats of Jin’s SUV are folded down flat, covered in thick blankets, extra hoodies, and a couple of pillows he must’ve stolen from the tent earlier. All the windows are blacked out with jackets and towels tucked into the edges, and with the trunk door shut, the sound of the outside world dulls to a soft hum.

You crawl in first, laughing under your breath, and Yoongi follows right after, pulling the door shut behind him with a definitive thump. The space around you feels stolen—intimate, secret. The air is warm from the heat of the day and still carries that electric buzz from earlier. You're both drunk, skin flushed and nerves on fire.

He settles next to you and immediately reaches out, brushing hair behind your ear and tilting your chin toward him. “You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, just before kissing you.

The kiss starts slow, but Yoongi’s never been good at hiding what he wants. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb dragging over your cheekbone while his mouth deepens the kiss, breath hot against your lips. Your fingers dig into his side, feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt as you push it up and out of your way.

He shrugs out of it, eyes locked on yours, then leans back in, dragging his mouth across your neck, open-mouthed and deliberate. His hands are all over you—exploring, gripping, sliding under layers. Every touch makes you more restless, more eager, your hips shifting against his with growing urgency.

You let out a breathy laugh when he groans softly, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back just enough to say, “Gotta be safe this time.” He pulls a condom out of his shorts pocket and tosses it to the side like a promise. The look in his eyes is serious, dark, and full of heat.

Clothes come off slowly, messily, with whispered encouragement and breathless gasps between kisses. Your hands roam, learning the shape of his back, the way his muscles tighten when you drag your nails lightly down his spine. His mouth returns to yours, then to your collarbone, then lower.

The two of you move together in sync, laughter dissolving into low moans and hushed curses. The SUV rocks gently, and you both muffle your sounds against one another's skin, too far gone to care who might hear. You feel everything—every roll of his hips, every gasp against your neck, every lingering touch that leaves your body on fire.

And when it’s over, the windows are fogged, your bodies tangled, chests rising and falling in a warm, slow rhythm.

You lie there in the afterglow, cheek pressed to his shoulder, both of you grinning.

“You think they heard us?” you murmur.

Yoongi kisses your forehead. “Jin said the car muffles sound. He sounded confident.”

You burst out laughing and slap his chest lightly before pulling your clothes back on, piece by piece. You’re still wrapped up in blankets in the back of Jin’s SUV, limbs tangled, clothes lazily half-on, the smell of his skin still clinging to yours like warmth after the sun’s gone down. The windows are fogged, the outside noise a muffled thrum behind layers of cotton and metal. It feels like you’re the only two people in the world.

Yoongi shifts beside you, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. His fingers trail along your spine in slow, absent circles. You think he's about to fall asleep—his breathing is even, his body loose against yours—but then he speaks, voice low and unsteady.

“I need to tell you something,” he murmurs.

You lift your head from his shoulder, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. You can feel the tension gather again in his body, like a string being slowly pulled taut. He looks up at the ceiling of the car, then over at you, eyes soft but serious.

“This isn’t just…this isn’t just amazing sex to me,” he says, quietly but clearly. “I know it might look like that, like we’ve just been vibing and hooking up and having fun, but it’s more for me. It’s been more.”

Your breath catches a little. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I keep trying to play it cool, like I can just ride this out until the festival ends and deal with it later, but I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to go into tomorrow wondering if this is only what it’s been under the stars and the lights and all the noise. I need to know if this… us…is something real or could be. I need to know if I’m not the only one feeling it this deeply.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and trembling. You’ve never seen him look quite like this—open, exposed, vulnerable in a way that’s different than physical nakedness. Like he’s offering up something delicate, and trusting you not to break it.

“I think about you all the time,” he continues, quieter now. “I hear you in my head. You’ve got this—this hold on me. A soft spot that I didn’t see coming.”

It’s like hearing the lyrics of a song that always felt too close to home. Something quiet and aching, raw at the edges. Your throat tightens.

“Yoongi…” You sit up slightly, cupping his cheek, feeling the faintest tremble in his jaw. “I feel it too. I didn’t know how to say it, but I do. It’s not just the festival. It’s not just the sex. It’s the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. It’s how you make me feel safe without trying.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s waiting to be sure, like he’s not quite ready to believe he didn’t screw this all up.

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your nose brushing his. “It’s you. You’re what’s real.”

Yoongi lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in for days. His hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you—not with hunger this time, but with something slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Outside the SUV, the party is still going. Laughter, music, someone yelling about needing more tequila. But here in this little cocoon, it’s quiet. Sacred. A pocket of time that belongs just to you two. And in the soft dark, with your fingers threaded through his and your head resting on his chest, you know—this is the start of something.

You’re reluctant to move at first, wrapped up in Yoongi’s warmth, his words still echoing in your chest, but eventually, the rising sounds of laughter and music outside coax you back into the world. It’s almost 2am, but the camping area is alive, pulsing with leftover energy from the festival grounds.

Yoongi stretches with a quiet groan and opens the hatch of the SUV. Cool air rushes in, a sharp contrast to the warmth you’d been curled up in. You blink against the dim lights from scattered lanterns and strings of fairy lights zigzagging across tents.

As soon as your feet hit the grass, Jin’s voice cuts through the air like a siren.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls from his lawn chair, a half-empty White Claw dangling from his hand. “Look who’s decided to rejoin society.”

Taehyung, draped over Jimin like a living scarf, wiggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Must’ve been a religious experience in there. You both look very…cleansed.”

Jimin dissolves into laughter, clutching his stomach.

You try to keep a straight face but end up giggling as you lean into Yoongi. He smirks, but before he can fire back, Jin holds up a finger.

“I swear to God, Min. If I find so much as one mystery stain in my backseat, you’re paying for a full detail. Inside and out.”

Yoongi raises a hand in solemn promise. “Noted. Full detail. Deluxe package. Wax and everything.”

That gets a loud cheer from the group, and someone tosses Yoongi a beer, which he catches with ease.

As the teasing fades into chuckles, a familiar beat starts up from a Bluetooth speaker nearby—something bassy and smooth, enough to get heads nodding and hips swaying without much effort. Someone’s doing cartwheels in the distance. Someone else is offering glow sticks.

Yoongi turns to you, drink in hand, eyes still soft beneath the mischief. “Dance with me?”

You nod, sliding your hands into his as he pulls you gently into a little pocket of space between tents. The grass is cool beneath your feet, and the air smells of sunscreen, booze, dust and faint traces of festival food. Around you, groups of campers are still laughing, dancing, and clinging to the magic of the night like it might slip away if they stop.

He sways with you, hands low on your waist, lips brushing your temple once, then again. You close your eyes and let it all soak in—his body pressed to yours, the gentle thump of music, the hum of laughter, the occasional flicker of fairy lights above your heads.

Nobody wants day two to end. Not yet. Not when it’s been this good.

Not when tomorrow night means goodbye to this little dreamworld.

The music rolls on, one song blurring into the next like warm waves. The five of you move between lazy dancing and lounging, circling back to the foldout chairs and the soft patches of grass where someone’s laid down another blanket.

Jin eventually throws on a hoodie—still shirtless underneath—and starts making hot ramen with his tiny camp stove, dramatically narrating the entire process like a street food vendor on TikTok. Taehyung joins in as his sous-chef, passing him seasoning packets like they’re sacred scrolls.

Jimin, emboldened by a second vodka soda, clambers into Yoongi’s lap for approximately two seconds before collapsing beside him and laying his head on your thigh. “You guys are too cute,” he mumbles, poking at Yoongi’s knee. “Disgusting. Inspiring. Beautiful. Ew.”

You laugh and run a hand through his hair while Yoongi just shrugs like he’s being unfairly persecuted. “We’re in our honeymoon era,” he says, which earns a dramatic fake gagging sound from Jin.

“Already planning the registry,” you add sweetly, and Jimin slaps your knee with a groan.

By now, someone from another camp has brought over more snacks—half a bag of marshmallows, some chocolate bars, and a pack of mango-flavored Hi-Chews. You trade them for one of your Liquid IVs, and the barter economy is thriving.

Taehyung disappears for a minute and comes back with a little handheld disco light, the kind that projects neon sparkles onto the sides of tents. He sets it down in the middle of the blanket like a disco campfire, and for a few minutes you all sit and stare at it like it’s the most mesmerizing thing you’ve ever seen.

Yoongi curls his fingers around yours. You lean against him, shoulder to chest, legs tangled. It’s comfortable in a way you didn’t know you needed—like even though the night’s been loud and wild, this quiet glow, this warmth, is the best part.

“This has been the best night,” Jimin sighs dreamily, eyes closed.

“No,” Jin counters, holding out the instant noodles with the gravitas of a king. “Now it’s the best night.”

You all eat noodles straight from the pot with chopsticks and plastic forks, sharing bites and making dramatic noises of appreciation. No one mentions the hour, or the ache in their feet, or the fact that tomorrow is the last day. You’ve all silently agreed to pretend time doesn’t exist.