#inbetweenplaysmasterlist

Namjoon Kim : I just wanna get with you 🫦.

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Related fics: In Between Plays and Playlists ,

Namjoon as Scorpio

(from "In Between Plays and Playlists"- a Namjoon x Reader fanfic)

First read: intro, chapter 1, 2

Next: chapter 3 . Masterlist .

---

You weren’t going to say anything about the eyeliner.

Not when she was already technically late — even though she insisted you were early — and not when she was flustered from running across campus and still looked like poetry in motion.

Or showed up today — rain-soaked, dripping at your door like a scene straight out of a novel she’d pretend not to romanticize.

But you noticed.

Just like you always notice the barely-there ink smudge on her wrist, the exact way her ankle curls beneath her when she’s focused, and the fact that it's just not her to flash her teeth every now and then — except when you call her Pocket Problem or Smol Chaos, or when she’s wrapped in your blanket, saying “Page 42” like it meant something more than a number.

You hoped she didn’t hear the way your heart tripped over itself when she did.

It’s unfair, really — how someone who looks like she’d square up at anyone who calls her five feet tall could also smile so softly it dissolves every ounce of logic in your body, like the sun breaking through fog.

She showed up at your door, soaked and breathless and half-laughing, claiming she was "fine" while shivering like a leaf.

You offered her a towel.

Then tea.

Then silence.

And when she asked if she could shower —

You tried not to think too hard about her being in your bathroom, peeling off damp layers, standing under water that used to only hit your shoulders.

You really tried.

And then she called out from the hallway, towel-wrapped, hair dripping, asking about that triple-wash you got.

Shit. You forgot about it.

You froze mid-sip.

> “What?”

She smirked.

You scratched your neck, pretending to be casual, giving her excuses that were barely convincing.

You're almost sure it’s over — the cat's out of the bag — she knows you too well to be convinced by that.

You didn’t say you’d kept it unopened for months.

You didn’t say you used it exactly once.

You didn’t say it still smelled like her skin, even in a bottle.

But then she disappeared back inside before either of you could unpack it further.

You sighed in relief — but also in confusion that she actually believed the stupid lie you just told.

Then came the awkward post-shower hallway run-in —

Her wearing your old oversized sweatshirt, face flushed from the steam, hair a little wild.

You nearly dropped your tea.

You definitely walked into the doorframe.

You hoped she didn’t notice.

---

Later, you sat alone on the couch long after she left, the imprint of her weight still warm in the cushions.

She nearly kissed you.

Or maybe you almost kissed her.

You weren’t sure anymore.

All you knew was:

His sweatshirt smelled like her.

Her fingers trembled slightly when she read aloud.

And when she looked up at you with those eyes, you swore the world stopped moving.

You played the moment back in your head like a mixtape — one you couldn’t rewind without aching.

---

____ ____ (your full name).

The storm in your study sessions.

The girl who hates rain but dances like she's always chasing the thunder.

She calls you Library Hulk, Overachieving Tree, Professor Flex — with mockery in her voice and something almost tender in her eyes.

Like she knows you want to be safe more than you want to be strong.

And God, you want to tell her things.

That the hoodie you always bring is more for her than you.

That you wait for her reactions to every new playlist like they're thesis feedback.

That you know she keeps a diary, and sometimes — selfishly — you want to know what lives inside her pages.

Because there’s a version of you in there, maybe.

A line. A margin note. A sigh.

And as overachieving as your nickname, maybe a slight mention of you — even just as a best friend.

But you don’t ask. Not yet.

Some things are sacred.

So instead, you write.

You scribble another few lines in your own journal — your lyric vault — the one she jokes about but never tries to open.

(Oh, how you wish she would one day.)

Tonight, it reads:

> “She tells me she’s tired of love songs / But still hums mine without knowing.”

“She’s made of margins and metaphors / says she’s five-two but fights like six-four / calls me Library Hulk — maybe she sees more.”

“She pirouettes through my logic / I write metaphors for her and call them ‘homework.’”

You tap your pencil against the page.

Think about her smile.

And close the book.

---

You pick up your phone.

Open Spotify.

Create a new playlist.

Title:

> Not Mine (But Should’ve Been)

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

So you text.

She said "my" Professor Flex.

You reread it twice.

You wish she didn’t leave.

First read- Intro, Chapter 1, 2, off-track

Next- Chapter 4 . Masterlist .

Special Appearance: Mingyu Kim

Disclaimer: This is going to be a little long(er) emotional rollercoaster but trust me, it's worth it and to set the stage.

Also, I intend absolutely no hate or ill-feelings (neither will encourage/entertain it from others since I myself admire them) towards other persons or groups or people from other/same groups mentioned henceforth.

---

POV Namjoon:

The group project was supposed to be chill.

Just a four-person literary analysis for your Shakespeare class. But nothing about it felt chill when he saw you paired with Mingyu — that over-gelled drama major who quoted Keats like a pickup line and smelled like citrus arrogance.

You were smiling at him.

Laughing.

Touching his forearm like it meant nothing.

He’s sitting too close to her.

Mingyu leans over the table, chin propped on his palm like he has all the time in the world to stare at her while she explains the tragic unraveling of Ophelia. His smile is too wide. His eyes are too obvious.

Namjoon watches with his jaw clenched and highlighter forgotten in his hand.

“God,” Mingyu says suddenly, still looking at her, “the way your brain works is just…”

He exhales like he’s genuinely stunned. “Lowkey terrifying in the hottest way possible.”

Namjoon grips his pen tighter.

Snaps the cap shut — loud.

____ just laughs it off. “Terrifying is not the compliment you think it is.”

Mingyu grins. “Oh, it is when it’s you.” Then, with fake casualness — because Namjoon knows better — he adds, “You still down for that dance thing we talked about?”

____ blinks. “The one to Collide?”

Namjoon stiffens.

Mingyu nods. “Yeah. Studio’s open tomorrow. I’ve got something sexy in mind.”

Sexy?

She doesn’t even blink. Just sips coffee like they’re talking about coursework.

“I’m in,” she says. “I love that track. Let’s see how it flows.”

Namjoon barely hears the next few lines.

His heartbeat’s thudding in his ears.

His jaw clenched so hard he thought he’d crack a molar.

He knows the song — The suggestive lyrics. He’s seen the trend — Half his gym’s IG stories are flooded with steamy duets and couples grinding in mood lighting.

And now ____ —his ____ —is going to do that with Mingyu?

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until ____ turns to look at him. “You okay?”

He forces a shrug, voice too flat. “Fine. Just… didn’t know you were into that kind of choreography.”

She tilts her head. “It’s just dance, Joon.”

Mingyu leans back with a smug tilt to his lips. “Yeah, man. Just dance.”

Namjoon smiles—tight and teethless.

“Cool,” he says.

But inside? He's definitely not cool.

---

Studio Scene — “That’s... Not Nothing”

Your POV :

The track plays again, slower this time.

You move through the routine — Mingyu’s hand slides across your waist, you spin into him, then drop low and rise again with your back pressed to his chest.

It’s... good. Tight. Smooth. Every move hits like a beat drop.

But also?

It’s a lot.

“Relax,” Mingyu says gently, adjusting your hand on his shoulder. “You’re stiff. Trust me.”

You nod, still catching your breath.

You do trust him. You’ve danced together before. But this choreo — this sultry, up-close-and-personal, almost-whispered-against-your-neck kind of routine — it’s not your usual.

Still, the way he looks at you like he’s in some steamy music video? You’d be blind not to notice.

The music picks up. This time, you commit harder.

Hip roll. Slide. Step.

Spin into him.

Hold.

Your hand finds its place at the edge of his jaw just as his fingers slide along the back of your thigh, guiding your movement to match his rhythm.

And that’s when the door creaks open.

You freeze mid-step.

Mingyu’s arms still around you.

Your breath still high in your throat.

And Namjoon… Namjoon is standing at the door, staring.

His eyes flicker over the scene. Slowly. Deliberately.

From the press of Mingyu’s hand to your hip,

to the closeness of your bodies,

to your parted lips.

No expression.

Which somehow is worse than anger.

“Didn’t know you guys were… busy,” he says, voice cool as steel. His gym bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Joon—” you start, but he’s already turning.

“Studio’s booked after this,” he adds over his shoulder. “Just a heads up.”

Then he walks out.

And it hits you in a way that dance never could.

---

Later — Mingyu wipes sweat from his brow.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod slowly. But your chest is tight. “Yeah. I just… maybe we don’t post this one.”

Mingyu arches an eyebrow. “Why not? This is fire. We could blow up.”

You force a smile. “I just don’t want that kind of attention right now.”

He shrugs, but doesn’t push. “Your call.”

And as the song replays faintly in the background, you suddenly wonder:

If someone else had been dancing with him — that close, that slowly — would you be okay?

The answer is already in your stomach.

---

Aftermath — “It’s Just Dance, Right?”

Your POV:

You find him by the vending machine in the English wing. Headphones in, hoodie up, water bottle in hand — the full “don’t talk to me” ensemble.

You hesitate before walking up. “Hey.”

He glances over. Doesn’t remove his earbuds.

You raise your brows. “Seriously?”

He sighs and finally tugs one out. “Hey.”

You shift awkwardly. “I… wanted to say sorry. About the studio.”

He takes a long sip of water, shrugs like it costs him nothing. “Nothing to be sorry for. It was a dance routine.”

His tone is perfectly flat.

That’s what makes it hurt.

“Yeah, but I— I didn’t think it’d look like that. I didn’t know Mingyu was—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, ____.”

And there it is.

The quiet chill in his voice.

Polite. Detached. Deadly.

You force a smile. “Right. Just... felt weird. You walked in at the wrong time.”

Namjoon nods. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t.

---

Namjoon's POV:

Later that day, he skipped the library. Went straight to the gym. Threw on his hoodie. Blasted ragey hip-hop. Lifted until his arms trembled and the world blurred.

He should’ve texted you.

Instead, he made a new playlist.

Title: “She’s Laughing and I’m Lifting”

---

3 Days Later:

He’s benched 200 pounds and still feels hollow.

Three straight days in the gym. Sweating out thoughts he can’t afford to say.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her — back pressed into Mingyu, smile soft and unaware. Like she didn’t even know she was breaking him.

And that’s the part that kills him the most.

She doesn’t even realize what she did.

Not because it was wrong.

But because she still thinks it’s just friendship between them.

He grits his teeth and pushes into another set of reps.

Maybe pain is easier than pining.

---

3 days earlier (Your POV):

The next day, Namjoon doesn’t show up to your shared morning café run.

Or your study session.

Or the gym-library-coffee loop you’ve both lived in like ritual.

You told yourself you weren’t checking your phone for him.

Then you looked at your phone for the fiftieth time in two hours.

It wasn’t like him to disappear without a meme, a quote, or a sarcastic “miss me yet, Smol?”

Diary Entry —

> That day, 11:02 p.m.

I hate him. I love him.

I hate that he gets under my skin so easily. I hate that when he pulls away, it feels like gravity forgets me.

We had a stupid, petty fight. Over what? A project partner? A skipped text?

No. It wasn’t about any of that.

It was about what we don’t say. About all the things we’re too scared to risk.

I think we’re both terrified of breaking whatever this is.

But aren’t we already halfway cracked?

~____

---

Friday:

You found him in the gym. Hoodie soaked through, hair a mess, music blasting from his headphones. He looked at you like you were an interruption, not a comfort.

“Wow,” you said. “Remember me?”

Namjoon yanked out one headphone. “You seemed busy. With Mingyu.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously jealous of a guy who thinks Twelfth Night was a Bridgerton sequel?”

He scowled. “Are you seriously acting like that touchy arm and waist grabbing flirt thing wasn’t deliberate?”

You stepped closer. “It wasn’t. But I guess it’s okay for you to disappear and ignore me for three days because your ego got bruised.”

“That’s not—” he started, but the words tangled. “I just needed space.”

“I didn’t,” you snapped. “I needed you.”

That landed between you like a fire alarm no one wanted to acknowledge.

Silence. Harsh. Sharp.

You both looked away at the same time.

---

Back at the dorm that night:

She tossed the pen across her desk for the fifth time that hour.

Nothing felt right.

Not the music.

Not the silence.

Namjoon hadn’t texted back. Or maybe she hadn’t texted first. She didn’t know who was supposed to move anymore. But it was day four and the tension was sitting on her skin like a too-tight sweater.

She hated this.

Hated pretending it didn’t bother her.

Hated being angry when all she really wanted was to hear his dumb voice calling her “Pocket Problem” like it meant something only the two of them understood.

Maybe he was mad. Maybe he had a reason. Maybe he didn’t. But she was tired of waiting to find out.

Her pride wasn’t louder than missing him.

Not tonight.

Not anymore.

She sighed — a shaky, defeated thing — and curled up in the corner of the bed, then, she grabbed her phone.

> Fine.

If you’re mad because of me — even if there’s nothing to be mad about — I’ll be the one to say it first.

I miss you.

And I’m sorry.

Can we please talk?

Her thumb hovered over send for half a second.

Then she deleted it.

Instead, she decided on addressing it the other, more subtle way, to save the last of whatever was left of her pride and insecurity.

---

Text Thread — Later That Night

You

12:11 a.m.

> We were both kinda dumb today.

Namjoon

12:13 a.m.

> Yeah. I lifted like a maniac and thought angry thoughts about your dance partner.

You

12:13 a.m.

> I didn’t like watching you shut me out. Felt like losing you. And I hated it.

Namjoon

12:14 a.m.

> You’re not gonna lose me, Smol Chaos.

Even if I act like a dumbass sometimes.

You

12:15 a.m.

> Promise?

Namjoon

12:15 a.m.

> On Shakespeare’s ghost.

And my protein powder.

You

12:16 a.m.

> …idiot.

Namjoon

12:16 a.m.

> Your idiot.

---

Namjoon’s POV:

The cursor blinked at him mockingly from his Notes app. A string of unfinished sentences stared back — drafted and redrafted for the past forty minutes.

> I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. Maybe I’m tired. Or maybe I’m scared. Or maybe it’s just—

He sighed, thumb hovering.

> I just wanted you to be not a moment away from me. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.

The words didn’t feel enough. Nothing did. He kept trying to shrink his feelings into lowercase confessions, like that would make him less exposed. Less ridiculous for missing her like this.

Why was it so hard to admit that being distant from her — even for a day — made everything duller?

He looked at their thread.

Her name glowing quietly at the top.

No new messages.

Not yet.

Maybe she was waiting on him.

Which is why it nearly knocked the breath out of him when her name lit up his phone.

His chest did that thing — clenched and softened at the same time. Guilt slipped in behind the relief — quiet, but slicing.

Because she reached out first. Again.

Even though he was already typing.

Even though he'd been meaning to.

Even though he should have.

He closed his eyes for a second and let it wash over him — the sound of her voice saying those words, even if it was only in his head. The softness. The surrender.

He could’ve met her halfway. But she came the whole way instead.

And somehow that made him ache worse.

So least he does is try to not let it all out yet — out of fear, ofcourse.

But he doesn’t hesitate to send the riskiest line of all: “your idiot.”

Because that’s exactly what he is — hers.

---

End of Chapter 3

---

(from "In Between Plays and Playlists" - a Namjoon x Reader fanfic)

First read- Intro, Chapter 1, 2, off-track, 3, 4

Next- curtains drop . Masterlist .

Special Appearance: Hoseok Jung, Yoonji Min

---

Your POV – The Spark and the Static:

It was a library afternoon. Sunlight hit the windows just right — dust motes suspended in golden beams like they had somewhere to be but weren’t in a rush.

Namjoon sat beside you, headphones in, glasses on, pen between his teeth. You tried not to stare, but he was wearing that hoodie — the worn-out black one that clung to his shoulders and smelled like cedarwood and distraction.

You were flipping through Much Ado About Nothing, underlining Beatrice’s lines, when someone walked up to your table.

“Hey, Namjoon, right?”

She was pretty. Soft curls, pink lip gloss — majoring in Philosophy, if you remembered right.

Namjoon looked up, pulled his headphones off. “Yeah?”

“Hi. I'm Yoonji. I was wondering if you'd be open to tutoring? My friend said you were brilliant with literary analysis, and honestly... I wouldn’t mind the company while figuring out Shakespeare.”

She smiled. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

And then — touched his forearm.

You didn’t say anything.

But you underlined the same sentence three times, your highlighter nearly bleeding through the page.

Hoseok noticed. “Are you okay? This isn’t a coloring book.”

He’s that friend in your group from whom nothing goes unnoticed. You've always feared he knows about your feelings for Namjoon too.

Namjoon blinked, looked a little awkward. “Oh — I guess. Yeah, I mean… maybe. I have kind of a tight schedule, though.”

She gave him a slow nod. “Just think about it and text me.”

She passed him a napkin with her number written on it like she already came prepared.

You stared at your page and suddenly hated Beatrice.

And you knew Hoseok was staring at you, internally screaming, Really, woman? as you felt two sharp holes being bored into your skull.

But it’s not like you could do anything.

Moreover, it’s not your first rodeo.

---

Namjoon’s POV:

She didn’t say anything after that girl left. Not a single sarcastic jab. Not even a, “Professor Flex has a fan club now?”

Which — for ____ — meant something was off.

Later, you went to the gym, trying to clear your head, but even your favorite playlist couldn’t drown out the weird tension. You liked the attention. Sure. But you didn’t want it.

Not like you wanted her attention.

When she walked into the gym unexpectedly — hoodie zipped, tiny frown on her face — your heart did that lurch thing again.

She didn’t even look at you.

Just started stretching near the mirrors.

You watched her in the reflection. She moved like something tightly wound.

> Was she mad about the girl? Or was this about something else?

You couldn’t ask. Not yet.

So you did what you always did when emotions got too loud: lifted heavier and hoped the ache in your arms would shut up the ache in your chest.

---

Your POV:

She’s back again the next day. “Hey, Namjoon, I was waiting for your text.”

Namjoon replies, “Oh — uh, I’m sorry. It slipped my mind.”

You don’t look up from your book like you’re actually invested in it, like you didn’t just breathe a quiet sigh of relief now that you know — Namjoon didn’t text her.

“No worries. But I wouldn’t be bugging you if this wasn’t urgent. Got a few spare minutes? I promise I learn quick.”

Namjoon, clearly hesitating but feeling like there’s no option left but to help: “Um, yeah, uh — okay.”

Yoonji gets excited, like he just handed her her favorite lip gloss, and plops beside him, making all of us shift to make space in our already-tight sitting arrangement at our fixed spot.

God. When was the last time you felt this irritated?

And the worst part is that he looks good while doing it.

The way he leans forward, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, index finger on his temple as he listens to her — genuinely listens — like she’s quoting Neruda and not talking about some dumb poetry slam happening downtown.

He laughs at something she says.

Laughs.

Not the soft huff he gives you when you mispronounce “cacophony” again, or the full-belly one when you trip over nothing. No, this one is smooth, casual, almost… flirtatious.

He knows the effect his dimples have on people.

Your skin prickles.

You bury yourself deeper into his hoodie, which smells like him because this morning, he “accidentally” spilled coffee on your cardigan. Accident, my ass. He smiled like a villain when you walked out wearing it.

And now here you are, swaddled in his scent like a damn lovesick idiot, while some poetic temptress with perfect eyeliner makes him laugh.

You tear your gaze away. Try to focus on your book — try being the operative word — but the words blur together.

> “She walks in beauty, like the night…”

You slam the book shut.

Irony is not dead.

“Hey,” Hoseok whispers beside you, nudging your arm. “Seriously, what's up with you these days? You’ve highlighted the same line eight times.”

“I’m just… appreciating the Romantic era,” you grumble, capping your pen with unnecessary aggression.

He raises an eyebrow. “Looks more like you’re about to stab Byron in the heart.”

Too late for that, you think bitterly.

You glance over again, and of course she’s leaning closer now. Her hand brushes his forearm as she laughs at something he says. He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even flinch.

And that?

That’s what makes your chest ache.

It’s not that she’s pretty — she is.

It’s not even that she’s smart — she might be.

It’s that he’s letting her in.

The way he does with you.

And you don’t know what to do with that. Because we’re best friends, right?

We’re allowed to talk to other people.

You're allowed to roll your eyes and call him a literature snob and crash at his place like it’s your own.

He’s allowed to help pretty girls who are into philosophy.

Right?

Then why does it feel like someone’s slowly twisting a knife between your ribs?

You tug the hoodie sleeves over your hands and press your palms to your cheeks. They’re burning.

> "Jealousy is not a good color on me," you mutter.

---

The Diary Entry :

> That girl touched his arm. He laughed with her like he was enjoying it. And I wanted to rip the earth open.

I don’t want to just be his favorite person.

I want to be the only one he looks at and laughs with, like that.

God, I’m in trouble.

~ ____

---

Namjoon’s POV – The Air Before It Breaks:

It was night now.

A post-class walk back to his place to collect a secondhand copy of The Tempest.

Clouds were thick with unspoken tension.

A storm was looming — literally and figuratively.

At first, it was easy, familiar.

Your hands brushed hers like they always did, and she smiled — soft, barely there.

But something was off.

You could feel it. Like static in your bloodstream.

And it was raining again.

Of course it was.

She tucked the hoodie tighter, shoulders tense.

You wanted to put an arm around her and pull her close for warmth.

You didn’t.

She’d just roll her eyes, call you “Overachieving Tree,” and pretend not to shiver.

> But she hadn’t called you that in days.

---

“Something wrong?” you asked, stopping, voice careful.

She didn’t look at you.

“No. Why would there be?”

Right. Okay.

Lie number one.

“You’ve been weird,” you finally said.

She stopped too. Slowly turned to face you.

You could see it — all of it — behind her eyes: the silence, the jealousy, the fear, the want.

She was so full of it, she looked like she might burst.

> “Just say it,” you said, low. “Whatever it is. I can take it.”

---

Your POV – The Thing We’re Not Saying:

The words tumbled out, sharp and unpolished.

> “I hated seeing her touch you. I hated that you didn’t pull away.”

Namjoon blinked.

You almost stopped.

But you didn’t.

> “I hated how you looked at her like maybe — maybe she was an option.”

His face twisted. “____—"

You laughed bitterly.

> “And I hated myself for caring, because I’m just your best friend, right?

> Smol Chaos. Pocket Problem. Little fury. A height joke with a heartbeat.”

His expression crumbled.

“That’s not—no. You are so much more—”

> “Then why haven’t you said it?”

The sky cracked open.

Rain started to fall.

Perfect. Of course it did.

You turned away, blinking back tears.

> “I can’t keep doing this, Joon. The almosts. The playlists that sound like love confessions.

The way you look at me like you’re drowning and I’m the shore — but then you never swim.”

---

Namjoon’s POV – The Dam Breaks:

You reached for her hand. She flinched. You held on anyway.

> “Because if I say it,” you said, voice shaking, “I can’t unsay it.”

The rain was pouring now. Your hood soaked.

Her cheeks glistened — and it wasn’t just water.

> “And if you walk away after, I don’t know if I’ll survive that.”

She looked up at you.

Afraid. Angry. Aching.

> “Say it anyway.”

You did.

> “I’m in love with you.”

---

The rain didn’t stop. But something else did.

That space between you?

Gone.

She stepped forward.

You met her halfway.

Your hands slid to her jaw, hers clenched at your shirt.

And when you kissed her — finally, fully — it didn’t feel like fire.

> It felt like relief.

Like the line you both danced on for so long had finally disappeared.

---

Your Diary Entry (Post-Kiss):

> It was raining when he said it.

I’ve hated the rain my whole life. The cold, the mess, the way it makes you feel small and helpless.

But tonight — I didn’t feel small.

I felt seen. Chosen. Wanted.

He didn’t say “I love you” like it was a risk.

He said it like it was the only truth he’d ever known.

And I didn’t kiss him back like it was a maybe.

I kissed him like it was the ending to every chapter I’ve been writing in secret.

~____

---

Text Later That Night:

Namjoon

02:50 am

> Need help reaching the top shelf of my heart, Smol Chaos?

You

02:51 am

>Only if you promise to never put me back down.

---

End of Chapter 5

---

Happy Girlfriend's Day, ARMYs ;)

(from "In Between Plays and Playlists"- A Namjoon x Reader fanfic)

First read - intro, chapter 1

Next- off-track . Masterlist .

---

It started raining just after your dance practice — not the kind of drizzle you could outrun, but the soul-drenching, clothes-clinging kind that made you curse the gods, your planner, and every cloud in the sky.

You hated the rain.

It made your body feel heavy and your mind louder. It blurred windows and boundaries. It soaked through your clothes and made your already small frame feel like it could disappear in the fog of it all.

You banged on Namjoon’s apartment door, hair stuck to your forehead, hoodie dripping onto the doormat.

He opened the door in sweatpants and a tank top, blinking in surprise. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite drowned gremlin.”

“I hate you,” you grumbled, stepping inside and kicking off your soaked sneakers.

“You love me,” he said casually, tossing you a towel.

You paused just long enough to wonder if he meant to say that out loud.

---

“Can I shower real quick?” you asked, wringing out the hem of your hoodie. “I feel like a walking bacteria farm.”

He was already heading toward his room. “Yeah, obviously. You look like a soggy bookmark.”

“Very poetic, thanks,” you muttered, trailing after him.

Few minutes later, you were standing in his bathroom, stripping off damp layers, your fingers freezing but your cheeks warm for… other reasons.

You turned on the water — hot, comforting — and scanned the shower caddy automatically.

That’s when you noticed it.

> Vanilla-bergamot triple-wash.

The exact kind you used. The exact scent.

You paused, blinking at the label.

Wait. Was this yours? Did you leave it here at some point?

Your visits to his place had never been frequent enough to justify claiming shelf space — but there had been a few crash-ins. A few emergency sleepovers. A few post-anxiety, post-exam, post-midnight stays.

Or… had he actually gone out and bought this?

The thought sent something fluttering in your chest.

Five minutes later, you called out from the hallway, towel-wrapped, hair dripping, head peeking from inside the bathroom and guarded by its door.

> “Hey, Library Hulk — did you start using vanilla-bergamot triple-wash?”

No reaction. As if he didn't even know what you were talking about.

“The triple-wash. It’s the same one I use. And I’m like… 90% sure I didn’t leave it here, but I might have?”

He blinked. “Oh. No — I, uh, picked it up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Randomly?”

“I thought it was unisex. And it was on sale. Also — you always whine about how guys stock boring soap and that I don’t have proper skincare stuff, so I did it just to shut you up.”

A pause. Then he added, smirking, “Don’t read into it.”

You blinked.

“That’s not weird, right?” he added, suddenly self-conscious.

“No — it’s actually a good thing you did,” you said too quickly, then coughed.

You nodded, pretending your stomach didn’t just flip like a dancer mid-routine.

---

Twenty minutes later, you emerged. Namjoon was in the hallway holding out an oversized sweatshirt — grey, warm, familiar.

You accepted it wordlessly and pulled it over your head, feeling like you were wearing a hug as you adjusted the hemline.

---

An hour later, you were dry(ish), curled up on his couch in that same sweatshirt, and wrapped in a soft fleece blanket that definitely was also his.

Rain thundered against the windows. The lights were low. A half-finished mug of tea sat next to you, and Namjoon was next to that, his thigh warm against yours even through the blanket.

He handed you a poetry book you hadn’t read yet — vintage cover, dog-eared.

“Open to page 42,” he said, voice soft.

You did.

The poem was short. Bare. Sharp.

> Page 42

“And in her silence, I found the loudest part of myself.”

— anonymous

You looked at him. He wasn’t looking at you. He was watching the rain hit the glass.

“Do you ever wonder,” he said quietly, “if the right person’s been in front of you the whole time, but you were too busy narrating the story to realize they were already the plot?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

The silence stretched between you like a held breath.

You almost said something — something terrifying and real — when the power flickered.

The lights dimmed, and your bodies shifted instinctively, closer. His hand was on your knee, and you felt the heat of it all the way up your spine.

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

Eyes darker than they usually were. Brows furrowed like he was solving something complicated and important — like you were the riddle.

Your heart stuttered.

There was a pause in the universe.

You weren’t sure if it was going to be a kiss.

You weren’t sure if you were going to kiss him.

But then — his phone buzzed. Loud. Violent. Ruinous.

You both flinched.

“I should get that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The moment snapped like a string pulled too tight.

---

That Night — Diary Entry

> Thursday, 1:12 a.m.

Page 42. I can’t get it out of my head.

He looked at me like I meant something. Like I was a sentence he’d been waiting to underline.

I almost kissed him.

Or maybe I wanted him to kiss me.

Or maybe I just wanted to stop pretending that lying under a shared blanket with Namjoon wasn’t the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

The rain is still falling. But tonight… I didn’t hate it.

I hated that it ended.

(Also. That triple-wash? — the vanilla-bergamot one. Mine? Or his?

He said it was random. On sale.

Ugh, why do I have to complicate, overthink, and read between lines, always!!

And why does that make my chest feel stupidly warm?).

~ ____

---

Text Thread — Just After You Left

Namjoon

2:01 a.m.

> You okay? Got home safe?

You

2:03 a.m.

> Yeah. Thanks for the tea. And the blanket. And the sweatshirt. And page 42.

Namjoon

2:05 a.m.

> That line reminded me of you.

(Don’t overthink it.)

You

2:05 a.m.

> Good night my Professor Flex.

(Too late.)

---

End of the Chapter 2

---

(from "In Between Plays and Playlists"- A Namjoon x Reader fanfic)

First read- Intro

Next- Chapter 2 . Masterlist .

---

Your POV :

You met Namjoon during your first semester — Shakespeare 101, of all places.

You still remember the professor calling out your names in the same breath:

> “Kim Namjoon and ____ — paired for the ‘Othello and Gender Power’ analysis project.”

You groaned. He smiled.

You thought he was one of those students — all quotes and confidence and casual brilliance.

But somewhere between group notes and missed deadlines, between annotated tragedies and café brainstorming sessions, something softened.

Not in your assignments — in you.

And it started with something simple:

> You both loved Shakespeare.

You both loved music.

It might be cliché, sure, but it's your cliché.

In fact, you bonded over it — debating Hamlet in indie cafés, sending each other Spotify playlists titled things like “Villain Arcs & Violin Bridges” and “Tragic but Hot.”

Eventually, one late project turned into late-night study sessions.

Study sessions became post-gym hangs.

Then came the crash-ins. At your place. At his. Mostly his.

For no big reason.

Just… existing near each other.

For when your exam anxiety kicked in and left you shaking and crying in bed at 2 a.m.

For when he trained too hard at the gym and needed you to patch him up with diclofenac bandages and sarcastic commentary.

For movie nights that ended with both of you asleep on opposite ends of the couch, books on your chests.

People started noticing.

At first, you’d laugh when someone asked, “Are you two, like… together?”

You don’t laugh anymore.

You don’t know anymore.

You’re not sure when things changed. Maybe it was the night you got caught in the rain and woke up sick, only to find Namjoon nursing you with warm soup and his hoodie pulled over your freezing hands.

Maybe it was the panic attack during midterms when he sat beside you on the bathroom floor, letting you breathe into his shoulder and whispering, “You’re okay. I’m here. I got you.”

Or maybe it was slower than that.

Maybe it wasn’t a moment — just a thousand soft ones blurring into something heavier.

And now, you don’t know where you stand.

He gets approached by girls all the time.

He turns them down — always polite, always unreadable.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You tell yourself you don’t want to know.

Because if he doesn’t feel the shift you do?

If this is just friendship to him?

You’ll lose the only person with whom you've built this friendship-and-something-more — intense, deep, not-quite-understandable-to-others-but-to-you-both — for the first time ever in your life.

And you doubt that you’d ever be able to build this with anyone else.

You wouldn’t even dare dream of something like it.

But still, the thought creeps in on days like today — when your pulse races for no academic reason — and you wonder:

> “What if?”

What if he wanted this too?

What if this isn’t the start of something new…

it’s the start of realizing what’s always been there?

---

You hated Wednesdays.

Not because of your 8 a.m. Literary Theory class or the fact that your dance shoes had started to fray at the toes. Not even because your umbrella was a lost cause and your planner looked like it had been through a baptism.

You hated Wednesdays because they reminded you that some people could do everything and still smell like cedarwood and well-worn paperbacks.

Namjoon was already sitting at your usual library table when you arrived, legs stretched out like the universe owed him space. A copy of The Tempest lay open in front of him, annotated in three colors. His gym hoodie was draped over the back of the chair like a lazy afterthought, and his white T-shirt was hugging his arms in a way that made your throat go dry.

And of course, your brain chose chaos.

> This is ridiculous, you think. My brain’s inventing Greek myths — what if he ever let me hold him in my arms?

Would his dimples catch raindrops if I used a dropper? And how many raindrops could those dimples hold? Or his collarbones, even?

There’s a special kind of shame in wondering whether it’s socially acceptable to drop water on your best friend’s chest.

(Spoiler: it’s not. It’s illegal.)

Worse still, your mind unhelpfully pulled up the memory of that night in his apartment — over something dumb, like who got to pick the movie — when he jokingly wrapped one veiny arm around your neck from behind.

> It lasted less than two seconds.

He stopped the moment he felt you freeze — not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

It didn’t hurt. It did something else entirely. Something warm. Tight. Low.

He looked spooked. Apologized with those soft eyes.

And you? You couldn’t sleep that night.

In fact, you couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

> Not because of what happened.

But because you wanted it to happen again.

You hated yourself a little for that.

And then his eyes — his dragon eyes, as you called them in your diary — lingered a second too long today when you made your entrance.

Your body reacts like it’s on fire.

One more second and you want to do something deeply unhinged — like kiss him stupid in the middle of the library.

But you don’t.

Because he’s Namjoon Kim.

And you’re just the girl who overthinks and finds it difficult to reach top shelves.

---

“Smol Chaos,” he greeted without looking up, tapping his pencil against the margin of his book. “Late again.”

“You’re early,” you muttered, sliding into the chair across from him. “Overachieving Tree.”

(You were late. He was right. But you’d spent fifteen extra minutes trying to fix your eyeliner in a pathetic hope that he might notice today.)

He finally looked up at you — soft brown eyes under messy hair and gold-rimmed glasses — and smiled that devastating, dimpled smile.

The one that meant he was about to say something that would make you blush and hate him for it.

“You need help reaching the top shelf again?”

“I will fight you,” you whispered, flipping open your own book. Othello.

You tried not to look too obviously at the way the veins in his forearms flexed when he scribbled something in his notebook.

The battered leather journal — his lyric vault, as he once called it — was off-limits.

He never shared the pages.

You never asked.

But God, were you curious.

---

Forty minutes of companionable silence later, you were halfway through Iago’s manipulation tactics when the phone buzzed.

He tilted it toward you.

A Spotify link.

You blinked. “What’s this?”

“A playlist,” he said simply, handing you one of his earbuds. “For your brain. You overthink too loud.”

You hesitated — mostly because his fingers brushed yours — and popped the earbud in.

The playlist was titled:

> ‘For the Girl Who Dances Between Lines’

The first song started with a piano swell, slow and aching.

The second was instrumental, but it somehow made your heart race.

The third? bittersweet by Ellie Goulding.

“Are you trying to kill me?” you asked softly.

He grinned. “Not yet.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped.

You hated how your face felt hot even though the library was freezing.

And you especially hated that the lyrics of track four —

> “All right, a repeated seesaw game.

It's about time we put an end to it.”

from Trivia 轉: Seesaw by BTS' SUGA —

sounded a little too much like a confession.

---

That Night — Diary Entry

> Wednesday, 11:37 p.m.

Namjoon made me a playlist again.

He said I overthink too loud. I do, but it’s not fair that he notices. It’s not fair how soft his voice goes when he looks at me. It’s not fair that he smells like books and cologne and comfort.

He sat across from me in the library today, one leg bouncing, pencil in his mouth like he was chewing on poetry. I think he forgets how big he is. His presence takes up a whole room.

And I like feeling small near him.

Not helpless.

Not powerless.

Just... safe.

There was a moment — when our fingers touched, and he passed me the earbud — that I swear the air went still.

Like the universe paused to take a breath.

But I’m probably just being dramatic.

Right?

~ ____

---

Text Thread — Later That Night

Namjoon

12:03 a.m.

> Finished Othello yet, Smol?

You

12:04 a.m.

> Iago is a red flag and I stand by it.

Namjoon

12:05 a.m.

> Bold of you to say when you lied about finishing your last paper :')

You

12:05 a.m.

> That was survival, not deceit.

Namjoon

12:06 a.m.

> Shakespeare would’ve called it a “well-worded betrayal.”

You

12:06 a.m.

> Remind me again why I talk to you?

Namjoon

12:07 a.m.

> Because you like my biceps and my playlists. Admit it.

You

12:07 a.m.

> ://

Namjoon

12:08 a.m.

> Goodnight, Pocket Problem.

---

End of Chapter 1

---

— A Namjoon x Reader fanfic by Veronica.

To be read in order for best experience- Chapter 1, 2, off-track, 3, 4, 5, curtains drop, 6, epilogue .

Check out my other works - Masterlist

⚠️ Do not repost, translate, or copy this work without my explicit permission. This includes AO3, Wattpad, Tumblr, TikTok, or any other platform.

Introduction

Genre: best friends to lovers | mutual pining | slow burn | emotional tension | soft + spicy | college AU

POV Style: Alternating (Namjoon + Reader), includes diary entries + text threads

Status: [Ongoing]

🔞 eventual mature themes | reader-insert | literary symbolism | rain = feelings

🪞 Characters

💪 Namjoon Kim

6 feet tall and gym-fit, but always smells like old books and expensive cologne.

Witty. Emotionally intuitive. Casually chaotic in the way geniuses are.

He balances dumbbell curls with Dante, leg day with lyric metaphors.

Dreams of becoming a songwriter known for philosophical lyrics and emotional depth.

High IQ, even higher EQ — the kind of genius that doesn’t make you feel small, but seen.

Secretly (and not so secretly) whipped for Y/N: her height, her fury, her dancer grace.

Uses Spotify playlists as indirect love letters.

Inside Jokes / Pet Names for Y/n:

“Little Fury” / “Pocket Problem” / “Smol Chaos”

🩰____ (You)

5’2” with dancer’s posture and an energy that contradicts her size.

Deceptively youthful — gets mistaken for a freshman more often than she’ll admit.

Looks like she’ll ignore you on purpose, but is secretly a sweetheart.

Majoring in Literature- practical dream: becoming a writer for stability

But

passion project for life: dancing.

Hates rain with a vengeance.

Loves how huge and safe Namjoon feels beside her — not that she’d ever say it out loud.

Thinks he’s out of her league in every way that counts- physically, intellectually, romantically.

Keeps a diary she never lets anyone read — filled with unspoken feelings and too many mentions of Joon.

Inside Jokes / Nicknames for Namjoon:

“Library Hulk” / “Professor Flex” / “Overachieving Tree”

📍Setting

A university campus full of half-studied poems and unsent messages.

Where library hideouts feel safer than dorm rooms, and the best confessions are written in margin notes.

Frequent haunts:

Indie cafés

Gym-lounge hybrid spaces

Rain-soaked sidewalks

The campus dance studio

Late-night poetry nights

Shared study room full of unsaid tension

Namjoon’s apartment (because it's near the campus ;) with an extra blanket that isn’t really “extra”)

📚 Tropes to Expect

✒️ Best Friends to Lovers

🕰️ Slow Burn (The slowest. Deliciously slow.)

😶‍🌫️ Mutual Pining & Denial

🔄 Alternating POVs (His thoughts vs Hers)

📓 Diary Entries + 📱 Text Message Threads

🎧 Book & Spotify Playlist Rec Exchange as Love Language

⚡ Emotional + Sexual Tension

🔥 Subtle Jealousy (but spicy when it hits)

---

🎭 Tagline

“Some stories aren’t just read — they’re lived.

Some songs aren’t just played — they’re felt.

And some people… they become your favorite plot twist.”

To be read in order for best experience- Chapter 1, 2, off-track, 3, 4, 5, curtains drop, 6, epilogue . Masterlist .