#jiminxreader

jimin was wrecked. he had just almost gotten off of his post concert high. his mind was full of you, craving your touch and your smell. but he assumed that he would have to get off his adrenaline himself while you were on your way back to your shared home.

well, he thought wrong.

there you were. waiting for him on the soft hotel sofa all pretty with a bottle of peach flavored soju in your hands.

“oh i didn’t know you were going to be here, i missed you so much y/n” he says while fully embracing your body, keeping a firm grip as if you were going to disappear

“i thought it would be a nice surprise, plus i don’t think i could have lasted any longer with not seeing you and your pretty face” you admitted as you press a quick peck on his cheek. taking his hand in yours and leading him to your spot on the sofa.

jimin instinctively laid down next to you, too lazy to take off the clothes he put on quickly after the concert. he wrapped his hands around your waist and started to snuggle into you.

but there’s no way you could just let him be, not when you were completely soaked just by watching him on stage at his own concert. his sultry movements, the way he looked when the lights hit his gorgeous face while sweating, and goodness, when his face lit up when he finally spotted you in the crowd. all dolled up just for him.

you knew he was teasing you. always lingering to your section a little more than he should be, and exaggerating his actions and playing it off by teasing the fans. he wanted all of your attention on him, only him.

and that’s exactly what you were doing right now.

his body was glued to the couch with you in between his legs.

“you did so good minnie, i couldn’t keep my eyes off of you” you praise in a low tone while your fingers pull on the waistband of his boxers.

jimin lets out a hiss as the cool air hits his hard member. you feel your stomach flutter while his cock slaps against his stomach. his cock red, with precome smeared all over his tip from the heated make out that had happened before the rest of his members arrived in the dressing room.

“p-please” the word is almost non-audible. If it were any quieter, you might not have heard it.

just seeing him like this, so vulnerable, made your heart melt. you understood why armies go crazy over him. he takes care of you so well, you’re always his first priority. how did you get so lucky? or how did he get so lucky?

you press a soft kiss on his tip, slowly starting to make your way up to his abdomen. small whimpers leave jimin’s mouth. he was getting antsy, his fingers tangle in your hair. he couldn’t stand how slow you were going. he needed you now.

“jagi please, i need to feel you…need you inside me” he lets out a broken plea. you move your head to look up at him, his dilated pupils colored with desperation. you’re not going to be mean to him, at least you thought you weren’t. you were as desperate as he was, you just wanted him to break first.

“tell me what you want me to do, baby” you tease as you press kisses on the outside of his ear. your hands slide under his shirt, roaming his body.

“please…ride me, please..I’ll be good i swear- ” he chokes out

your lips crash into his, teeth clattering, but you both were too horny to care. jimin was quick to explore your mouth with his tounge. you let out a moan into the kiss. you can feel his hard cock from your leather skirt, slowly grinding your hips against his warmth. his hands slide your bottoms off with your panties while still devouring your face.

you slowly pull away with a string of saliva still connecting the two of you, causing jimin to let out a whimper. you line his length up with your entrance, slowly lowering yourself down on him taking every inch.

jimin lets out a moan, not being able to swallow it down as his cock stretches you full. your eyes not leaving his as your hands find his shoulders for support right as your hips meet.

you haven’t had sex like this in a while. due to jimin being on tour and having a tight schedule, you both haven’t been able to get the exact pleasure you guys both needed. having quick messy make outs and quckies that aren’t even able to get finished definitely don’t help at all

jimin’s hips thrust up instinctively, you pin his hips down softly, reminding him who’s in control

“nuh-uh baby, remember im taking care of you tonight. keep still for me” your voice low but stern.

he quickly nods, already too lost in the pleasure. you grind your hips hard, your clit rubbing against his cervix. continuing to roll against him in a slow, desperate way.

“jagi, i-i can’t..can you- please go faster” he cries as his head falls in the crook of your neck.

you lift your hips up, until only his tip remains. just to slam back into him, his length tearing at your walls. starting a pace that you know would be quick to destroy him.

“ahh! feels so good, you..a-always make me feel-ngh- so good” he praises in your ear as his hands knead at your breasts.

your not afraid to hide your noises, even though you want to be in control your not going to deny the pleasure you feel.

you lean down, sucking on his neck as you ride him mercilessly. your fingers tangled with his messy hair, slightly pulling without even noticing.

jimin gasps, his hips shooting up as his eyes grow wide. your pace falters for a second, looking to see if you hurt him somewhere.

“fuck y/n, pull my hair again. please, feels so fucking good”

a smirk creeps upon your lips. what a freak that boy is. you slowly begin to move your hips against his again, taking your time before picking up the pace. your hands interlock with his locks again, this time tugging harder then the first.

a loud groan rips out of his throat, the slight pain feeling way to good in mixture with your movements. you begin to ride him faster, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes while you bounce messily on his cock.

“you love it when i make you feel good minnie? like it when im in control?”

your words cause his eyes to roll to the back of his head. the pace is too fast, with your teasing words and wondering hands have jimin on the edge. your hips slamming up and down on his cock like it belongs to you, cause it does.

your the only person who can make jimin, the man who was insanely cocky on stage, fall apart. he makes all the girls fall for his charm, blowing kisses to the audience knowing they all want what they can’t have. the man who knows how hot he is and can use it to do anything, was now underneath you with his mouth open agape as his hands roam all over your beautiful body while getting destroyed by his woman.

“jagi-ah! it’s too m-much..i cant-i-im gonna cum” he chokes out from beneath you. you continue to roll your hips at a unbroken pace, muttering sweet praises into his ear before he breaks.

right as you can feel him about to let go. you pull out, edging him right as he was about to cum.

“jagi wah-why? please i was so close” he sobs as he lays on the couch defeated. you lean in to kiss him, your mouths creating a messy, lazy masterpiece.

“beg for it baby, cmon i know you can” you say as you press kisses down his stomach, stopping right at his tip.

“please jagi, please ill be so good i promise. i need you so bad, i-i’ll do anything please just let me cum inside you! i need it so bad look!” he begs as his watery eyes look down, signaling you to look at his cock twitching right infront of you, begging for every inch of release.

“hmm good, you see i knew you could do it. my handsome boy, always treating me so good” you praises as you take his cock into your hand and line it back up with your entrance. you don’t take any time to get used to the stretch again, already finding the perfect pace to end with.

lewd sounds of your slick thighs against his toned hips fill the hotel room. not caring if anyone else on the floor hears, even if they did it’s already too late to stop now.

jimins already almost close, and you can feel your orgasm approaching too. your fingers find his hair again, pulling at his scalp as your hips slam against each others. his moans unable to be swallowed down with how much pleasure he felt.

his mouth open with tears running down his flushed cheeks as you bounce on his overstimulated cock. you let out a moan as his hand starts to knead the dough on your ass as if it’s a stress reliever.

“im gonna cum-ah! too much! wanna stuff you so bad” he blabbers as his eyes roll his head as his head falls onto the pillow. his cock hitting against your g-spot perfectly.

“then-ngh- cum with me minnie, show me how much-ah- you want to stuff me” you clench around him one more time before jimins cock twitches and his body completely locks up. his tears falling at his jaw while his face is so flushed.

long warm ropes of cum flood into you as you cum around him. not completely stopping but slowly rocking against him to help ride out both of your orgasms.

“you did so good for me jimin, love you so so much” you say as you press a quick kiss on his plush lips.

he says it back but his voice is so wrecked and hoarse.

your sticky bodies flushed against each other in a warm embrace, you can hear jimins heart beating against your ear.

the thumping sound with your uncoordinated breaths create a comforting atmosphere. making your heart flutter as you run your fingers through jimins messy hair.

right as your about to pull out to go shower, assuming he’s completely done already. jimin stops you and wraps his hands around your waist. his pretty face worn out and sweaty with his pupils blown and lips puffy.

“wait, i know it might be a lot to ask for but i haven’t had you in so long. can..can you ride me again please?”

A dancer can smile through a bad landing, cheat half an inch out of a turn, hold an extension three seconds past the point where the muscle starts begging for mercy. It does not matter. The body keeps records. Give it eight counts and it will tell on you.

People do the same thing. Dancers just use better lighting.

The wings smell like rosin and hot gel and the particular dust that only exists in theaters built before anyone thought to ask what stage floors should be made of.

Sweat, cold cream, the metallic tang of the fly system somewhere above your head.

You come down off the stage still half-inside the performance, the house lights bleeding gold through the gap in the legs behind you, applause collapsing into the low roar of an audience getting up out of their seats, coats, bags, someone's perfume already overpowering the greenroom air before you've even reached it.

Your body is still counting.

It always is, for a while after. Eight counts, eight counts, eight counts, the tempo living somewhere under your sternum long after the orchestra's gone quiet.

You saw it happen from the wings, twenty minutes ago, mid-number — Marisol's landing off the pirouette sequence, the fraction of a second where her weight found the floor wrong. Nobody else would have caught it. The audience didn't. Even half the company didn't, because it was small, and she recovered fast, and recovery is the entire job. But you catch things like that the way other people catch a wrong note in a song they've heard a thousand times. You don't decide to notice. You just do. It's the same instinct that's kept you employed since you were four years old, and the same one that makes you insufferable at dinner parties, according to your mother.

So you don't head for your own dressing room first. You go straight for hers, weaving backstage through the tangle of moving set pieces and stagehands calling clear behind you, letting the muscle memory of this specific building — which door sticks, which hallway is narrower than it looks — carry you there faster than thinking would.

The dressing room is thick with hairspray, sweat, cold cream, and the particular overheated air of an old Broadway theater in December. Around you, the company is dismantling the evening version of themselves. Wigs come off. Makeup disappears beneath cleansing balm. Someone has connected a phone to the speakers and turned the music up loud enough to compete with three separate conversations about where everyone is going after the show.

Marisol is halfway through removing her eyelashes when you find her, one still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry. She doesn't look up. She knows exactly why you're standing in her doorway, and she is, visibly, hoping you'll let it go anyway.

You don't.

"Your ankle."

Marisol stops halfway through removing her eyelashes. One is still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry.

"What about my ankle?"

"It's swelling."

"It is not."

You look at her. Just look, the flat, unhurried kind of look that has ended more arguments in this dressing room than actual words ever could.

She looks down. Her left ankle has already started pushing against the satin ribbon of her shoe.

"Okay," she says. "It is doing something."

"It's swelling."

"You make everything sound so judgmental."

"Your ligaments don't care about my tone."

You crouch in front of Marisol before she can object, press two fingers carefully along the outside of her ankle, and watch her face.

She flinches. The wince is small and involuntary, gone almost as fast as it arrives, but you clocked it before she could smooth it over.

"You're icing it."

"I'm going dancing." Marisol says it lightly, like the matter's already settled, already reaching for her other eyelash as if the conversation is over.

"You have just spent two and a half hours dancing."

"That was employment. This is different." She says it with her particular cheer, because she knows she's losing and has decided charm is her best remaining strategy.

"You're icing it."

Marisol studies you for a moment, head tilted, weighing the likelihood that she can win this conversation. She has known you for seven weeks. She knows better. Something in her shoulders drops half an inch — the tell-tale give of someone conceding before they've said so out loud.

"You're very controlling for someone who claims not to care about people." It comes out fond despite itself, an accusation with no real heat behind it.

"I have never claimed that." Flat. Immovable. You don't even look up from where you're already reaching for the ice pack.

"You imply it with your face."

"That sounds like a personal interpretation." One eyebrow lifts, just slightly. The closest thing you offer to amusement when you're busy winning an argument.

You rise and take an instant ice pack from the emergency drawer beneath the makeup counter. You crack it against your palm and hand it to her. She accepts it with a sigh dramatic enough for the mezzanine, head tipping back against the mirror like she's been asked to give up a limb rather than twenty minutes of her evening.

"Twenty minutes," you say. "Then compression. If it hurts tomorrow, you tell stage management before warm-up."

"Yes, Mom."

"Your mother would let you go dancing?"

"My mother likes me."

You turn away before she catches the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. You are not in the business of confirming that you have a sense of humor. It ruins the effect.

Behind you, someone calls your name.

A girl is hovering near the dressing-room door with a program held against her chest like a shield. She cannot be older than sixteen, although the severe bun and the posture say she has been attending ballet classes long enough to have been told that standing normally is a moral failure.

"Sorry," she says immediately. "I know you're probably busy."

You are. You are also still wearing half your stage makeup and one false eyelash. There is a bruise forming beneath your right knee, your toes are numb, and you have approximately eleven minutes before the stage door becomes crowded enough to make leaving unpleasant.

You put the ice pack more firmly against Marisol's ankle anyway.

"What's your name?"

The girl blinks, startled that you asked. "Sophie."

"Hi, Sophie."

She exhales like you have granted her something enormous.

"We studied A Study in Blue at my summer program," she says. "The Vienna recording. I've watched your solo. I don't know, probably fifty times."

"It was better by closing night."

Her face falls, just slightly, the specific crumple of someone who came here hoping for a moment and is worried she's already ruined it.

You soften the statement before she can mistake accuracy for rejection.

"The company filmed the second week. We were still finding it." You gesture toward the program, your tone gentler now than it was with Marisol, something in Sophie's careful posture makes you want to be careful back. "Do you dance?"

"Ballet. Mostly." She says it almost apologetically, like she's bracing for the answer to matter more than it should. "But I want to do contemporary."

"Then do contemporary." You say it simply while you sign her program, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because to you it is.

"My teacher says I should wait until my classical technique is stronger." Her eyes drop to the program now in her hands when she says it, the specific shame of a kid repeating a rule she doesn't actually believe in.

"Your teacher is afraid you'll enjoy yourself."

Marisol snorts behind you, ice pack still pressed to her ankle, entirely too delighted by the way you just detonated a stranger's ballet teacher in four words.

Sophie's mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and asking permission for one, her eyes flicking to you like she's checking whether it's safe to find you funny.

"Keep the ballet," you tell her. "It gives you somewhere solid to push from. But don't wait for someone else to decide you're ready to move differently."

You hand it back. Sophie thanks you three times before disappearing into the corridor, clutching the program the way people clutch things they intend to keep for a very long time.

Marisol watches you over the top of the ice pack.

"What?"

"Nothing." Marisol's mouth is doing something it clearly doesn't want to do, pressed flat to keep from spreading into a full grin, and failing.

"You're looking at me." You say it without turning fully around, aware of her eyes on you anyway. You always are.

"I'm looking at the cold, terrifying woman who just changed a teenager's life while wearing one eyelash." The grin wins. It spreads slow and unguarded, the kind she'd deny giving you if you called her on it, one hand still pressed to the ice pack like she's forgotten it's there.

"Her life will survive the interaction." You keep your face carefully unmoved, but there's something at the corner of your mouth that gives you away completely — the two of you speaking a whole conversation neither of you is willing to say out loud.

"Come out with us."

"No." No hesitation. No glance up.

"You didn't even pretend to consider it."

"I considered it yesterday when you asked." Dry, already reaching for your bag.

"That was for yesterday."

"The answer has maintained structural integrity."

Marisol drops her head back against the mirror, a hand over her heart like you've wounded her, though the grin underneath says otherwise — the picture of someone who's accepted defeat but wants credit for the effort. "You are twenty-nine years old."

"I'm aware."

"You're finishing a perfect show eight times a week, men are frightened of you, women want to be you, and you go home every night before midnight."

"Some of us enjoy sleep."

"Some of us are wasting excellent cheekbones." She says it to the ceiling now, mournful, like she's mourning the cheekbones personally.

You start peeling tape from around your toes, not looking up. "I use them at work."

"That sentence is why you're going to die alone." But she's laughing when she says it, already halfway to letting you win.

Your phone vibrates inside your bag. You ignore it.

Marisol's eyes flick toward the sound, sharp with sudden interest, ice pack forgotten. "Secret lover?"

"No."

"You answered quickly."

"Because the answer was easy."

The phone buzzes again. Marisol points at your bag with the ice pack, delighted with herself, eyebrows halfway up her hairline. "That is how every story about a secret lover begins."

"It's probably Lulu."

"Your Manager calls when she wants to destroy your peace. She doesn't email." A beat, considering. "Suspicious."

The phone goes still.

You finish removing the tape, inspect the reddened skin beneath it, and begin packing your things. By the time you've changed into wool trousers and a black sweater, Marisol has negotiated herself into one drink, ankle propped on a second chair, looking entirely too pleased with the compromise.

You make her promise to send a picture of the swelling before bed.

She calls you emotionally repressed, cheerfully, like it's a compliment.

You tell her to use compression.

At the stage door, Sophie is still standing with her mother beneath the yellow spill of the theater lights, staring at the signature on her program like it might fade if she looks away too long.

You pretend not to see. You are good at that when necessary.

December in New York insists on being cold, in the specific, theatrical way certain people insist on being difficult. The walk home starts to feel less like six blocks and more like an episode of survivor. A wind that finds the gap at your collar no matter how you angle yourself against it, breath fogging under streetlights strung with wreaths the size of tires. But you still insist on walking. Storefronts glow gold and red down the avenue. Somewhere behind a lit window, a family is doing the things families apparently do this time of year — a tree half-trimmed, someone's kid pressed to the glass, the noise of people who like each other enough to be loud about it. You walk past three different apartments with their curtains open just enough to see it happening.

Your own family's version of a holiday gathering tends to involve a conference room, a shared calendar, and at least one attorney present to make sure nobody's version of "jolly" contradicts anyone's trust agreement.

Your mother is in Gstaad. Your father is wherever your father currently is. You stopped expecting a tree by the time you were nine and stopped minding somewhere shortly after that, or told yourself you had, which by now amounts to roughly the same thing.

The apartment is on the eleventh floor of a prewar building on the Upper East Side that your grandmother has owned outright since before your mother was born — high ceilings, crown molding nobody makes anymore, a view of a sliver of the park if you stand at exactly the right angle in the kitchen.

You have never had to think about rent in your life and you don't pretend otherwise; it would be its own kind of performance, and you don't do those. It's simply a fact of the architecture of your life, the way perfect pitch is a fact for some people. You didn't earn it. You also didn't apologize for it. Both things are just true.

Lulu is sitting at the kitchen island when you get home, surrounded by open folders, colored tabs, and the remains of what appears to have been a violent encounter with a container of pad thai.

She does not look up when you enter.

"You're late." Lulu doesn't look up, but her voice does the thing it always does when she's already three moves ahead of you, half-distracted, half a challenge.

"It's twelve fourteen."

"You usually reject human connection faster." A small, satisfied smile, still aimed at her folders.

"Marisol's ankle was swollen."

"Of course it was." Lulu says it the way you'd acknowledge weather — inevitable, mildly interesting, not worth further comment.

You hang your coat and glance at the folders spread across the island like evidence at a crime scene, organized with a precision that only Lulu is capable of imposing on chaos. Three are familiar. One is new.

"No."

Lulu finally looks up, chopsticks paused mid-air, eyebrows lifting with delight because you know she's been waiting all night for exactly this opening. "You don't even know which one I was going to show you."

"The red tab is the film."

"It's Toronto." She says it like the city alone should settle the argument, like you're supposed to be dazzled into agreement.

"No."

"The director won an award." A little more insistent now, leaning forward on her elbows.

"For directing. Not choreography."

"They're offering executive credit."

"They want my name on promotional material while someone else tells actors to move vaguely in rhythm."

Lulu closes the folder without protest, entirely unbothered, already three steps ahead in her own head — she never fights for a pitch longer than it takes to gauge whether it's dead. "The green one?"

"Two years."

"In Europe." Said hopefully, like geography might tip the scales.

"Still two years."

"The revival?" Her voice softens slightly here, testing, because she already half-knows the answer to this one too.

"I danced that role when I was twenty-three."

"You would be choreographing it." A small, careful point. She's not conceding yet.

"I would be rearranging furniture in a house I already know."

Something in Lulu's face shifts at that — not defeat exactly, more like she's just caught something she wasn't fishing for. She doesn't push. She just watches you for a second too long, the way she does when she's decided something is worth being gentle about instead of winning.

She watches you put your bag on the counter, something assessing in her expression now, the look of a woman doing math she isn't ready to say out loud yet.

"You're bored."

"I'm tired."

"You're bored and tired. They're different diseases."

"I'm not bored."

"You corrected the spacing in the finale last Thursday."

"The spacing was wrong."

"You were performing in it."

"I had time."

"That," Lulu says, pointing a chopstick at you like a gavel, "is not the defense you think it is."

You open the refrigerator. She has stocked it, because she knows the contents of your refrigerator are reduced to sparkling water, mustard, and half a lemon by the end of every performance week.

There is a labeled container on the top shelf.

EAT THIS BEFORE YOU DECIDE COFFEE IS DINNER.

You take it out without commenting.

Lulu smiles down at the folders, pleased with herself in the specific way she gets pleased when she's already won something and is simply waiting for you to notice.

"You're welcome."

"I didn't say anything."

"You took the container. We've been friends eight years. That was practically a sonnet."

You place it in the microwave.

Luisa Reyes has managed your career for four years and your life for considerably longer, although she disputes this description whenever contracts are due and embraces it whenever you are making a bad decision. She danced until her right knee made the choice for her, rebuilt herself with a speed that frightened everyone who loved her, and now runs your calendar with the efficiency of an air-traffic controller operating under active threat.

She is also the only person alive permitted to call you an idiot more than once in the same conversation.

Your phone vibrates again.

Lulu's attention moves to it, quick and unmistakable, like a bird catching motion in its periphery.

You watch your own phone buzz on the counter and know, with the specific certainty of someone who has spent seven years refusing to forget a name, exactly whose it is.

You do not want Lulu anywhere near this information. Not because it's a thing. It is, categorically, not a thing. It's an email, unread by choice, from a man you last spoke to seven years ago, and the fact that you could still describe the exact weight of his voice if someone asked is simply a detail of memory, not evidence of anything. But Lulu has a talent for taking a non-thing and turning it, through sheer force of interest, into an event with its own timeline. You have seen her do it to smaller material than this.

So you turn the phone face-down, too fast, and know immediately it was the wrong move.

"What?"

"Nothing." You say it too quickly for it to land as nothing.

"You have been home forty seconds and have already hidden your phone." Lulu's eyes track the motion like she's clocking evidence, chopsticks abandoned entirely now.

"I turned it over."

"Like a woman with nothing to hide." One eyebrow climbs, slow and merciless.

"I have nothing to hide."

"Wonderful." She holds out her hand, palm up, utterly serene, she knows she's already won and is simply enjoying the formality of asking. "Give it to me."

"No."

"Then we have identified a hidden thing." She says it gently, almost kindly, which is somehow worse than if she'd gloated.

The microwave beeps. You use it as cover — turning away, retrieving the container, buying yourself four seconds you don't actually need.

Lulu keeps her hand extended anyway, patient, entirely willing to wait you out. She has waited you out before, over bigger things than this. She will, apparently, wait you out over this too, and you already know — with the same certainty you know a turn is late before the dancer's even landed it — that you are not going to win this one.

"You have contracts to review," you say.

"I reviewed them. You rejected them through color-coded osmosis." Lulu says this with the weary patience of a woman explaining gravity to someone who keeps falling up.

"I'm eating."

"You are stalling." She points her chopsticks at you like an accusation.

"I am chewing."

"You haven't taken a bite."

You look down at the fork in your hand, hovering exactly where it's been for the last thirty seconds. She's right, which is somehow more irritating than if she'd simply been wrong. You stab a piece of chicken with more force than the chicken has earned.

Lulu leans back in her chair, arms crossed, the particular satisfaction of someone who has just watched her opponent walk directly into the trap she set. "You're unbearable."

"I'm excellent. This is why you pay me."

"My family office pays you." You say family office the way other people say the government — with a small eye roll built in.

"Right. Thank your grandfather for me."

"He's dead."

"And yet, still contributing." You keep your face perfectly straight when she says it, which is what finally breaks her — a startled laugh she tries and fails to swallow, hand flying up to cover her mouth like she can stuff it back in.

You take a bite so you do not laugh either. It doesn't entirely work.

Your phone buzzes again against the stone countertop, loud in the small silence left behind by her laugh.

Lulu's eyes cut toward it immediately, sharp and delighted, then back at you, then back at the phone — the exact rhythm of someone watching a rehearsal room where she can already tell something's about to go wrong before anyone else has clocked it, and is thoroughly enjoying the anticipation.

"Is someone dying?"

"No."

"Are they threatening litigation?"

"No."

"Did you accidentally join a cult?" She asks this one completely seriously, like it's a real and recurring risk in your life.

"Not recently."

"Then who has sent you" — she leans across the island, craning for the screen, entirely without shame about it — "seven emails?"

You pick up the phone, fast.

Too late. She's already seen enough.

Her eyes narrow, the gleeful kind of narrow, a bloodhound catching a scent. "HYBE? As in the K-pop company, HYBE?"

"It's work."

"HYBE does not usually email you seven times in 40 minutes unless you've kidnapped an entire boyband." She says it like a woman citing case law.

"It's not HYBE."

The answer comes out before you can stop it — too fast, too specific, and you watch the exact moment it lands, Lulu's whole face going still and delighted at once, like a cat that has just heard a can opener from two rooms away.

That is the problem with spending eight years beside someone who used to make her living reading bodies for a stage. Lulu does not need a confession. She just needs one badly chosen verb, and you have just handed her one, gift-wrapped, with a bow.

"Who is it?"

"No one."

"A specific no one or a general no one?" She's grinning now, fully, chin propped on her hand, in absolutely no hurry to let this go.

You unlock the phone because refusing to look at it has become more conspicuous than looking.

Seven messages sit beneath the same thread.

The first arrived eleven days ago from an official HYBE address. Formal subject line. Formal introduction. Formal description of a privately funded dance center and resident company in Seoul. They wanted someone to help develop the artistic program, build the choreography department, train the inaugural ensemble, and consult on portions of an upcoming tour.

You had read it twice. Then archived it.

The second arrived today.

This time, the signature at the bottom was personal.

Park Jimin. Of BTS

As if there were another one.

As if your body hadn't already recognized the name a full second before your brain caught up and supplied the rest of it — the group, the stage, the quality of a man who has spent a decade being watched by more people than most countries have citizens, standing in a rehearsal room in Paris seven years ago telling you your turn was late when it was not late, it was simply not the turn he would have done.

You had archived that one too.

This did not stop him.

"What kind of work?" Lulu asks.

You open the first message and slide the phone across the island.

She reads quickly, eyes flicking down the screen with the speed of someone who's skimmed a thousand contracts and knows exactly where the important numbers live. Her eyes pause at the salary.

Actually pause — stop scrolling, go back up, read it again like she thinks she misplaced a decimal.

"That is offensive."

"Yes."

"I mean offensively high." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, very carefully, like it might be worth something and she doesn't want to be the one who drops it.

"I know."

"He is offering you more money than God." She says it with real reverence, the tone usually reserved for describing someone's engagement ring.

"God has never had to negotiate with HYBE's legal team."

"No," Lulu agrees, delighted, "God's never had to do a lot of things. Must be nice." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, still shaking her head at the number.

"That continues to be irrelevant." You say it flatly, but Lulu's already laughing under her breath, shaking her head at you, the specific laugh she saves for the very small percentage of your sentences that are, technically, indefensible.

Lulu scrolls to the bottom. Then back up. Then down again, mouth pressing into a shape that means she is doing arithmetic she isn't ready to announce.

"Park Jimin."

You concentrate on the food.

"Personally led by Park Jimin," she reads aloud. "Park Jimin will oversee the creative direction. Park Jimin has personally requested—"

"I can read."

"Apparently you can also ignore one of the most famous men on earth with an efficiency I find deeply inspiring."

"He's not asking as one of the most famous men on earth."

Lulu's thumb stops over the screen.

There it is again. The badly chosen verb.

Her eyes lift very slowly, sharp now, delighted in the specific way she gets delighted right before she ruins your evening.

"How is he asking?"

You take the phone back.

The second email is shorter than the first.

I wanted to contact you myself. This is not an endorsement arrangement, and I am not looking for someone who will lend their name to the center and leave. I want someone who can help me build it properly.

The third includes a link to an interview you gave six months ago about choreographer ownership and dancer longevity.

You remember the interview. The publication had a small circulation outside the dance world. Your mother had not read it.

Jimin had.

I agree with what you said about companies treating dancers as temporary equipment. I don't want to build another place that does that.

You had stared at that line longer than the others. You are not going to tell Lulu that. You are barely willing to tell yourself that.

The fourth email arrived after you opened the third and failed to respond.

I know you saw the first three.

Lulu reads it over your shoulder, eyebrows arching.

"Oh, I like him."

"You don't know him."

"No, but I support his commitment to the bit."

"He is not funny."

"That sounded personal."

"It was factual."

The fifth email is the longest. You have read it four times.

I have met with other choreographers. They are talented. They also agree with everything I say before I finish saying it. I cannot build this with someone who agrees with me because of my name. I need someone who will tell me when an idea is bad, even if I've already spent money on it. Especially then. You are the only person I know who would enjoy doing that.

You reach for the phone before Lulu gets to the next line.

She catches your wrist, quick, delighted, entirely without mercy.

"Absolutely not."

"Lulu."

She reads aloud.

I also think you are the only person who can help me make this what it should be.

Something small and traitorous shifts beneath your ribs.

It did the first time too. In a rehearsal room in Paris, seven years ago, when he looked at you like you were the only correction in the room worth listening to and then spent three weeks pretending he hadn't meant it that way.

Not because he called you talented. People have been calling you talented since you were too young to understand that talent is usually the least interesting thing about an artist.

Because he said only.

Because Park Jimin, who once spent three weeks contradicting every correction you gave him on principle, has spent seven years becoming one of the most exacting performers in the world and has still decided there is something he cannot do without you.

Lulu looks at your face, reading it the way she reads everything — instantly, without asking permission.

You remove your wrist from her hand.

"It's manipulative."

"It's effective."

"That doesn't make it less manipulative."

"It usually does in marketing."

"It's not marketing."

Lulu's smile arrives slowly, the particular smile that means she has just decided something about your evening that you have not yet agreed to.

"No," she says. "I don't think it is."

You open the sixth email.

It arrived 20 minutes ago.

For the avoidance of doubt, Paris does not need to be discussed. It has nothing to do with the offer.

Lulu stops breathing.

You lock the phone.

She blinks at you, delighted, predatory, already halfway out of her chair.

"No."

"Luisa."

"I am going to ignore you just called me my full government name. Unlock it."

"I'm going to bed."

"Unlock the phone."

"You have the important information."

"I have the word Paris and your face doing something I have not seen since—"

"You haven't seen my face do anything."

"Your face has filed for political asylum."

You stand, carrying the container toward the sink.

Lulu follows you around the island, quick on her feet even in socks, the particular energy of a woman who smells a story and has never once in her life let one go unfinished.

"Is he Paris?"

"That is not a complete question."

"Is Park Jimin the man from Paris?"

"There was no man from Paris."

"You went to a private dance retreat in France seven years ago, came home furious, refused to discuss one particular dancer, and watched every performance he posted for the next six months."

You turn.

"I did not."

"You used my laptop."

"Once."

"You were still logged into your account."

"That proves nothing."

"It proved his name, but I was respecting your privacy." She says this with the particular gravity of a woman who has clearly been sitting on it for years. "I thought maybe you were becoming an ARMY. I thought, okay, she likes their music, that's normal, half the world likes the music. And then I did the math — the dates, the way you got quiet for a week after you came back from France, the fact that you never once mentioned his name out loud but somehow knew his tour schedule — and I decided some things are not my business until you make them my business."

"There is no math."

"There is extensive math. I minored in it."

"You minored in dance."

"I contain multitudes."

You turn back to the sink so she cannot watch your face do whatever it is currently doing.

He wasn't — you correct yourself, silently, because there is no version of this you are willing to say aloud, even to Lulu, even at midnight, even after eight years of her knowing you better than most people who share your blood.

He is Park Jimin.

Was, seven years ago, a twenty-three-year-old with something to prove and a body that argued with every correction you gave him on principle, in a rehearsal room in Paris that smelled like rosin and cold spray, where you disliked him within eleven minutes of meeting him and disliked him more with every week that followed, right up until the week you stopped disliking him in any way that was useful to either of you.

You have never discussed what happened after that. Not with him — you have not spoken one real word to him in seven years, not once, not at an awards show you both happened to attend, not through any mutual acquaintance foolish enough to try to bridge the gap. And not really with Lulu either, though she has clearly built her own theory of the case out of six months of suspicious internet activity and a laptop you forgot to log out of.

You have watched his career since. Out of spite. That is the version you have always told yourself, and you intend to keep telling yourself that version for as long as it remains structurally sound, which — you are aware — has been considerably longer than spite usually lasts.

The uncomfortable truth, the one you are not saying out loud in your own kitchen at midnight, is that a man does not send seven emails to someone he successfully forgot. And you have a reasonably confident suspicion, based on nothing you could defend in a court of law, that he has been keeping an equally detailed, equally denied account of you for exactly as long.

The email chain currently sitting on your phone is not really a job offer.

It's a confirmation.

The phone vibrates in your hand.

Both of you look down.

The last email has arrived.

There is no formal subject line this time. No company language. No careful explanation of the center, the company, the contract, or the reason he has decided to break seven years of mutually enforced silence.

Just one word.

Please.

Lulu reads it beside you.

For once, she does not immediately say anything.

The apartment hums around the silence — the refrigerator motor, the pipes knocking somewhere inside the old walls, a taxi leaning on its horn eleven floors below. Your food is getting cold in the sink. Your body still carries the show in small places: adhesive at the base of your neck, rosin between your toes, the ache beneath your right knee.

You look at the word again.

Jimin does not ask twice.

At least, the version of him you knew did not. The twenty-three-year-old who would repeat the same turn until his feet bled but would rather lose a limb than admit he needed help. The man who could charm an entire room and still bristle whenever you looked at him for half a second too long, as though you had found a door he did not remember leaving open.

Seven years, and apparently he has learned how to ask.

Or he has become desperate enough to try.

Lulu nudges your shoulder, gentler now, some of the delight softening into something more serious.

"He said please."

"I can read."

"In writing."

"Yes."

"Save that for the divorce attorney."

You turn your head.

"As If."

"You know what I mean."

Unfortunately, you do.

You should archive it.

The job would mean moving to Seoul with almost no preparation. It would mean leaving Broadway before you have properly decided what comes next. It would mean placing yourself in a studio with a man you have spent seven years insisting, mostly to yourself, that you no longer think about.

It would also mean building something from the floor up. A real company. A real program. The kind of work none of the folders on the island had managed to offer.

Something difficult enough that you might fail at it.

Something he believes only you can do.

Lulu watches you open the reply window, arms crossed, and for once says nothing — just watches, the way she watches you before a show, when there's nothing left to fix and the only thing left to do is see what you do with it.

"I am not accepting," you say.

"Of course not."

"I'm requesting the full proposal."

"Naturally."

"This is a professional decision."

"Everything about your face agrees."

You begin typing.

Send me the complete artistic plan, operating structure, rehearsal schedule, and the actual authority attached to the role. Not the version written by your legal team.

You pause.

Then add:

And if you mention Paris again, the answer is no.

Lulu reads over your shoulder.

"You know that mentioning Paris in the sentence forbidding him from mentioning Paris still counts as mentioning Paris."

You press send.

"Go home, Lulu."

"I live here when your life gets interesting."

"It isn't interesting."

Your phone registers the email as delivered.

Three dots appear almost immediately beneath it.

Lulu sees them.

You see them.

Neither of you comments.

You have always known when someone is performing.

The problem with Park Jimin has never been that you cannot tell.

The problem is that he has always known when you are too.

It is considerably harder to pretend you are indifferent to a man when his face is forty feet tall.

You discover this before you have technically entered Seoul.

The airport has been warning you for several hundred meters. Seven faces rotate across illuminated screens above baggage claim, disappear behind advertisements for cosmetics and credit cards, then return in coordinated black tailoring beneath the announcement of BTS’s first full-group comeback in four years. Their music follows you through customs at a volume low enough to qualify as ambiance and high enough to make escape impossible. By the time you step outside, Park Jimin has attempted to sell you a phone, a duty-free fragrance, and something involving a bank account you are not eligible to open.

You lower your sunglasses despite the fact that it is February and the sky has the exhausted grey of a city that has not seen direct sunlight in days.

Beside you, Lulu wheels two suitcases through the automatic doors and stops.

“Oh,” she says.

You keep walking.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You inhaled with intent.”

“I just think you should prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

Lulu points.

A bus moves through the airport traffic lane, wrapped from end to end in a comeback advertisement. Jungkook occupies the back third. Taehyung and Jin are somewhere in the middle. Jimin’s face covers the section directly beside you, enlarged to the point that one eye is nearly the size of your head.

He is looking over his shoulder at the camera with his mouth parted and his hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably required twelve people and a wind machine to appear accidental.

The bus pauses at the light.

His enormous face pauses with it.

Lulu looks from the bus to you.

You look straight ahead.

"Oh, this is going to be so much worse than I thought." Lulu says it slowly, drawing it out, watching your face like she's reading a scoreboard.

"I don't know what you mean." You keep your eyes fixed pointedly on the crosswalk light, which has not changed, and will apparently take its time about it.

"Your face."

"My face is fine." It is not fine. You are aware it is not fine. This does not help.

"Your face just saw a ghost with excellent bone structure and beautiful lips." She's grinning now, delighted, tilting her head to get a better angle on whatever your expression is currently doing.

"He looks ridiculous." You say it too fast, too flat, the specific overcorrection defending a position you know is already lost.

"He looks expensive." Lulu tips her chin toward the bus, entirely unbothered, like she's appraising a painting rather than a forty-foot photograph of a man you have spent seven years insisting you don't think about.

"He is advertising public transportation."

"He is advertising an album. The public transportation is carrying his face." She says this with the patient authority of someone explaining a very simple concept to a child.

The light changes. The bus pulls away, taking Jimin's left eye with it, and you feel your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know you were holding.

You release the handle of your suitcase only long enough to adjust the cuff of your coat — a small, precise motion, entirely unnecessary, the kind of thing your hands do when they need something to be busy with.

Lulu watches this. Watches all of it, actually, waiting for exactly this reaction since the plane landed.

"You're nervous."

"I have been on a plane for fourteen hours." You say it like it settles the matter.

"You flew first class." She raises an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.

"Time still passed."

"You slept for nine of those hours." A small, satisfied smile now, building toward something.

"I rested my eyes."

"You drooled on a pillow that probably cost more than my first car." She's fully grinning now, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself far too much.

"I did not drool."

"I took a picture." She says it with the calm confidence of someone holding evidence and in absolutely no rush to produce it.

You turn to her.

She smiles brightly and begins walking toward the line of waiting cars.

The cold reaches through your coat as soon as you step beyond the shelter of the terminal. Seoul smells like jet fuel, winter air, and coffee from the kiosk near the taxi stand. Drivers hold signs in gloved hands. People move around you with luggage and phones and the contained urgency of arrivals. You have been here before for work, but never for long enough to learn the city beyond studios, hotels, and the interiors of company vans.

Never when Park Jimin was waiting somewhere inside it.

Not waiting for you personally, you remind yourself.

He has a project. You have a contract. The fact that he sent seven emails to secure that contract does not change its professional nature.

The driver waiting beneath your name bows and reaches for your luggage. Lulu hands hers over before you can stop her, then climbs into the back of the black van and slides across the seat.

You settle beside her.

The car has barely left the airport when she begins counting.

“One.”

You look out the window.

A BTS advertisement covers the side of a building near the expressway.

“Two.”

A digital billboard changes from a skincare campaign to all seven members walking toward the camera.

“Don’t.”

“I’m collecting data.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“These are not mutually exclusive activities.”

The city gathers around the windows as the van carries you farther from the airport. Bridges, apartment towers, traffic pressed into narrow lanes. Comeback posters appear at bus stops and convenience stores. Their faces cover the glass outside a department store. A coffee shop has placed cardboard cutouts near the entrance. Someone has decorated a street-facing window with purple lights and seven names spelled in silver lettering.

“This is objectively insane,” Lulu says.

“They are famous.”

“I understood that concept academically.”

“You manage performers.”

“I manage dancers. Nobody has ever wrapped your face around a city bus.”

“I would sue.”

“You would approve the final image and then sue.”

You pretend not to hear her.

Another bus passes in the opposite direction. This one carries the full group, although Jimin is closest to the window again, smiling as though he knows you are trapped in traffic beside his face.

You hate the photograph.

You have seen it before.

It appeared online three weeks ago. You had been awake after a show, stretching your hip on the living-room floor, when the first promotional images were released. You had looked at the group photographs because the costume construction was interesting. Then at the individual photographs because understanding the visual direction required context.

Then at Jimin’s photograph three times because the lighting was strange.

You had not saved it.

You had, apparently, committed it to memory.

Lulu turns in her seat.

“How much did you actually know?”

“About what?”

She gestures at the city outside. “This.”

“I know who BTS are.”

“That was not the question.”

“They’re one of the largest music acts in the world.”

“Still not the question.”

You look at her.

Lulu folds her hands in her lap. “When you met him, was he already this?”

Your attention returns to the window.

The honest answer is yes.

The more honest answer is that you had refused to care.

Paris had been too hot that summer.

Not pleasantly warm — hot enough that the old studio windows stayed open all day and accomplished nothing beyond letting traffic noise interfere with the music. Twenty-four dancers, twelve companies, six weeks of contemporary training that cost enough to require justification.

Park Jimin arrived forty minutes late on the second morning, baseball cap on, two apologetic staff members trailing behind, the attention of the entire room following him without being asked to.

You knew the type. Trained young, praised often, accustomed to rooms rearranging themselves around him. You did not expect to like him. You were, initially, entirely correct.

"You don't like me," he said, day nine, standing beside you at the barre like the observation cost him nothing.

"I don't know you."

"Is that different?"

It should have stayed that simple. It did not.

He stayed after rehearsal every night, taping his own ankle, repeating combinations until his shirt darkened, working like being second-best in any room was a private emergency. You started answering his questions. He started listening to your corrections instead of just charming his way past them. Weeks in, you caught yourself doing the thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't — thinking of him not as an idol who danced, but as a dancer who happened to be famous.

That distinction turned out to be the whole problem.

There was a duet neither of you could finish. A studio at eleven at night, everyone else gone, rain against the high windows. There was a moment neither of you anticipated the other, for once, instead of fighting for the lead.

You are not thinking about what happened after that. You have not thought about it for seven years.

What you will allow yourself to remember is the morning after — a rehearsal, an audience of twenty-two dancers who did not need to hear what they heard, and a sentence Jimin said that turned something private into entertainment for an entire company. You said something back. Something aimed precisely enough to land exactly where you wanted it to.

Neither of you apologized. The truce was gone before lunch.

He went back to Seoul. You went back to New York. You told yourself you hated him. It was simpler than admitting how much you'd respected him before he ruined it — and infinitely simpler than admitting that hatred, it turned out, was not incompatible with knowing exactly how someone took their coffee, or how they liked to be touched.

"Your eye is twitching."

You blink and find Lulu watching you from the other side of the van, chin propped on her fist, studying your face with the unhurried focus of someone who has already decided this is going to be the highlight of her week.

"It is not."

"It absolutely is." She says it with real satisfaction, like a doctor confirming a diagnosis she's been hoping for.

The city moves beyond her shoulder. Another billboard. Another comeback announcement. All seven members in profile this time, Jimin standing near the center, jaw doing something unreasonable in fifty-foot lighting.

Lulu follows your gaze before you can redirect it. Her whole face changes — eyebrows up, mouth already curving into the specific shape it takes right before she says something you'll regret her saying out loud.

"Did you sleep with him?"

You turn so fast the seatbelt catches against your coat, half-choking you on your own scarf.

The driver's eyes remain professionally, diplomatically fixed on the road, a man who has clearly transported worse conversations than this one and intends to survive this one the same way.

"Could you lower your voice?"

"He doesn't speak English."

"You don't know that."

Lulu leans toward the front seat, entirely undeterred, already treating this like due diligence. "Sir, do you speak English?"

The driver meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, utterly unbothered.

"A little."

"Wonderful," you say, dragging a hand down your face. "Excellent work, everyone."

Lulu smiles at him, apologetic and completely insincere, and settles back into her seat like she's just gathered useful intel. "So?"

"This is not a conversation for the car."

"That is a yes." She says it triumphantly, pointing at you like she's just solved a case.

"It is not anything."

"You have spent seven years referring to Paris like it was a natural disaster." She ticks it off on her fingers, delighted with her own memory. "Hurricane. Earthquake. 'The incident.' I have heard you call it the incident, Y/N."

"It was an intensive."

"Did the intensive have abs?"

You look out the window again, jaw tight, refusing to dignify that with anything.

Lulu presses both hands over her mouth, eyes going wide over the top of them, the exact expression of someone watching a plot twist unfold in real time. "Oh my God."

"Please stop."

"You slept with Park Jimin." Muffled, through her fingers, entirely too gleeful for someone supposedly scandalized.

"Lower your voice."

"You slept with the man on the bus."

"You have officially gone insane."

"That does not make the information less significant." She drops her hands, fully invested now, twisted sideways in her seat to face you properly.

"It happened once."

"Once?" Her eyebrows climb higher, delighted by the specificity, like you've handed her a gift she wasn't expecting to unwrap this early in the ride.

You say nothing. You look, very deliberately, at absolutely nothing out the window.

Lulu's hands slowly lower, and something in her expression shifts — the teasing easing back just slightly, replaced by the sharper, more attentive look she gets when she's actually paying attention instead of performing outrage for sport.

"Y/N."

"It was seven years ago."

"That was not the question."

"It was a long night."

Her eyes close briefly, like she's receiving spiritual guidance from somewhere above the van's ceiling. When she opens them again, something has clicked into place.

"And then he hurt your feelings."

"He did not hurt my feelings."

"You refused to hear his name for almost a decade." She's counting on her fingers again, methodical now, building a case.

"I have heard his name."

"You changed the radio station in a dentist's office."

"I didn't like the song."

"You don't speak Korean."

"I can still dislike production choices." You say it with total conviction, chin lifted, daring her to argue.

Lulu studies you for several seconds, and for once, doesn't. She just watches — really watches, the amusement settling into something quieter — and then she reaches across the seat and squeezes your knee.

The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you stop mid-breath, halfway through preparing your next defense, and just let her hold on for a second.

"I'm going to destroy him," she says. Calm. Certain. Like she's confirming dinner reservations.

You stare at her.

"With professionalism," she adds, entirely serious, releasing your knee to sit back with her arms crossed. "I represent you now. I have standards."

"You are not destroying my employer."

"He's not your employer. Technically the company is."

"The center is privately funded by him."

"Then I will destroy him while respecting the corporate structure." She says it like this is obviously the reasonable compromise, nodding once like the matter's settled.

You pull your sunglasses down over your eyes, done negotiating.

Lulu pats your knee once more, entirely too pleased with herself.

"Don't worry. I'll be subtle."

"That is the least reassuring sentence you've ever said."

The suite has two bedrooms, a living room larger than your first New York apartment, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, the city smeared gold and glass below. It is, in the specific way of hotel rooms designed for people who never see the bill, entirely too much.

There are flowers on the dining table.

White lilies.

Not orchids. Not roses. Not the safe, anonymous arrangement any competent assistant would order for a business trip. White lilies, exactly the way you've ordered them for yourself since you were nineteen years old and finally had your own apartment to fill with them, a fact you cannot remember ever telling him, a fact you're fairly certain you never told him, which means he noticed. Once. Seven years ago. And filed it away.

There's a card tucked between the stems.

You tell yourself you're not going to read it. You read it.

I remembered. I hope that's still true.

Something in your chest does something you don't have a polite word for. You stand very still with the card between two fingers, willing it to mean nothing, willing yourself to believe it's coincidence — a devastating coincidence, the worst kind, the kind that requires him to have thought about you specifically enough to remember a detail you'd have sworn you never gave him.

Lulu watches you read it twice. She doesn't say anything, which is somehow worse than if she had.

You shower. Wash fourteen hours of airplane air off your skin, stand under water hot enough to loosen the knot between your shoulders, and by the time you're back in the bedroom in a robe, Lulu has opened three suitcases and laid your clothes across the bed like she's staging a trial.

"Our car's at seven-thirty," you say. "This is a contract meeting."

"Mhm." Lulu isn't listening. She's holding up the black dress — the one with almost no back — against her own body, studying it in the mirror with the focus of a general reviewing artillery.

"Absolutely not."

"It says you take contracts very seriously."

"It says I have no internal organs."

"It says your organs are private." She drops it onto the bed, already victorious.

You reach for the navy suit folded beside it. She slaps your hand away without even looking.

"He spent seven years knowing he hurt you and still put his face on public transportation."

"I don't think the bus placement has anything to do with me."

"Don't defend him." She holds the dress out, arms extended, patient as a woman with all the time in the world and none of your objections. "You flew across the planet after he begged you in writing seven times. He thinks he won."

"It's a job."

"He thinks he won."

You look at the dress. Black silk, clean lines, a back that exists mostly as a technicality. You know, with the flat certainty of someone who has worn it before, exactly what it does to a room.

You take it anyway.

Lulu's smile turns unbearable. "This doesn't mean anything," you tell her.

"Of course not."

Twenty minutes later you step out of the bathroom. The dress fits the way it always has — maybe better, your body having spent seven years quietly getting even more furious on your behalf. Lulu turns from the mirror, lipstick still raised halfway to her mouth, and just — stops.

"Oh," she says. "He's going to hate you."

"That's the goal."

"Mhm."

You catch your own reflection over her shoulder and don't entirely recognize the effect — hair pinned back, bare shoulders, the kind of breathtaking that isn't trying to be anything, which is exactly what makes it work. Nothing about it says seven years. Everything about it says you should have thought about this before you sent the seventh email.

Lulu grabs her coat, tosses yours at you, and heads for the door with the specific energy of a woman preparing for battle she has no personal stake in and every intention of enjoying.

"Alright, that is a revenge dress." she announces, one hand on the doorframe, chin lifted like she's about to lead a cavalry charge. "Let's go, Lady Diana. Let's go slay some dragons."

You stare at her.

"That sentence means nothing. Lady Diana didn't slay dragons. Lady Diana was a princess."

"She had presence, Y/N. Work with me."

You're still laughing — helpless, undignified, entirely unplanned — when the elevator doors open downstairs.

This is a professional dinner.

The dress is a coincidence.

You are, demonstrably, lying to yourself about at least one of those things.

And Park Jimin, somewhere across Seoul, is about to learn that seven years have done absolutely nothing to improve your patience.

The restaurant occupies the top floor of a building in Cheongdam, behind an entrance discreet enough to suggest that anyone who needs directions cannot afford to eat there.

The car deposits you beneath a black awning at exactly seven twenty-eight. Lulu steps out first, surveys the entrance, then turns back toward you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to send a close friend into active combat.

“Last chance to fake food poisoning.”

She reaches for your coat before the driver can and holds it while you step onto the pavement. Cold air moves beneath the hem of your dress, sharp against your bare legs. Through the restaurant windows, Seoul glitters in fragments—headlights, glass towers, the reflected glow of advertisements that have followed you across the city all afternoon.

At least none of them are visible from here.

“You look terrifying,” Lulu says, settling the coat over your shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“I meant it lovingly.”

“You usually do.”

“And your ass looks divine.”

“Please develop another interest before we go inside.”

“No.”

The host recognizes your reservation immediately and leads you through a corridor lined with dark wood and low lighting. The restaurant smells faintly of charcoal, citrus, and something expensive being reduced in a copper pan. Private dining rooms sit behind sliding doors, each one far enough apart to keep conversations from travelling.

You almost appreciate the discretion until the host stops outside the last door.

Lulu leans closer.

“Do you need a safe word?”

“For dinner?”

“For him.”

You look at her.

She smiles. “Just checking.”

The private room sits behind a door that slides rather than swings, opening onto floor-to-ceiling windows that hold the whole glittering sprawl of Seoul at night — the kind of view that costs more than most people's rent, offered here like it's incidental.

Park Jimin is standing in front of the table.

One hand is in his pocket. The other checks his watch, an absent, restless motion, like a man who has been ready for twenty minutes and has run out of ways to occupy himself.

He is still blond.

A shade lighter now, pushed back off his forehead instead of falling loose the way it did in Paris, and you find yourself absurdly, uselessly thrown by the difference anyway — the particular golden edge of it catching the window light, softer than you remember, like even his hair has learned some kind of restraint in seven years.

His hair looks like it simply grew this way, like the color was doing him a favor the whole time and nobody told you. It suits him in a way that feels almost unfair. Almost natural. You hate that you notice the difference in under three seconds.

The suit is black, tailored close enough to make the fitting itself sound like a small act of violence — no tie, shirt open at the throat, the kind of quiet, expensive restraint that doesn't announce itself and doesn't need to.

For several seconds, the room becomes inconveniently quiet.

His eyes find you first — not the dress, not the room, you — and something moves across his face before he has time to arrange it into anything more polished. His jaw shifts, almost imperceptibly, the smallest fracture in composure. His lips part around whatever he was about to say to his manager and the words simply don't arrive.

Then his eyes move.

Not far. Not obviously. Far enough that you clock it — the exact half-second his attention drops to the neckline of the dress, follows the line of black silk down, and catches somewhere it has no professional business catching before returning, with visible effort, to your face.

Personal victory arrives warm and immediate beneath your ribs.

You keep your expression perfectly neutral. You have had considerably more practice at that than he apparently has.

Beside him, someone clears their throat — a manager, hovering a respectful two feet back — and Jimin blinks like he's been startled out of somewhere private.

Then he smiles.

There it is. The exact smile that once convinced twenty-two dancers in Paris that language was optional, that a man could get away with anything as long as he delivered it with enough sincerity behind the eyes. Older now. More controlled. Sharpened by seven years of knowing precisely what it does to a room, and precisely when to spend it.

"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N."

Your name doesn't just leave his mouth. It rolls off his tongue slow and deliberate, landing somewhere between a secret and a confession, like he's been waiting seven years for a reason to say it out loud again and has decided, apparently, to make the most of it.

Shameless. Utterly unrepentant.

Seven years, and he has not changed even slightly.

His English is almost fluent.

You resent this immediately.

"Jimin."

His gaze drops again, shameless now that he knows you noticed the first time — no attempt to disguise it, no flicker of embarrassment, just an open, unhurried look that lands somewhere south of your collarbone and stays there a beat too long.

"You look—"

"Employed?"

Lulu makes a strangled sound beside you, quickly disguised as a cough.

Jimin's smile widens, slow and unbothered, like your interruption is exactly the response he was hoping to provoke. "I was going to say beautiful."

"That would have been inappropriate for a contract meeting."

"Then I'm glad you interrupted me."

"You usually are."

His manager steps forward before either of you can improve upon the situation, the practiced motion of a man who has clearly done this exact maneuver before — inserting himself at the precise moment a room threatens to combust. He introduces himself in English, polite and careful, bows, welcomes you to Seoul, asks about the flight, says they appreciate you accepting the project on such short notice.

Lulu shakes his hand, entirely pleasant, entirely unarmed-looking, which is how you know she's about to cause a problem.

"We haven't accepted the full project yet."

The manager's smile holds, though something behind his eyes recalibrates. "The contract was signed."

"The preliminary contract was signed."

"It includes the full term."

"Subject to final approval of the artistic structure."

Jimin looks between them, one eyebrow lifting with open interest, like he's watching a match he has no stake in and every intention of enjoying. You look between them too, arms folding loosely, letting Lulu do exactly what you brought her here to do.

His manager turns slightly toward Jimin, positioning himself with such subtle protectiveness that another person might miss it. Lulu moves half a step closer to you with considerably less subtlety, chin lifting, shoulders squaring like she's decided this is a formation now.

Jimin notices. Of course he does. His gaze settles on Lulu, curious, assessing, faintly delighted. "You must be Lulu."

She tilts her head, not blinking. "You must be Paris."

His manager closes his eyes. Only for a moment, recalculating his entire evening.

Jimin looks at you.

You study the arrangement of glassware on the table with great interest.

"Interesting," he says.

"Is it?" Lulu asks, all innocence.

"You've told her about me."

"She has told me almost nothing about you. I formed my opinion from the silence."

"Lulu."

"What? I'm being charming."

"You're threatening the employer."

"I haven't threatened anyone."

Jimin slides one hand into his trouser pocket, mouth curving further, entirely too entertained for a man supposedly under attack. "I feel a little threatened."

"You should."

His manager says something quietly in Korean, low and urgent. Jimin answers without taking his eyes off Lulu, easy and unbothered, and whatever he says makes his manager's mouth tighten as though suppressing either a sigh or a deeply inappropriate laugh.

"What did you say?" Lulu asks.

"That I like you."

"No, you don't."

"I could."

"You hurt my client and best friend's feelings."

The room changes.

Not dramatically. No one stops breathing. No glass breaks. But Jimin's smile loses a fraction of its ease, something flickering behind his eyes that wasn't there a second ago — surprise, maybe, or the beginning of it.

His manager looks at you, quick and searching. Lulu looks at Jimin, entirely unrepentant. You consider, briefly and seriously, walking directly back to New York and changing your emergency contact information.

"I did not say that," you tell her.

"You did not need to."

Jimin's eyes return to yours. The humor is still there, but something else has moved beneath it — something more careful, more exposed than he probably intended to let show in front of three witnesses and a maître d'.

"I didn't know she was hurt."

"You didn't ask," Lulu says.

His manager steps in fast, smooth, practiced. "I think perhaps there has been a misunderstanding about the purpose of tonight."

"Yes," Lulu says. "You think this is dinner. I think this is discovery."

"Lulu."

She raises both hands, the picture of surrender, entirely unconvincing.

Jimin laughs.

It is quiet, unguarded, and far too familiar, a sound that arrives before he seems to have decided to let it, head tipping back slightly, the performance dropping away for one unscripted second.

You look at him.

He is already looking at you, laughter still settling in the corners of his mouth.

"Still bringing someone else to fight for you?" he asks.

Lulu turns toward you slowly, delighted, silent, waiting.

His manager's expression becomes alert, watching you the way you'd watch a match about to be lit.

You fold your arms beneath your coat. "Still confusing basic loyalty with weakness?"

"No." Jimin's gaze flicks toward Lulu, considering, almost fond. "I think she could kill me."

"She has considered it," you say.

"I have a list," Lulu confirms, entirely serious.

His manager straightens, visibly alarmed. "A list?"

"For legal reasons, it is figurative."

Lulu smiles at him, sweet and unbothered.

You are not entirely certain it is figurative.

Jimin steps closer. Not enough to be improper. Enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you — something warm beneath the clean edge of citrus, familiar only in the dangerous way certain memories live inside the body before the mind gives them permission. Your pulse does something inconvenient. You do not let it show.

His attention travels over your face, slow, deliberate, cataloguing.

"You cut your hair."

Your hair is longer than it was in Paris. You don't correct him. You let him be wrong, mostly to watch what he does with it.

"You got better at English."

"I practiced."

"Clearly."

"I had motivation."

"Threatening foreign choreographers?"

"Understanding when they insult me."

"You managed without vocabulary."

His mouth curves, something warmer sliding into it. "You noticed."

"I notice distractions."

"And yet. You came."

"You sent seven emails."

"You answered the last one."

"You begged in the last one."

His manager looks at him, alarmed anew. Lulu lights up like she's just been handed the winning lottery numbers, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.

Jimin's expression does not change, carefully composed, chin level — but the tips of his ears begin turning pink beneath his blond hair, a small, involuntary betrayal that no amount of composure can override.

You feel a satisfaction so pure it should probably embarrass you.

It does not.

"In writing," you add.

His manager says his name in Korean with the weary tone of a man discovering new information about his employer in front of hostile witnesses, rubbing at his temple like this evening has aged him considerably.

Jimin finally looks away from you, jaw tightening slightly. "The first six emails were professional."

"The sixth mentioned Paris."

"The sixth clarified that Paris would not be mentioned."

"By mentioning it."

"I was establishing a boundary."

"You don't establish my boundaries."

"I was respecting one."

"You created it."

"You were already going to create it."

"Then you should have waited."

"For what? Email eight?"

Lulu covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. His manager stares fixedly at the table, a man who has fully checked out and is simply waiting for the meal to end.

You take one step toward Jimin.

He does not move back. If anything, something in his stance settles, like he's been waiting for you to close that particular distance all night.

"You said you would stop after the third."

"You ignored it."

"That was an answer."

"No, that was avoidance."

"You're an expert now?"

"I had seven years to study."

The words leave him easily. Too easily — no performance behind them, none of the practiced ease from thirty seconds ago. For the first time since the door opened, neither of you has a response ready.

Jimin's gaze stays on yours, steady, unguarded in a way that catches you off balance. The room around him softens at the edges — the table, the city lights beyond the windows, your respective guardians standing nearby and silently reconsidering every decision that led to this evening.

Seven years to study.

The line should sound like another joke. It does not, and you both seem to notice it at the same time, a small, mutual falter neither of you acknowledges out loud.

Then his eyes lower to your dress again, and the softness disappears beneath something openly, unapologetically appreciative.

"You wore black."

You glance down as though the color has surprised you. "A remarkable observation. Your English really has improved."

"I remember you wearing black."

"I own several colors."

"Not when you want to win."

Lulu turns away, shoulders shaking harder now, no longer bothering to disguise it as anything else.

You narrow your eyes. "Win what?"

Jimin steps aside, gesturing toward the dining table, unbothered, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You tell me."

The gesture opens his jacket slightly. The shirt beneath it fits close enough that you can see the movement of his breathing. His hair falls across one eye, and he pushes it back with a ringed hand without breaking eye contact, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to be looked at.

He is flirting with you.

Not the careless, generous flirtation he once distributed across studios and hotel bars, spread thin enough for anyone to catch a piece of it. This is deliberate. Focused. Aimed at you specifically, and far more shameless than it was in Paris because he now possesses both the language and the confidence to make certain you understand every part of it.

You should find it irritating.

You do.

You also become acutely conscious that the back of your dress is almost entirely open.

Jimin's gaze passes over your shoulder, locating the missing fabric. His eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough. The reaction lasts less than a second.

It is enough.

Lulu catches your eye. Her expression says everything.

Divine.

You refuse to give her the satisfaction of agreeing out loud.

His manager moves toward the table and pulls out one of the chairs, apparently deciding the evening has a better chance of surviving if everyone is seated and provided with food.

"We have prepared an agenda," he says.

"Excellent," Lulu answers, already reaching into her bag. "We have revisions."

"Of course you do," Jimin says, resigned and amused in equal measure.

She smiles at him. "You're learning."

He looks at you again, something quieter settling behind his eyes.

"Yes," he says. "But I already knew."

There is something unbearable about the certainty in his voice. As if seven years have not changed anything essential. As if he still knows how you enter a room, how you choose a dress when you intend to make a point, how silence is not the same thing as surrender.

As if you have not spent those same seven years learning him from photographs, performances, interviews, and every piece of work you watched while telling yourself professional curiosity was a sufficient explanation.

His manager gestures toward the table. Lulu does not move. Neither do you.

Jimin glances between the three of you, then exhales through a smile, hands spread slightly, the picture of a man conceding a point he never actually planned to fight.

"Should we take our seats?"

"You first," you say.

"Still don't trust me behind you?"

"I don't trust you anywhere."

"That wasn't true in— before."

His manager makes a small choking sound. Lulu's head snaps toward you, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.

Jimin's face becomes luminous with satisfaction, the specific look of a man who has just been handed exactly the reaction he wanted.

You smile.

It is not a kind smile.

"This dinner hasn't started," you tell him, "and you're already violating one of my conditions."

"You haven't given me the conditions yet."

"You knew I would have them."

"I wanted you to have them."

You should leave.

Jimin's eyes drop to the open back of the dress. This time, he does not bother pretending otherwise — his gaze lingers, open and unhurried, something unguarded crossing his face before he can smooth it back into something more careful.

The expression on his face is worth the flight.

Worth the billboards.

Almost worth the bus.

You hand the coat to the host and walk past him toward the table, spine straight, chin level, refusing to give him the courtesy of watching you do it.

Behind you, Lulu whispers, "Personal victory," with enough pride to suggest she selected the dress for precisely this outcome.

You take the chair opposite Jimin. He sits across from you, his manager on one side and Lulu on the other, dividing the table into two protective camps that have already declared war without bothering to establish terms.

Jimin reaches for the water, unhurried, watching you over the rim of the glass. "So," he says. "How badly are you planning to make me suffer?"

You unfold your napkin over your lap, not looking up.

"I have three conditions."

His smile returns, slow, delighted, entirely too confident for a man about to hear them.

"Only three?"

"For now."

He leans back in his chair, blond hair brushing the collar of his suit, and looks at you the way nobody else in the room would dare to — not the careful, filtered attention people give a stranger, and not the reverent, distant kind people give a stage. Direct. Unhidden. The look of someone who has decided, somewhere in the last ten minutes, that pretending not to look is no longer worth the effort.

It is going to be a very long night.

You have always known when someone is performing. The body tells the truth eventually — a missed count, a held breath, a pair of dark eyes lingering half a second longer than they should.

Across the table, Park Jimin smiles as though he has nothing to hide.

You know better.

The problem is that, judging by the way he is looking at you, so does he.

And somewhere underneath the conditions you're about to lay out, underneath the seven years and the seven emails and the dress you'll never admit you wore for him, is the quiet, inconvenient fact that you have not finished deciding which one of you is actually winning tonight.

You place your water glass down.

“For the first month, you personally attend every rehearsal connected to the resident company’s inaugural program.”

Jimin’s smile remains.

Author's Note

OMG OMG OMG!! here we have it friends 🖤 the first part of DLAMLT — Jimin's story, in this wonderfully chaotic universe of The B-Side Series. if you're new here, hi!! hello!! come sit, grab a cookie from the back, let me tell you a story

so this is part of a whole collection i'm writing for all seven members, and this is the FOURTH one to be published. we've got What Happens When You Fall, which is Namjoon's (slow burn, medical setting, will absolutely ruin you in the best way), and The Real Thing, which is Yoongi's (a fake dating premise that stopped being fake approximately five minutes in) — both of those are complete!! and i'm currently posting The Space Between Us, which is Jin's (marriage, distance, learning how to come back to someone — that one's going to take its time and it's going to be worth it)

and now: Jimin's

yes, you can absolutely read each story as a total standalone. but they are all interconnected, bc i am apparently a madwoman standing in front of a corkboard with red string connecting seven different men's love lives into one universe and i regret nothing

WITH THAT BEING SAID — if you're not new here, come here, let me kiss your forehead, thank you thank you thank you for following me down every single one of my unhinged rabbit holes. i mean it

confession time: i have discovered that i enjoy writing jimin an EMBARRASSING amount. i am already bias wrecked. send help. actually don't send it, i am having way too much fun over here and i refuse to be saved

also i need to formally go on record that writing dance scenes might be the single hardest thing i have ever done as a writer. and i say this as someone who wrote an entire fic with real orthopedic surgical accuracy in it. bones? fine. tibias? no problem. but describing MOVEMENT, making choreography feel alive on a page instead of just "and then she did a spin" — dear god. have mercy on me. it's humbling in a way very few things are humbling

this was supposed to be a small teaser and i ended up writing the entire first chapter instead, so. that happened. the next part is coming soon, but there's a full schedule you can check HERE for what's dropping when

and if you want to be added to my permanent taglist — you are so welcome here, just send me a DM or drop a comment and i'll add you 🖤

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

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

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

The apartment is quiet now. Still.

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

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

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

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

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

And now, you feel the absence.

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

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

And yet…

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

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

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

But your thoughts are already pulling in another direction.

His direction.

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

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

The silence stretches again.

And then — the buzz.

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

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

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

Two notifications.

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

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

You consider replying. You even start to type.

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

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

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

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

You type back, simple.

[ You 3:46 PM]: Depends who’s asking.

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

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

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

You hesitate, then reply:

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

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

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

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

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

And then — a pause. A longer one.

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

Then his message blinks across the screen:

[ JK 3:48 PM]: You always do.

You stop.

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

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

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

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

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

You exhale, slow.

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

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

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

You hadn’t answered.

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

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

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

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

Jungkook’s already there.

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

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

Then he looks up.

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

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

“I knocked.”

“You didn’t.”

You blink. “…I thought I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “You mean—?”

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

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

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

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

“I thought so.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not uncomfortable.

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

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

“Is that a challenge?”

“More like a prayer.”

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

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

But your heart?

It’s doing that thing again.

The quiet kind of racing.

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

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

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

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

“Y/N!”

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

“Come settle a bet,” he called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook chose the track. Something fast. Of course.

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

Jungkook was fast. Annoyingly fast.

But you were patient. Quietly calculating.

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

The room exploded.

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

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

“That was luck.”

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

“Rematch.”

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asked under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Round two’s coming,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you smiled anyway. -----

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

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

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

"Hey," he said, straightening slightly.

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

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

"No problem."

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

You blinked. "At Mario Kart?"

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows shot up. "How do you—"

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

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

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

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

Then footsteps echoed in the hallway.

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

You braced for something.

He didn’t disappoint.

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

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

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

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

You stared after him.

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

"He’s going to milk that for weeks."

You sighed. "Guess we’re doomed."

"Could be worse," Jungkook said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You already said that."

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

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

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

---- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At what?"

"Disarming people."

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

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

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

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

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

"You’ll survive."

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

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

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

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

You nodded slowly. "I think so."

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

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

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

He didn’t press. Just waited.

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

But it didn’t last for long.

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

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

"I should—"

He nodded.

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

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

And then—

Your name.

Spoken low. Firm.

You turned as he caught up to you. 

No hesitation this time.

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

And he kissed you again.

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

He kissed you.

He kissed you.

Again.

And then he—

He just turned around and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you just stood there.

Completely and utterly flabbergasted.

What the hell had just happened?

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

This was a joke. It had to be. 

No.

This was your life.

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

It didn’t.

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

And you let it happen.

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

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

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

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

Should you call Evi?

No.

Yes.

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

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

You covered your face with both hands.

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

And you were very possibly losing your mind.

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

But it wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t.

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

He kissed me.

Then you stared at them.

Then you deleted them.

Then you opened a new note:

What the fuck is happening.

You closed the app.

Typed Evi’s name in your contacts.

And stared.

You hadn’t done anything wrong.

Right?

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

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

Anything but this. Your phone buzzed again.

This time, not a message. A FaceTime.

 My one and only true love is FaceTiming…

You screamed.

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

Your thumb still hit "accept."

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

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

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

“Charming. This is the welcome I get?”

“You scared the hell out of me.” 

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

Your soul left your body.

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

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

You adjusted your phone. “It is cold.”

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

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

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

You said nothing.

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

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

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

“Evi…”

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

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

“I KNEW IT!”

“That was not a signal.”

“Too late. Evidence locked in.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned at you. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

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

She tilted her head. “Was it good?”

You sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Not a no.”

“Stop it.”

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

“Oh, I already spiraled.”

She beamed. “That’s my girl.”

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

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

You blinked. “Absolutely.”

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

You snorted. “Still the same three songs?”

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

You grinned.

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

You nodded. “I do.”

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

You smiled, eyes soft. “Deal.”

“Miss you.”

“Miss you too.” 

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

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

Y/N listlessly scrolled through yet more photos of Jimin—looking for hidden meanings in the recent videos the group had posted was starting to make her feel like she was overreacting at best and paranoid at worst. 

There were pictures of him with a variety of hair colors and outfits, taken over time, and he was flawless in all of them. Even ones she came across where he wasn’t glammed out in full makeup made it obvious he was just one of the lucky ones, naturally born attractive. 

“How many wardrobe malfunctions can one person have throughout their career?” Y/N found herself muttering, spying yet another photo where Jimin’s fancy jacket was sliding down his arm. “Is he allergic to keeping his shirt on his shoulders?”

Though, given how many fan compilations existed that compiled every single moment where Jimin’s shirt or jacket hadn’t quite managed to stay all the way on, it didn’t seem like there were many complaints. Army was swooning and swooning hard if anything. 

But really, being sued within an inch of her life wasn’t even the worst part about it all. If someone saw the “notes” section of her phone, they’d have her committed first, and ask questions later. She’d have her committed, under normal circumstances.

 Because what she had experienced not once, but twice? It went against everything she stood for. Logical, grounded, a firm believer in science and fact. Facts didn’t support phenomena like getting sucked through a mirror and ending up in an idol’s dance studio. 

Facts didn’t support seeing the face of another idol—because she now knew the reason the man in the mirror looked vaguely familiar was because he was another BTS member, Seokjin—instead of her own reflection when she went to brush her teeth. It just…didn’t make sense. 

Science couldn’t support it. It was nuts. Yet it happened to her. And that was the only reason she believed it. Too bad no one else would. Or worse, if and when Jimin announced he’d be pressing charges for assault, and she had confessed beforehand to someone…it would probably be taken as evidence the attack was premeditated.

 Sure, they’d have to prove how she got in. But…but still! She couldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t. Which meant her phone was her only safe secret-keeper. They were co-conspirators in it all. 

Speaking of the damned cursed thing… trying to outright return it hadn’t worked, even though she had the receipt and everything! She still remembered the bizarre events that day.

Y/N was almost out of breath by the time she entered the phone store, embarrassingly worked up in front of the few strangers milling around inside. She got a few curious, side-long glances, and then they went back to perusing the inventory.

“Welcome!” Called an employee already speaking to other customers. “Someone will assist you shortly.”

Y/N gave a short, affirmative nod, trying not to come off anxious as she glanced around. Everything looked…the same as the night she had bought the phone. Shiny new models on display, the monitor above their heads playing a loop of advertisements for different Samsung products, and everything neatly put away and organized. Absently, she began to think over the store’s layout, and the fact that it could have a strong subconscious effect on the consumer. Organization of inventory could actually play a role in whether or not someone wanted to buy something.

But, putting that aside, the store didn’t look like the kind of place that would sell someone a phone that would ruin their life. Looks could be deceiving, though. Who knew what was actually afoot?

“Oh, can I help you, miss?” A middle-aged woman wearing the store’s polo top came over with a tag that said her name was Hayoung asked in an attentive tone.

Y/N was quick to nod. “I’m here to make a return, actually. I bought a phone from your store not long ago.”

“Was the item not to your liking?” Hayoung asked, guiding her over to an available station.

The university student glanced down at the phone in question, which she’d placed back in the original purchase box. “You could…say that.” She mumbled. “I’ve thought about it, and I really don’t need anything even half this fancy.” Telling the woman she thought the phone might have it in for her was out of the question. “So I’d like to exchange it for something simpler.”

Hayoung dutifully accepted the box, scanning the barcode and then lifting up the lid. Y/N had anticipated a smooth return in which she’d flash her receipt, maybe some ID, and have the exchange completed in no time. But when Hayoung’s brow furrowed, she knew she wouldn’t like whatever the saleswoman was going to say.

“Is…is something wrong?”

“Well,” she paused, “Are you sure you purchased your phone here? From this store? I know we’ve had models similar to this in stock before, but this one’s just not ringing up.”

“Really?” Y/N shook her head, rummaging around in her purse. “I don’t see how that could be. I have the receipt if that helps…” 

She then proceeded to go through her small purse, searching the exact spot she knew she had folded and placed the receipt. “Um, hold on a minute please,” Hayoung waited expectantly as Y/N kept looking, growing increasingly more frustrated as she turned the contents of her purse inside out hunting for the receipt. 

No, no way was she ever that careless. She had made sure she put it into her purse before leaving the apartment, and she didn’t exactly care that much in it to begin with! It was all zipped up tight, so how could it have fallen out?!

It took several more long, awkward moments of searching futilely in vein for her to realize it was true. The receipt was no where to be found. Trying to fight down the flush of defeat crossing her cheeks, Y/N cleared her throat, speaking diplomatically, “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have my receipt on hand after all. I guess I’ll just…try to search it out and return when I do.”

“Oh, there’s no need. Our system can search for and find the purchase if you happen to have the card on hand.”

Y/N wanted to slump over in defeat, “Actually my friend bought it…”

“Oh,” Hayoung tilted her head, “Do you happen to know the account number used?”

Y/N mentally wondered if Binna was free. She shouldn’t be in class right now, right? So it would be okay to quickly give her a call and get this sorted out. She had to leave the store without this phone. That was a must!

 “H-Hold on please!” It was a little embarrassing, snatching the phone she had been trying to return from its box and powering it on. In anticipation of making the return, Y/N had thought to wipe it and remove the SIM card chip, but then recalled hearing it was best to do that at the store when the transaction was complete, in case there was something forgotten on the phone that still needed to be retrieved.

Hastily scrolling down the admittedly short contacts’ list, Y/N located Binna’s number and pressed the button to dial. The phone rang three times, and she anxiously tapped her foot as she waited to see if her friend would pick up. ‘Please, Bin. Come on. Please.’

Of course, as it always was when she needed something to work out, it didn’t quite go smoothly. Binna hadn’t picked up, and she had ended up ending the call right before it switched to voice mail. Typing out a text message asking for the information she needed, Y/N had glared spitefully down at the phone.

“Do you recall the name of the clerk who sold you the phone?” Hayoung asked gently. 

Y/N thought it over, the sales associate’s face floating to mind. “Yes, his name was Suk-kyu.”

“Hmm, that name doesn’t sound familiar.” Hayoung shook her head. “I’ve been employed here three years and never heard anyone go by that name,”

It was unlike her, but Y/N felt she was entitled to a bit of out of character behavior when her jaw actually dropped. “You’re kidding…”

But, Hayoung assured her, she was not. She didn’t think they had ever carried the exclusive Army Edition of the phone. She didn’t know who Suk-kyu was, and Y/N couldn’t find her receipt, the only bit of evidence that might have been able to successfully lift the burden of the phone from her person. She had left the store, apologizing for wasting the patient woman’s time, and feeling like she was at least partially going crazy. 

Needless to say, Y/N had been…anxious about the phone since then. A bit scared, even. A fear she had no choice but to shoulder in silence for the time being. There wasn’t much she could do but continue searching high and low for the receipt and hope it turned up soon.

 In the meantime, she didn’t let on that anything was wrong, using the phone like before, though limiting that to when it was really necessary. No more playing around with it or downloading apps. Nope, she didn’t want to risk getting too attached to the thing. 

The only thing she did besides make calls was research. Things she never would have thought about looking up before. Like, unexplained phenomena with electronics, most of which led to completely wild conspiracy theories or dead ends.

Y/N had been so engrossed in breaking her brain over what to do, she jumped when the apartment door swung open, turning around on the coach to see Binna march in, a few grocery bags in her hands. Keys in her mouth, she gently kicked the door closed, humming to herself until she happened to look up and spot Y/N.

“Oh!” Binna hustled into the small kitchen to set her bags down, then her keys. “Y/N, didn’t expect to see you here right now. You’ve got class today, right?”

“It was canceled…” she sighed, sliding down the couch cushions and placing her phone on the coffee table. “The professor’s out sick with the flu.”

Binna winced in sympathy. “Yikes, poor guy…”

“Yeah,” Y/N took great care not to get sick, so she hadn’t so much as had a cold in years, but she still remembered times when she was a child in bed with chills, body aches and a fever. Once she had even had pneumonia, her mother forced to call out from work and nurse her back to health. “He just wanted us to go over the assignment we’ve been working on since the start of the semester. You know, take this as independent study time basically. But…”

“Buuut, knowing you,” Binna smiled, “You’ve already taken the initiative and gotten a head start a long time ago, so you’re ahead of everyone else.”

“Done, actually,” Y/N confirmed, not afraid to admit to her efficiency. 

Her roommate made a noise of encouragement as she began to put the groceries away. It didn’t look like much. A loaf of bread, some bottles of sauce they’d been running low on, some eggs and a carton of milk.

 “That’s great, since it actually kind of works out. Chin-Mae and Min Su invited me to check out this new steak house that just opened up. I heard reservations are booked out for weeks already, but thanks to Min Su’s connections, we can go this evening. What do you say?” Binna wiggled her eyebrows, trying to entice Y/N. 

“Alright, I’m in,” she agreed.

“Because I’m sure they won’t mind adding just one more to our party, especially if that person is you…” Binna continued to ramble.

“Bin, did you hear me?” Y/N clucked, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I said I’m in.”

Eyes round as the eggs she had put away, Binna blinked, nodded, and finally broke out into an ear to ear grin. “Oh, wow, that’s new. I m-mean not that it isn’t great you wanna join us, but…”

“What?” Y/N felt a little defensiveness creeping up on her, and she probably didn’t do the best job completely hiding it from her tone. “You made the invite, and you said Min Su and Chin-Mae would be fine with it. Did you not…really want me to come along?”

They thought she would kill the mood, the nasty little whisper entered her head unbidden. They thought she was so stuffy and boring.

“What, Y/N, no!” Binna immediately denied, “I’m really glad you can make it,” she shot over to the couch, wrapping her arms around her friend’s neck from behind as she bent over for the hug. “It’s true you normally put up a little more resistance when we ask you to come somewhere. You stay so busy, so I was a little surprised is all. But I’m glad you’re agreeing.”

Y/N’s tense shoulders relaxed, and she mentally sighed to herself, feeling silly. Of course, of course her friends wanted her there. And this was Binna, who struggled to have a bad thought about anybody. Secretly resentful definitely wasn’t her style. 

But with the stress she had been under, and the dread she’d done her best not to give into, Y/N could admit her nerves had been on edge. “Yeah, sorry about that…” she laughed weakly, reaching up and patting one of the arms looped around her neck. “I don’t know where that came from, but I’m happy to eat a little steak if Min Su’s recommending it.” The man had the best luck finding good places to eat, or stores that sold exactly what you were looking for but probably overlooked. 

“Good girl,” Binna uncoiled her arms and leaned back against the couch itself. “That’s the spirit. And hey, I heard from some of the girls in the campus’ BTS fan club that one of the guys on campus might be related to one of the waiters who might have catered the food on the set of a music video for Taehyung!”

She said it in a breathy squeal, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile indulgently. She was almost sure she knew which one Taehyung was, but she still wouldn’t put money on it. It might just as soon be someone else. Maybe Namjoon? 

She’d gotten more familiar with their names but as most of her time perusing videos and photos had been spent investigating Jimin, she wasn’t entirely sure on the others’ faces. Well, besides Jin and J-Hope. 

“Nice,” she said, letting Binna get all her gushing out as she texted Chin-Mae just to make sure it really was okay if she tagged along. Stupid to be anxious about feeling unsure if everyone really wanted her to come, but better to be safe than sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was impressed the minute they walked through the door. Min Su stopped trying to sneak an arm around Chin-Mae’s waist and immediately went over to talk to the maître d. The two men spoke cordially, the head waiter confirmed their reservation, and then they were led to their table with a flourish. 

Binna was practically bouncing on her heels, squealing under her breath. “Can you believe this place?” she whispered excitedly, “I feel like a movie star, coming here.”

The restaurant was definitely lavish, so she understood where her friend was coming from. The tables were polished stained oak, and lit by a candle to provide ambiance, and the floors were a gorgeous brown tile that Y/N suspected to be marble. 

The restaurant was done in a mixture of black, gold with high beam wood ceilings and low atmospheric lighting. They walked past a bar, long and oval, with shimmering glasses the team of bartender would pull down as they did impressive tricks to wow the gathered guests. 

“It’s one of the hottest spots in Gangnam right now,” Chin-Mae commented as they sat down. The table comfortably fit the four of them, and everyone got settled as a young woman hurried over, handing them menus and introducing herself. 

“This is so cool,” Binna exclaimed, still wiggling in place. She shook Y/N’s arm. She was all done up with some icy blue eye shadow that matched her aqua dress, and a more subtle plum shade of lipstick. 

Her hair was secured in a complicated twist by a pin she recognized from the last time they had gone shopping together. Y/N adjusted the shawl draped over her shoulders, pulling down her own strapless dress. Binna had helped her pick accessories, which were mostly shades of amber or gold, and apply some light makeup. 

Y/N chuckled, nodding as she scanned the menu, trying her best to ignore the listed prices. She had come fully prepared to pay her own way, but Min Su insisted the meal was going to be on him. It must have been nice.

 The perks of being from an affluent family, she supposed. The guy was already well on his way to being a successful lawyer, following the family tradition. He had moved all the way from his hometown in China to come and work on his master’s degree at one of the top universities in Korea, just for a change of pace. “Thanks again for letting us crash your date night, guys.” Binna beamed.

“Please,” Chin-Mae scoffed lightly, not looking up from his menu. “What was I supposed to do all evening? Talk to him?”

Min Su pouted, but it didn’t diminish the fond glow in his eyes as he leaned over his boyfriend’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear that gave Chin-Mae pause.

 Their friend cut a sharp look at his partner, smacking his thigh and then proceeding to ignore the man who was happily leaning into him and commenting on the menu. Yeah, nothing new there. Min Su was totally gone on Chin-Mae, as always.

 There was nothing about Chin-Mae’s bluntness or dismissive attitude in public that ever put him off. If anything, the mean behavior only served to make Min Su try harder. Though, she and Binna both knew Chin-Mae wouldn’t be with someone this long if he wasn’t just as serious about them.

 He was just a straight shooter, raised in a family that wasn’t completely accepting of who he was, and unfortunately awkward and out of his depth about how to handle someone as affectionate and doting as the man he happened to fall in love with.

 They were well suited in that regard. Min Su was patient and persistent enough to shower Chin-Mae in all the attention he needed to overcome the lingering doubts about being worthy of such deep love and devotion. 

Y/N was perfectly fine, pursuing the path she was. Career goals first, everything else second. But sometimes, watching them, a little envy did ignite.

 It must have been nice to find something like that, and she was truly happy for them. It didn’t seem likely she’d have time in the near future to go out and chase it for herself, of course. And she wasn’t really worried about it. 

“So, what’ll it be for you guys?” Y/N cleared her throat, interrupting the warm and cozy silence they’d all been existing in.

“Ohh, I think I’m gonna have the smoked chicken and spinach salad, and a side of the fried mushrooms,” Binna announced, tongue poking out in concentration as her finger followed where the items she wanted were on the menu.

“You’re going so easy on him.” Chin-Mae remarked. “I’m getting the iron skillet trout,” he squinted, leaning further into the menu. Min Su only smiled, plucking the reading glasses from Chin Mae’s breast pocket that he had forgotten to put on and placing them on his face for him.

 The absent-minded pat he got on the hand for it made the law student’s whole face light up. “And the chicken fried steak. That okay, babe?” He might not have looked it, exactly, but Chin-Mae had a healthy appetite. And if they were coming to such an exclusive restaurant for the first time, it wasn’t surprising he wouldn’t be keen to hold back.

Min Su was nodding encouragingly before Chin-Mae had even fully gotten the question out of his mouth. “And what about you, Y/N?”

She clammed up slightly, having been looking at the menu, mentally ruling out what seemed too expensive, or wasn’t quite her taste. “Uh, the pot roast sounds like a filling entree.”

“And?” Chin-Mae prodded, interlocking his hands together and leaning on them.

“And nothing,” Y/N shook her head. “It comes with two sides, that’s more than enough.”

“Boo,” Her friend hissed dramatically. “Fine. If neither one of you is going to take advantage of this, then I guess it’s up to me.”

Their waitress returned with a tray of drinks at precisely that moment, and as she set them down in front of the correct person, everyone began telling her their orders, which she jotted down without missing a beat.

 Only Min Su had actually ordered any steak, but, given the price of a 24 oz there was just no way she felt comfortable doing that to the poor guy, even if he was a good sport about it and more than capable of handling a large bill. 

As they sat, sipping their champagne and waiting on the food, something Y/N had been putting off thinking about started floating through her mind. Ever since the whole Jimin fiasco, despite her deep diving and frantic searching, nothing had turned up that indicated anyone was coming after her. 

But she just wasn’t willing to believe she’d gotten away that easily. She almost killed a celebrity. And, due to that, she’d really wanted to seek legal advice from Min Su, under the guise of some far-fetched hypothetical, of course. Her friends weren’t onto her, and she couldn’t give them a reason to be. 

She just had to find a way to casually broach the topic…

“Oh,” Binna gasped from her side, drawing the whole table’s attention to herself. She was carefully scrolling her phone with a freshly manicured nail, scowling slightly. It was so rare that Binna displayed any actual disdain, it had Y/N a bit curious. 

“What’s wrong, Bin?”

“It’s nothing,” she replied immediately, then paused. “Well it’s not nothing but, it’s just…I really wished we lived in a world that respected idols as people, you know? Some people call themselves fans and act like famous people aren’t allowed to have any boundaries.” She then went on to describe how there’d been another sasaeng incident reported on a news site she followed to keep up with celebrity gossip. 

Apparently, it was a pretty serious one, and crazed ‘fans’ had attacked an actress a well-known idol was reported to be dating. Her bodyguard had fended them off, but the actress still went to the hospital with some injuries. 

Y/N perked up slightly, but Min Su and Chin-Mae were thankfully too engrossed in listening to Binna rant to notice. It would be much easier to bring up her question using the information Binna had just provided them as a pretext.

 It was about time she had a stroke of good luck. Stopping to think it over, Y/N cringed. Not that she wasn’t sympathetic to the poor woman who had been harmed because of someone’s delusions. But it just…presented an opportunity she had to take, and….

‘Oh, why am I trying to rationalize it to myself?! I should just ask the question before the subject changes.’

 That decided, she opened her mouth and spoke, doing her best to make it seem as casual as possible. “So Min Su, you’re practically a lawyer. What kind of charges could that person face? Attacking a celebrity and inflicting bodily harm isn’t the same as harassing them for a photo.”

 Y/N silently patted herself on the back, sitting from her glass with an expression carefully schooled to look only mildly interested. Inside was another matter. She was rocking back in forth, heart hammering and eyes wide, waiting for an answer with baited breath.

“Hmm, well, I’ve mostly studied corporate law.” He admitted, playing with a ring on his index finger, “But I do know that given the severity, it’s likely both the actress and the company she’s represented under will press charges. Things are also moving faster these days, prosecuting people who do things like that.” 

Y/N swallowed, eyes fixated on Min Su’s thoughtful expression. “There were also witnesses, so it’s very likely to result in a conviction.” Yes, there had been a witness in her case too. Well, J-Hope had only seen her fleetingly. Maybe. Hopefully not. But if she was on any camera then…it was most definitely over for her.

 “The court could go light on them if it was a first offense…they might be sentenced to a large fine and community service…” Okay, Y/N thought. It would probably drain her savings, but it was still possible to bounce back and have a future, right? She could still put it in the past and become a CEO one day, right?! “Then again, it was a premeditated attack. Jail time is also a strong possibility.”

Her heart sank back down to her feet. Jail. What successful CEO in Korea had been to jail before graduating, and for assaulting an idol no less. 

‘I. Am. Done.’

“What’s the matter, Y/N?” Binna giggled, “You look like you smelled a rotten egg. But I guess hearing about how far some crazy people will go is pretty disgusting, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ll have much sympathy for them, whatever happens.”

“…Yeah…” Y/N said once her words came unstuck. That was another thing. Her sweet friend was going to think she was a criminal. She had known Binna since high school, having shared a homeroom class with her. They were vague acquaintances then, friendly enough to speak from time to time but by no means close enough to hang out between classes or after school. 

In fact, admittedly, Y/N used to wonder if Binna’s perky personality was just an act. It had to be, in her cynical rationalizing, because who was really that upbeat, in high school? 

Later on, she would realize she was just projecting, and once she stopped doing that was when she truly came to appreciate Binna for all that she was, steadfast and supportive. Although they didn’t become close, didn’t become friends, until meeting at orientation when arriving at Korea University. 

“They knew the consequences before they did it.” Chin-Mae joined in, swishing the last of his champagne around before drinking it down. “It’s stupid to think your life won’t be impacted when you run wild like that.”

Except, Y/N wanted to wail. She hadn’t known. She wasn’t a sasaeng, and she knew she had assaulted someone but at the same time she hadn’t really done anything wrong. Except maybe buy a cursed magical phone, that somehow was behind all this.

…Yeah, she’d just keep that thought to herself. 

“Well,” Y/N smiled, “Thanks for giving your input.” She told Min Su, who nodded, humming with a cheerful ‘no problem’.

A cartoony chime went off, and Binna groaned as she stared down at her phone, “Nooo,” she sighed, sounding truly remorseful. “Right now?”

“What’s happening?” Chin-Mae raised a brow.

“Jimin is going live!” She whined, “And normally I’d watch but I’m having such a great time with all of you, and I don’t want to be rude…”

“It’s fine, go ahead.” Y/N said, forcing a smile. “We know how addicted to that stuff you are.” Really, she wanted the floor to swallow her into the abyss. She knew the minute she heard that sound what was going on. If her phone had been turned on, they would have heard the same noise coming from her purse too.

She had made an account on several apps BTS often broadcasted their lives to, and set an alert for just that occasion. There were a couple of false alarms she hadn’t tuned into once she saw they weren’t from the person she was basically stalking at this point. But this was it. The big moment. 

He hadn’t done a solo live since the accident…but Binna said his members had mentioned that he had a small accident while practicing and was recovering well. 

All of Army was behind him, sending him tons of well wishes from all over the world. It was sweet, but she wondered how fast they would turn if they knew she was behind their beloved idol’s injuries. 

“Yeah, what Y/N said,” Chin-Mae rolled his eyes. “Check on your man,” he joked.

Binna giggled, flashing them a cute heart. “He’s not my man,” she replied playfully, “I’d have to get in line for that. Plus, I’m really more of an OT7, you know? It’s really hard to stick with one bias.”

 Nonetheless, when she began to watch, since Y/N couldn’t exactly whip out her phone and do the same without raising suspicion, she subtly leaned closer to at least listen.

Of course, Binna was always more astute than she let on. “Oh, did you wanna see too?” She angled the screen so they could both see before Y/N even had the chance to protest. 

And the live was just starting, the exact same idol she had seen what felt like a lifetime ago was sitting in a room by himself. It looked like he was on a couch, legs crossed, looking small in his soft oversized sweater and giving the camera a cute wave. “Hi, everyone,” his sweet voice said. “Thank you for waiting on me!”

Gushing comments poured in, cheering him and welcoming him back, asking him what he’d been up to, and telling him he looked good. Jimin tilted his head, a coy, secretive smile appearing on his shiny lips. Y/N couldn’t tell if he was wearing gloss or if they always looked like that.

 She had been a bit too preoccupied the one and only time she had the opportunity to see them in person. He had dyed his hair a different color, though. It was now a shade of strawberry blonde that complimented his angelic features well.

 “Well, I haven’t been up to much. Just resting, really.” he explained. “Even on days when I felt better and tried to join practices, the members just shooed me away.” He laughed. “Oh, but look at this!” He reached down, his head dipping out of screen for a minute, popping up seconds later holding a little pot. “Taehyung got me this ‘get well’ plant!” He showed them a cute little sapling.

Binna cooed, Y/N glancing at her then refocusing on his words. Who knew when a hidden meaning would pop up.

“I don’t know how well I’ll be able to take care of it; I’m not sure if I have a green thumb. But I’ll try my best!”

Comments came pouring in again, people saying he was going to enter his plant dad era, because collecting succulents could be addicting.

 Other people gushed at the sweetness of the VMin friendship, whatever that was, and yet more people reminded Jimin that he looked really good. Yet one comment in particular seemed to catch his eye, and he squinted, seemingly intrigued. 

“Hmm? You wish you were a plant so I could take care of you?” He repeated. “You don’t have to be a plant for me to want to take care of you.” The statement was very matter-of-fact, “You’re Army. I’ll always watch over Army.”

Binna sounded like she released a tiny sniffle. “Is he not just the sweetest?” She asked, nudging Y/N a bit. “Since you’re new to BTS, have you chosen a bias yet?”

Y/N wished she could tell her the real reason behind her sudden interest, but that was kind of out of the question. “No, not yet…”

“Y/N’s a BTS fan now?” Chin-Mae asked, “Since when?”

“Pretty recent.” Binna replied.

Y/N was only half listening to her friends, mostly focusing on Jimin’s chatter. Someone was still insisting they wanted to be his plant, and he looked nothing short of amused. 

“Okay, if you insist. Should I start a garden then?” He asked his fans. Y/N watched, stunned, as his bright eyes narrowed into a practiced and very effective smolder. She had seen it in pictures before, but in real time it was really something else, “It’ll be full of so many pretty flowers, and you’ll all bloom just for me, right?” The heady purr of his words sent a shocked shiver right down her spine. 

Binna swooned, while Y/N felt her breath hitch. ‘What… the…hell…was that?!’ A flirty throwaway line like that had never had that effect on her before.

 But then, thinking back, he had flirted with her in the dance studio too. She’d just been too worried to pay attention. Clearly, the man was an old hand at the art of duality, going from wholesome to heathen in five seconds flat. That was…dangerous. 

Binna seemed to already know how she felt, leaning into her with a sigh. “That, Y/N, is what happens when Jimin turns from angel to demon.” Her friend explained. “I’d say you’ll get used to it, but odds are you probably won’t.”

Jimin then went back to amicably speaking to everyone, as if he hadn’t just teased fans within an inch of their lives. The conversation moved on, and he was speaking about upcoming projects he was excited about or a funny habit that he had noticed in his band member. All normal, non-threatening stuff. Y/N was almost thinking she could relax. Almost. 

“What? You want to tell me a secret?” Jimin was reading another comment. “Okay, I’m listening…”

Y/N quirked a brow at the comment. “Sometimes I dream about you.” it read.

The idol grinned, replying casually. “Sometimes I miss Army so much I end up thinking about all of you in the middle of the day.” Y/N’s blood ran cold as he looked intensely at the screen. “It’s almost like you’re there…”

That was it. The sign she was waiting for! He was talking to her. 

“I…” Y/N stumbled to her feet, startling Binna. “Need the bathroom, I’ll be back.”

“Oh, okay.” Her friend said slowly, setting down her phone. “Is anything wrong? You don’t…look so good suddenly.”

‘You wouldn’t either in my shoes,’ she thought miserably. ‘Park Jimin is going to sue me within an inch of my life.’

“It’s alright,” she held a hand to her stomach, selling the illusion of sudden nausea. “Just…lady problems.” She said lamely.

Poor Binna didn’t even question it; she nodded, eyes full of sympathy. “Well text if you need anything.” She squeezed Y/N’s hand. “I’ve got a few extra tampons in my purse.” she whispered discreetly. Really, Binna was too good of a friend for her. 

Y/N rounded the corner in a hurry, blindly guessing where the bathrooms might be located. She passed their waitress, rolling out a cart that she was pretty sure contained their meals. Everything looked delicious, and of course she couldn’t even enjoy the great evening Min Su had generously provided. All because she was screwed. 

She hustled into a bathroom as fancy as the rest of the steak house, and so spacious there would probably be an echo. She hustled over to the sink, activating the handless system by shoving her trembling fingers under it. As she splashed her face with warm water, the dread twisting up her stomach gave way to deja vu. 

‘This is just like…the event at the internship.’ The wild day that would be the beginning of the end of her life. Removing her hands from the water, she gently pressed the pad of her thumb up to her eye, tapping it a few times.

 Her makeup was well done, but it still felt like she could see bags. ‘At least it can’t get worse.’ She assumed. After all, what was worse than this? The dumb phone was put away in her clutch, turned off, and back at the table.

 The very least she could do was fake a smile so she didn’t ruin everyone’s meal, and enjoy what might be her last chance to experience this. They probably didn’t serve many steakhouse dinners where she was going. 

That thought firmly in mind, Y/N squared her shoulders and prepared to march back out, tightly gripping her clutch at her side. Wait, her clutch?!

Binna must have handed it over to her, assuming she might need it. She had said to text if she needed anything, and Y/N couldn’t exactly do that without a phone. Well, at least it was off. Y/N wasn’t totally sure what kind of phenomenon had disrupted her life, but it all started with that phone. 

No sooner had she backed away from the mirror than a wave of dizziness overtook her, sending her keeling forward. Instinctively, she clutched the sink to maintain her balance, almost screaming out when she looked up as the dizzy feeling passed. 

The mirror in front of her was the same as always, a reflection of her wide, mortified eyes. But the long glossy mirror that made up the entire wall of the bathroom at the entrance of the restroom? 

A reflection of another room, just like before. “No…” she whispered, not ready to admit that it was happening again. What was worse? All of it being real, or her losing her mind? “Not again…!”

She clenched her eyes shut, then attempted to get her feet moving. She would keep her head down and hurry right on past, to the exit. That was the plan at least. And she was making good progress to move without falling over in her modest heels, but the minute she actually got closer to the mirrors, a strange feeling overwhelmed her. 

Almost like a compulsion to stop. Y/N felt like she was watching a scene in a movie, watching a victim wander down the hall of a haunted house, towards the homicidal attacker lying in wait.

 Her feet were making her move on her own! Her fingertips reached out, and yet she had no control. She had to touch the mirror, see if that room on the other side was real. But deep down, she knew the answer before her fingers made contact.

It was a strange emotion somewhere between surprise resignation when she wobbled onto a floor that was not marble and found her eyes darting around a room that was not the steak house. 

Pressing against the mirror desperately, she confirmed what a large part of her had assumed. There was no give to the mirror, apparently no way back from the time being. Was she even still in Gangnam?

Her senses were feeding her all kinds of information, and frankly, it was starting to overwhelm her. The raw scents of sweat, male musk, and ammonia could only mean one thing, and it was further proven when she peered around the blind corner of a painted brick wall, only to see two people exercising. 

Well, one was doing stretches, and with the way he hopped up, he had just finished. An older man in a tank top and sweats had pads strapped to his hands, and Y/N watched closely, not even daring to breathe, as the younger man sat down and laced boxing gloves onto his taped hands. 

He stood up, and who she assumed was his trainer got into a defensive stance while the younger man hopped around nimbly. Y/N watched, wide-eyed as they began to train, the guy in the black hoodie practicing blocking, jabbing and dodging.

 It was clear he had put a lot of dedication into this. Y/N was never much of a sports person, but she knew the result of hard-work when she saw it. His moves were fluid, and instead of slowing down, they got quicker the more he went at it. 

Somehow, it never felt like a good time to draw their attention to herself, go wobbling over in her dinner attire, and ask for directions back to the High Tower SteakHouse. She had a few other options, of course, like calling Binna. Or maybe Chin-Mae…but how did she explain it? 

She had gone to the restroom for a few minutes and wound up in a completely different location without leaving the restaurant?! Then again, it meant they would really have no choice but to believe her. 

It was impossible for her to have gone anywhere far when they all saw her leave for the bathroom. Maybe she could sneak out while they were distracted and then call when she was outside the gym, not standing around all conspicuous.

Y/N was weighing the merits of her plan when she heard an excited yell, whipping her head around and watching the trainer give his client a few congratulatory pats on the back, apparently satisfied with the work he’d put in for the day. 

They began speaking lowly to themselves, and Y/N paled when she noticed the only door out of the room she could spot was behind them…. The corner she was standing behind seemed to be where the water fountains and locker rooms were located. 

Hiding out in there was another option, but it didn’t exactly appeal when she would have to keep checking to see when the gym was empty. Right now it was just the two of them, but what if more people came in? 

They’d have questions about someone being dressed like she was, right? Then again she could also be found out just staying put where she was. Ugh…it was beyond frustrating. 

Her luck was completely shot, huh?

A little hope returned when the trainer waved at the young man and then began heading for the exit. She assumed they were done for the day, and the second guy would be done soon too. But not so, because then she’d actually be lucky. 

As soon as his trainer had cleared the room, he gave a loud sigh, beginning to shimmy out of his hoodie. Y/N didn’t think she was close enough to make the door in the small moment he had his vision obstructed, but she was close enough to get an eyeful.

 If his training earlier hadn’t tipped her off that he was dedicated, his physique would have. He was all hard lines, though the minuscule glimpse of a thin waist when his shirt rode up with his hoodie was impressive too.

 She could see a full sleeve of tattoos decorating one arm, and coupled with his longish two-toned hair, a deep brown that gave way to a raging red, he was kind of…hard to look at. Distracting in a way she didn’t anticipate. She didn’t get distracted, not usually.  

He, on the other hand, got straight to business. Oblivious of her presence, he walked right over to the large, hanging punching bag and began to hit it. But he wasn’t just hitting it. Again, Y/N was no boxing aficionado, but she knew he knew what he was doing. 

His strikes were always controlled, his breathing never ragged the way she could guess hers would be. He pivoted on his back foot, and she knew that the small movement put more power into his strikes.

 He was hitting the bag like it owed him money, grunting occasionally, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing in his t-shirt. At some point, Y/N figured he would stop. He would either head out the door, or into the locker room, and that was when she would flee. 

Hopefully, wherever the cruel cosmic entity that thought her life was a joke had dumped her, it wasn’t very far from the restaurant. Then again, shouldn’t she have gotten a worried text by now? 

She’d been gone for a while. Or, maybe Binna had actually come to check on her and seen that she had disappeared entirely. Y/N could imagine the freak out as Binna flailed her way back to the table and informed Min Su and Chin-Mae that somehow, someway, she’d been kidnapped. 

What was her life lately, she thought miserably. With nothing to really do but scroll her phone or continue to watch the mystery man go at it, she turned to checking what news was trending for the day. Normally, she at least kept up with news involving the business world, if nothing else.

 The celebrity gossip blogs she left to Binna, BTS investment notwithstanding. Stocks were up at several companies she had an interest in working at after graduation—assuming she made it with her life in chaos lately—so that was good.

 A CEO had resigned from his post at a company she had almost interned at but decided not to at the last minute off a strange feeling. Some scandal involving embezzlement. So she dodged a bullet there.

 And, lastly, BTS’ Jungkook had endorsed some new sports brand, and now merchandise was selling out faster than it could be restocked. The article included a picture of Jungkook, posing in shorts and a t-shirt next to a mountain of different athletic gear for various sports. 

Wait. Y/N could have swallowed her tongue. Wait. That man, the man in the picture and the one boxing…were the same person?!

Feeling like she may just be sick, Y/N did a quick check, and really took in the boxer. That was undoubtedly the idol pictured in the article. 

Not only was she going to jail for assaulting one BTS member (albeit on accident) a fact that she had managed to forget up until that moment, she got pulled back into the same thing that got her in trouble before, and ended up crossing paths with another one?! 

Once it came out what happened between her and Park Jimin, there was no possible way people would believe she wasn’t a sasaeng. The circumstantial evidence just kept getting more and more damning. 

Jungkook. Jungkook. What did she know about Jungkook? Admittedly not much, considering all her focus had really been on Jimin for obvious reasons. She knew…that Binna said he was the youngest in the boy group. He was multitalented, and here her friend swore she wasn’t exaggerating or anything.

 According to her, he was like some kind of Barbie of idols, he could do it all. Those weren’t her exact words, but it was the gist. Jungkook also had a habit of being a little shy around members of the opposite sex, or so it was claimed. 

Y/N personally had always thought all idols had to be manufacturing some parts of their personalities for public consumption. Who knew which parts? None of the scraps of information she had been fed told her anything about whether he was liable to press charges for stalking him or not.

Then again, he was an idol, and knowing that, Y/N had to assume he had gone out of his way to book private gym time, hence why the spacious work out room was empty save for him. Which meant him catching her was going to lead to a world of trouble. 

How good were her odds if she just booked it for the exit the minute he went back to the locker room? Or if he left, she’d wait a little bit to be sure he had cleared the building, then she’d leave too. Waiting…yep…that’s all she could do. If she wasn’t in a dress, and didn’t find the idea so dirty, she would slump over on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jungkook caught the punching bag as it swung back from his last strike, finally feeling satisfied with his boxing for the time being. His limbs had that good burn that he liked, and his heart rate was up, despite his controlled breathing. But he wasn’t ready to leave just yet, so he decided to switch from boxing to something new. After a break.

Unlacing his boxing gloves, he found his gym bag and rummaged inside for his water bottle. Sitting down on a mat, he took a few sips, trying not to gulp it down too fast. His bottle was empty in no time, despite his attempts at moderation, and refilling before he resumed working out didn’t seem like a bad idea. 

His footsteps echoing in the big empty gym was probably his imagination, but the weird sight when he rounded the corner? That he was pretty sure was real. Leaning against the wall, a woman…no, a girl, dressed up like she had somewhere important to be was nodding off. He froze, staring, all kinds of thoughts flying through his head. 

Who was she? How’d she get in? When did she get in? Was she dangerous? Did he need to call for back up? Jungkook had purposely began training at this gym because it was exclusive. As his fame had grown, unfortunately he had to stop using more easy to find public gyms.

 The one at HYBE was an option, but sometimes he wanted something…quieter. Trainees who came in meant well, and they tried to be respectful besides giving him friendly greetings, but they couldn’t help but gawk, and that made it awkward when he was trying to get in the zone. Here, he had thought, was perfect.

But maybe he was rushing to conclusions. He didn’t know anything about the situation besides a girl in a nice dress was falling asleep by the water fountains while standing up. Her head slumped forward, then snapped up quickly as she jolted awake, eyes wide and alert. 

That was when they locked gazes, and his loose, sore muscles tensed right up. She, on the other hand, curled away like she was facing a thug in an alley. It was bemusing; yeah he’d bulked up a lot in the last several years after he got serious about training. Jungkook never considered himself all that intimidating, though. 

“Are you… staff?” he asked, since it didn’t seem like she was going to speak up first. Not with the way she kept looking like the guillotine was coming down on her head any moment. 

It took a reasonably long time for her to compose herself and answer, which was another pretty big tip off that something was not right. He was ready to whip out his phone and call security. Or at least he would be, if he hadn’t put it on do not disturb and left it in his bag. 

“This is all a misunderstanding, really,” she warbled, her hands slapped the wall behind her like she was trying to steady herself. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to be here.”

“What?” Jungkook was definitely growing suspicious. No one who wasn’t up to something just answered like that.

“I was just going to wait until you left and I guess I started to nod off…” she ran a shaky hand through her hair, disturbing it a little. “But really, please, if you’ll pretend you never saw me, I promise, I’ll be on my way.”

He backed away quickly as she lurched forward, but before he could tell her not to do anything funny, she bowed very formally, and the idol watched, perplexed. When he didn’t respond in any way, she resumed her upright position, then tried to brush by him with her head down. 

Though, when he noticed the phone clenched tight in her fist, he acted without thinking. Something his hyungs had told him to be careful of doing in the past. At least they weren’t around to scold him.

“Hey,” he seized her wrist, and she stopped in her tracks, though he wasn’t expecting her reaction at all. Her eyes took in the hand on her like she could just flay it off with the intensity of her stare alone, and then she met his eyes head-on, hers surprisingly stony. “Your phone…”

“What about it?” she tried tugging her hand away, but he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Not until he got some answers. He liked this gym. He wanted to keep using this gym, and at the thought that his privacy was being invaded yet again, and he would have to find somewhere else, yet again, he was getting a little worked up. 

“That’s an Army phone, a Galaxy Z Flip 4: Army Edition.”

Her eyes widened, and then she scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, I guess you would know. But to tell you the truth, though I can admire your band’s marketability, this phone itself has been nothing but problems. This is just the latest one. Now, please, let go.” There was some bite in her tone now, her voice surprisingly stern. 

When she tugged again, he acquiesced, something she probably didn’t expect, since she stumbled before catching herself. And when she felt her cellphone tugged right out of her hand? She rounded on him, scowling. “That belongs to me.” She held her hand out, clearly expecting it back.

“Why are you here? This is a private gym, and you don’t sound like you’re staff.”

She snatched for the phone, but he held it away, using his speed to his advantage. “Are you Army?”

“What? No,” she sounded offended by the notion, which in turn offended him. Then again, a true Army wouldn’t do this to him. Wouldn’t invade his space. “And what does that matter?”

“You’re not Army but you’ve got a phone that’s a rare exclusive. Only Army would want to own something like this. And if you’d go this far, you might be a sasaeng.” 

Here, she did pause in trying to retrieve her phone, a bit red in the face under her makeup. “Please, between my class schedule and internship, who would even have the time? The people who think stalking and harassing idols is worth jeopardizing their future for really need…” Surprisingly, the girl tried to jump for the phone like she wasn’t in heels, but he held it above his head, which meant it was way above hers, “…a hobby!”

“So I won’t find pictures you secretly took on this?” Jungkook squinted, not convinced. 

“No!” She hissed, jumping again, “Now who’s invading whose privacy, you…you muscle-headed, bunny-eyed brute!” 

He was so taken aback, he faltered, and with one last pounce, the mystery girl had snatched the phone, though not without a cost.

 Before she could even yell out in triumph, her heel wobbled and her foot rolled. Jungkook watched in slow motion, wincing in automatic sympathy as she went down. 

Time sped up as she cried out, on the ground and clutching her ankle in a dress too nice to be touching the bare gym floor. He stood over her, carefully watching her face at first. He could tell she was in pain, but attempting not to show the extent.

 Something about that alone…took him back to his early days. A wave of nostalgia he didn’t want to feel washed over him. He would hide his exhaustion, sometimes even hide injuries sustained while on stage until the end of a performance, until he couldn’t hide it anymore, just to avoid worrying his hyungs.

 And when they caught him, like they inevitably always did, he’d cry, apologize, worry they would resent him. It didn’t make sense to everyone, probably only to those who had experience firsthand with the feeling. Not wanting to let others down, wanting to live up to everyone’s expectations, struggling with the fact that they were still human.

The girl gingerly tried to shift her injured ankle, and that alone seemed to send a fresh wave of pain throbbing through it. With the way she bit her lip and clenched her eyes to stifle the cry he could just tell. 

And even though Jungkook had been concerned about a million things regarding her appearance, including that she might be another delusional ‘fan’, no one could fake pain that expertly. Plus, she’d have to be some actress to make her ankle swell on command.

 It was probably stupid of him to drop his guard, even for a second, but he found himself dropping to his knees, almost reaching out, and then hesitating. She stared up at him through her lashes, her own eyes as guarded as his had been, but wavering as she focused on ignoring her obvious injury. “I need…I need to call my friend.”

Making up his mind, Jungkook loosely grasped her foot by the heel, ignoring her half-hearted attempts to swat his hand away. He extended her leg, careful not to hurt her as he manipulated her foot to get a better idea of how bad it was. “You rolled it pretty hard.” He finally concluded.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Jungkook briefly met eyes with her again, but she stubbornly looked away. “I wonder how that happened.”

Guilt hit him pretty fast. Yeah. Even if he thought she was an intruder, he should have just called security and let them handle it. They were never far, and there was no way she could have stopped him. Not by physically overpowering at least. 

“Hang on,” he told her, setting her foot down and getting back on his feet. “I can help.”

“That’s a nice gesture,” she ground out, failing to hide a wince, “But really, I have my phone, so I can just call my fri—” she grabbed it and opened it, only for her face to fall. “Really? Now?” He heard her grumble irritably.

Noticing his quizzical face, turned a blank screen to him. “It’s dead.” She deadpanned. 

“Okay, then let me help.”

Jungkook didn’t know this stranger by any stretch of the imagination, but he had anticipated what her response would be. It probably sounded something like “no”, since she seemed disinclined to take his help.

 Was she always like this, so stubborn? Was it some kind of pride thing? He had been there, too; his hyungs really had their hands full with him over the years, didn’t they? 

Retrieving the first aid kit Jimin had gifted him some time back, he made a brisk return to find the girl in much the same position he had left her, staring sulkily at her injured ankle. She looked up when he approached, but didn’t say a word. 

“You might have to take off your shoe.” he informed her.

He waited to get a response, the big plastic kit held by his side. Jungkook wondered if she just planned to ignore him, and if he should take her silence as consent and proceed, but that didn’t feel right. Finally, she mumbled, “…This is really happening…isn’t it?”

Nodding slowly, he popped the kit open and examined its contents, locating the roll of compression wrap. While he did that, he noticed her leaning forward, trying to unstrap her heel without moving in a way that would hurt her foot even more. 

Jungkook had never worn heels, but he always thought anyone who did without falling over must have some hidden talent. Hers weren’t as tall as some, but she was still plucking at the strap with building frustration. 

Guessing she wanted it over and done with just as bad as he did, the idol seized the heel of her foot again, bringing her leg out and reaching for the buckle himself.

If he expected a beaming smile and a grateful attitude, he’d be sorely mistaken. She gave him the stink eye. “I can do at least this much.”

“Maybe, but I can do it faster.” He shrugged, already loosening the heel and sliding it off while holding her foot steady. From so close, and without the shoe in the way, he could really see just how fast the ankle had discolored and swollen. Again, he wrestled with the guilt, absently reaching for the wrap. “So,” he began by holding her ankle at a ninety-degree angle, “Who are you? Because this doesn’t mean I forgot…”

“Believe me, I’m someone who doesn’t want to be here anymore than you want me to be here. I didn’t have a choice, not that you’d ever believe me…” she huffed. “But, because legal repercussions are probably unavoidable, I’ll start by being cooperative. Maybe when they review all this, that’ll work in my favor.” It sounded like she was talking to herself, not him, but then she cleared her throat and extended her hand. “My name is L/N Y/N.”

Jungkook didn’t expect such a strange introduction, and the attempt at a handshake reminded him of Namjoon-hyung. He grasped her palm very briefly, barely holding on to it long enough for their hands to go up and down, but she didn’t seem inclined to want to hold onto him either.

“Y/N…” he repeated. 

“As for what I’m doing here…well, again, it’s not something any sane person would believe.” She switched her focus to watching him meticulously wrap her ankle. It was pretty careful care for someone that could have been stalking him, but he had already started, and if he was going to do it, his sense of perfectionism said he had to do it right. 

“Are you…insane?”

“Excuse me?” She didn’t look very amused, but he guessed it wasn’t exactly a polite question.

“You said a sane person wouldn’t believe you…” he explained. 

“I am not insane,” Y/N rubbed a hand to her forehead. “I just feel like I am lately,” she whispered. “I was dining out with some friends, in the restaurant bathroom and then…”

Jungkook waited while he secured the wrap with some bandage clips and closed his first aid kit. “And then?”

“It’s going to sound insane,” she finished matter-of-factly, “You’re going to call me a liar and accuse me of stalking you, then we’ll be right back where we started.”

Jungkook was torn between still wanting to contact security, but also experiencing some curiosity he couldn’t quite tamp down. “Do you have proof?” It didn’t sound like she did. 

“Proof?” Y/N repeated, arching a brow as if he had just said something strange.

“You’re not even going to try to make me believe you?” he goaded. 

“Sure, help me up and I’ll hobble right over to the mirror. You’ll see exactly how I got here and this whole think’ll be cleared up just like that.” Her tone was so sugary the sarcasm was evident. 

Jungkook figured he had indulged this for this long…why not go all the way. Offering her a hand, he warned her to brace herself, and then pulled her up with ease. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She said warily, trying not to show him how much she was utilizing the wall for support. 

“Okay,” Jungkook nodded, “Show me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Idols were weird. Y/N wasn’t sure if it was just the fact that they lived in a completely ‘different world’ from normal people or what, but she hadn’t expected her first extended run-in with some world-famous celebrity to go like this. 

Park Jimin was one thing; he’d been concussed, so that was enough to make him loopy. She hadn’t expected anything out of his mouth to make sense. But this guy, Jean Jungkook? 

Totally different. He wasn’t suffering a head injury, for one. And he had seemed angry at first, but still handled her appearance in much the same way a mean boy on the playground would in elementary school. Playing keep away with her phone, really?

He’d even treated her with decency when she tripped and sprained her ankle. God, that was yet another thing she was going to have to deal with. Sprained her ankle! Sprained! How was she supposed to get around campus quickly? It was huge. Though she supposed that wasn’t a concern at present. 

The idol’s strange demand was at the forefront of her mind, seeing as he was right behind her while she hobbled slowly to the mirror, her heel in one hand and her phone in the other. 

She must have looked like a suffering pigeon, doing a funny little hop. But she refused to let him touch her after she got her bearings. It was humiliating enough to have someone see her make a fool of herself and get injured to boot, idol or no idol. Well actually, his status made it even worse. 

And he was watching her oh so closely as she made it to the mirror, taking a deep breath and turned around to look at him with some difficulty. “Here it is.” She said flatly. “How I got in, and how I probably would be able to get out, if life felt like cutting me a break.”

He stepped around her, staring at her incredulously like she knew he would. She would look at herself that way in his position. Jungkook pressed against the mirror with the flat of his hand, one good time, as if to confirm it was solid. “You used the mirror? What, like magic? Like a drama?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted proof; I never said it would satisfy you.” she retorted. “I barely understand it myself, but what I’m saying is the only truth I have to cling to.” Her chin dipped, “No matter how implausible it is…” 

She knew she would get the same result he had when she pushed on the mirror, but as if to confirm her fate was truly sealed, Y/N tried anyway. When her hand went right through, the cool glass giving way to cool nothingness, she yelled, pitching forward.

Jungkook made a noise, something startled, and she glanced at him to confirm he was seeing what was happening. His bulging eyes made it evident that he was. Yes! Y/N jerked her arm away too fast, and in doing so almost fell back on her ass, if not for the lightning reflexes of the idol who moved to extend an arm around her waist.

 Y/N got her bearings, smoothed a hand over her shirt and her racing heart, and tried to hold back her tears. He could see. He could really see. The weeks of going crazy in silence, holding it all in, and someone else…could see.

“Your arm went through the glass,” he breathed.

“More than my arm’s gone through.” Y/N spoke with more confidence, now that there was no way he could deny it. “That’s…how I got here.”

The idol once again moved forward, pressing both hands against the mirror. Nothing. “How?” He wondered.

“I don’t know.” Y/N replied, “It’s been happening since…since I got this phone. So that’s my only theory, that the events are connected.” She held up the dead device and wiggled it around. “Not that that’s a story anyone would believe if I got caught breaking and entering.” 

The idol appeared to be thinking, worrying his lip piercing with his tongue, “Unless they saw it.”

Y/N squared her shoulders, eyeing him up and down. He fidgeted, looking small somehow, despite being fairly tall with a healthy amount of muscle. From close up it was even easier to see than watching him from behind the wall. 

“It might come as a surprise for you to know, not everyone would be as cavalier as you about all this. In fact, I’d go as far as saying your reaction was a bit…strange. Has anyone told you that you’re odd?”

  ‘Nice going, Y/N.’ She thought bitterly, ‘That was over the top blunt. You’re not trying to make an enemy out of the very first person to be witnessing the crazy with you.’

Luckily, the idol didn’t look overly offended. Jungkook pursed his lips, big eyes sheepish as he rubbed his head. “Uh-huh, my hyung.” he said thoughtfully.

“Well…” Y/N gestured vaguely. “Now that you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you know about as much as I do. Would it be too much trouble to ask if I could…go?” Pointing a thumb toward the mirror like she was about to miss her cab would seem dumb if he didn’t know. 

“Oh, right,” Jungkook’s tapped the mirror again. “You’re going back to where you came from.”

“Ideally,” Y/N frowned, “I’ve been gone a long time. There’s no way my friends aren’t concerned about that. And when they can’t find me who knows what they’ll think.”

And within these battles of dominance grew something more than just territory but also magical supremacy. Each mystical being possesses its own unique and elemental powers. As the war grew to a larger scale, betrayals were not able to be prevented. A web of alliances and betrayals intermingle with the supernatural races while leading to mutual distrust. 

The history was marred by not one, not two, but five different wars at different times. Both sides inflicted much suffering on the other. The wars led to untold loss with neither willing to yield. The main lasting repercussions come in, especially in the revised laws that were enacted to prevent any form of interaction or alliance between fae and nymph. Love between individuals of two races was seen as a dangerous threat to the stability of their respective societies.

The history was written in blood and the older generation of both races have a hard time letting go of their prejudices. 

And here lies the snowstorm. 

In the middle of the forest, where the snow blasts down like little chilling knives slicing through your skin and a good three feet of snow -

Your kind were the ice nymphs, once the royal family, now stripped of your title and an outcast amongst your kind. Where the fae folk thrived, you ventured - away from the place you once called home, now a barren room barely the size of a storage room. The scars of the Cold War between the nymphs still lingered, leaving the kingdom in the easy grip of the Lyrin fae.

You kind - the ice nymphs - were rare to come about, each one of your veins flows with the power of winter. In the lores, your kind was told to have a beauty that was like a fragile kind of enchantment, with hair as pale as frost, and skin as delicate as the first snowfall. 

There were only a few times that you have looked in the mirror - countable with five fingers. After your family was stripped of their title, with you accordingly, life was never the same. Your people, with no place to go, lost trust and justice in you. 

Desperation drove her journey as she yearned to escape the dark shadow of your people’s fall that hung over her head like a knife over the bed. Even with the ice in your veins, that winter night, when the biting frost finally embraced you and hunger gnawed at your core, your strength failed. You had pushed yourself as far as you could but as the sun dipped below the horizon, your body could no longer hold you up, giving in to your exhaustion and malnutrition. 

Lying beneath the icy canopy, you were a fragile, half-dead being that is an easy hunt for food for predators living around the area. Your eyes swerved back, trying to calculate how far you might have to go back for shelter. But you didn’t know. 

You had walked without a direction, lost in the depths of the Lyrin forest. Frostbites numbed your limbs and your brain was moving slower from the exhuation. But there it was, amidst the unforgiving cold and darkness, you sensed a presence stirring. 

Your hazed hearing registered the crunch of footsteps in the snow as your blurry vision sent your brain to somebody standing next to you. Your eyes roll around until you have a clearer picture of who it is. A man with dark hair, brown eyes, and plush lips, dressed in regal attire with a crest of the fae kingdom. Lyrin was one of the biggest fae kingdoms and everybody knows their crests. After all, it was them who led the battles many years ago. It was them that inflicted the harm and loss on your people. It was them that had killed the ruling family back then. 

Your family. 

But he wasn’t the one who took the action. No, he was almost as old as you were and then, the both of you were barely kids. 

Prince Jimin, they called him. 

The golden sunlight. 

The crown of Lyrin weighed heavily on his shoulders. He knew the crowning ceremony would be soon, and this winter, he wanted to let go and be just a man until he could no longer. Once he takes over the throne from his father, his duty to serve his country is solely on his shoulders. There was much to do and many things he would like to change, but even as king, these little ideas - as his father likes to call them - had to go through the council. 

And Jimin knows that the old hags would never approve of it. 

It went beyond the revised edition of the old laws. 

To reconcile with the nymphs. 

Jiminhad ventured into the forest today, going around with no direction, guided purely by an inexplicable force. The kingdom, although a realm of enchantment, was deeply tainted by the darkness of its past. If all was silent enough, one could still hear the shrieks and cries of the souls. The darkness had bred a strong sense of hatred and fear between faes and nymphs. Their mating was now an old tale of forbidden love - a story buried deep in history. 

As he ventured further into the woods, he stumbled upon the nymph, your frail form half-buried in the snow. Your beauty, even in your weak state, took the breath right out of his lungs. He recognized you as a nymph with your small frame and pale, white hair. But it wasn’t completely white. It shone like the silvers of the moonlight when light reflected off it. 

But it was when he moved to pick you up that he saw your family’s sigil, now faded from royal to common, that told him - you were no ordinary nymph. As his arms went under the ice, you stirred slightly at the movement. As you opened her eyes, he was completely taken aback by the sheer blue shade of your pupils. 

Even with one foot into the Underworld, you looked ethereal to him. Jimin was snapped out of his daze when your frostbitten lips whispered a plea for help. In that moment, all history and hatred were forgotten. With fae swiftness, he scooped your fragile state - lighter than air - into his arms and covered you with his coat. 

Determined to save her, he summoned a warm breeze that melted the frost from your body and sealed you in a cocoon of warmth. Jimin only dared to start running faster to his horse when colour slowly came back to your lips. Ensuring that you were safely tucked in his arms, Jimin ran back to the castle, fighting against death who wanted to take the girl in his arms. 

As days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months. The little nymph’s life continued to hang in the balance and Jimin was a mess. He made every doctor attend to you, pacing around the bedroom day and night. He had caused an uproar in the kingdom when they found out that their crown prince had brought back a nymph - even more than this one that was from the late royal family - and was nursing her back to health. 

His father had threatened to strip him of his title if he did not abandon you. But he could not do it. So it started the feud between father and son, neither backing down. Jimin understood that his late grandfather and his father had a feud among the nymphs, had been the ones who executed them and had been the ones to fight at the front lines. They were the ones who brought Lyrin to what it is today - expanded. But as Jimin studied the history of both parties, he felt a certain connection to the nymphs. 

He did not want to be a ruler where their mystical counterparts would be afraid of them. He did not want to be a ruler like his father - ruling by fear from an iron fist. 

While doctors attended to you, Jimin watched them with sharp eyes, ensuring that none of the doctors would slip anything into your bloodstream. When nothing helped and your state was only getting worse, Jimin grew more and more anxious. He had sifted through books and hunted down the Old Scripts.

He learned that your name was L/N Y/N, the youngest of the last ruling family. Your father had been killed in the war, your mother led you and your siblings to safety but soon after passed due to the broken mate bond. Your siblings were either caught by his father’s cavalry or died of starvation, leaving only you. Your records were still in the kingdom, seemingly down till two days before he met you. That means that you were active in your own kingdom, at your people’s mercy until you left.

He looked back at where you lay still on the bed. 

And if he didn’t find you, you would have probably been dead by now. 

You woke up to the warmth and luxury of a place you had only dreamed of. Your body was still weak and you didn’t know what happened after passing out. Slowly rising to consciousness, you found yourself in a room of blue and white, drapes swinging in the wind. But you registered that the windows weren’t open and the room was cold like… ice?

Winter may be the season but no room was made to stay cold unless the elements of the magicians’ are meant to stay cold. 

Like you.

You curled your fingertips, feeling the soft, silky sheets beneath them. Trying to view the room from your current position - lying flat on the bed with a head that feels as heavy as bricks - you were taken aback by the sheer language it screams. 

Royalty. 

From the materials beneath your body to the furniture displayed, the decorations and architecture of the room, they were all beyond your imagination. You had not stepped into such a room since the battle. As you looked around, you realised the room was not originally made to stay cold. The fireplace seemed to be covered in a layer of dust but the decorations on them were clean. 

And although you knew that this was not your room, the calming temperature felt just like home. But you had not been in a room like this for a very long time. Distantly, you heard the opening and closing of a door. Your eyes immediately shot in the direction of the sound just to find a man already standing beside the bed. 

You were immediately broken out of your thoughts when you realised who it was and where exactly you were. You did not need to open the windows to know - you were on enemy territory. The rulers who killed your family. The rulers who brought demise onto your people. 

But looking at the man, clad in a loose tunic and pants, dark brown hair ruffled in all directions, you couldn’t find yourself to hate him. Even as you knew that he shared the purest blood with the murderer, you knew that he… was just like you. 

A family’s misdoings do not mean a child’s downfall. 

One’s choice does not equal the choice of another. 

You sink deeper into the sheets, holding in your sigh as you close your eyes. 

“Oh!” Your eyes shot open to see the man right in front of you. “Oh, you’re awake! Oh, finally! Wait - wait - let me call the physicians!”

Your brain couldn’t register his words fast enough before you saw his body move so fast it was just a blurry shade running down the stairs. Or maybe it was just your vision that was a little crusty. Rubbing your eyes as you yawned, you got up from the bed. You wouldn’t like to overstay your stay, especially not in a place where your head was on a bounty. 

You had left your kingdom only to be stuck in another. 

Sighing, you looked down to your feet -

Your arms shot to cover your already clothed body. Wait, wait, wait - 

Your hands patted yourself down. You - 

You were changed. 

Your plan to secretly escape was a fail the moment your ears picked up the sound of multiple heavy footsteps coming towards the room. The large doors were banged open, revealing a line of physicians behind the prince. 

“There! There! I told you, she is awake!”

Squinting at the all-to-cheerful sound that the prince makes, the palm of your hands pressed against your ears. 

“Careful, Prince. The Lady just woke up, her senses will be sensitive. You must lower your volume, Prince.”

Sheepish eyes shot at you, a guilty smile lifting the corners of his lips. The physicians fussed you back to bed and ran a thorough check of you, reporting back to the prince whenever they found something. Whether it was something healing or something that needs healing. Over the next few weeks, you realise how persistent and petty the prince can get. 

He would refuse you bites of food if you were to call him by his royal title. He would refuse to help you up from bed, just standing at the corner of the bedpost when you need the restroom, always claiming, “If you aren’t going to help yourself, you don’t get to do your business.”

But you also realise how much he has gone through. As the only child, he was meant to take the throne a couple of weeks before he found you. But he had caused a huge uprising and a big fight with his father. When you were sneaking out one of the nights, Jimin found you during his nightly duties of patrol and whisked you back to the room. 

Although you had left with the intention of Jimin’s life getting back to normal, he has increased your security so that you won’t have much of a chance to run away again. 

Keyword: much. 

You still had your chances and when that came, you took it. You had everything packed and ready, but this time, you left with a note at the bedside table, paired together with a magic-infused healing charm for the man. 

Safe to say, it was a bad idea. 

You knew it was the moment you penned down your goodbyes and gave him the charm. But you didn’t have much on you to give him for thanks other than the occasional swirls of magic in his office. 

Yes, it was a horrible idea - of course it was! You were caught - again. 

This time, Jimin didn’t just leave you back in the room. He was silent the whole time after he found you. The ride back, up the stairs, and even after the both of you entered the room. You saw the note on the bed. 

Jimin’s back was to you. 

“Why - Why would you think that?”

You were taken aback by the tears that streamed down his plum cheeks that you had teasingly squished the past few weeks. Looking down at the note, you felt a pang of… sorrow.

A sorrow that wasn’t yours. It shouldn’t be. “Because it is against the laws.”

“I do not care what the laws claim!”

“I am nobody, Prince. You have a duty to serve your kingdom and its people. I am a princess, stripped of my title, belonging to the very kingdom your father and his father killed through. The very princess that they couldn’t care less before killing off my father on the battlefield.” He couldn’t be yours. He was a prince, deserving of one better than a bond that was looked down upon. 

“My ancestors can go suck their dicks.”

You pulled a face at the crude language. You knew that he would be insisting - you found out that much about him - and you prepared yourself for a situation like this. But your resolve was already crumbling. 

“Prince -”

“Stop, stop! I am yours! Please - I beg of you - stop calling me by my title.”

You sucked in a deep breath. “You are more than your titles. But you are also the light of your people. The only heir to the throne and you will not shove it away just because we are bonded. I refuse.”

“I will lay the world down on your feet for you, please. Do not leave me.” His cries hurt you more than knives and ropes splitting your skin raw. 

“My world is not one you can provide.”

My world is you. 

Honestly, he was beginning to think they wanted to be caught. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Their father wanted them married by the end of the year, which gave them six months. Namjoon wasn’t opposed to marriage. He just hadn’t met a woman he could deem adequate enough to want to dedicate his life to. He wanted someone intelligent, beautiful, and confident (but not too much), a woman he could bond with. Noble women could be educated, and usually they were, but it seemed to be surface knowledge. They didn’t read because they liked to, they didn’t like to look at art or even take walks through the gardens. They were boring. He didn’t want to be bored.

At dinner his father had announced a party will be held in three days, all his sons were expected to be there the entire night. There would be no excuses. They will meet the women, they will mingle and dance, and they will find a bride, sooner rather than later.

Seokjin hadn’t been there, much to everyone's surprise. They were quick to make an excuse, he was unwell and resting. It was clear their father didn’t believe a word out of their mouths, but said nothing. When dinner ended everyone left but Namjoon. Somehow, Seokjin’s absence was his fault. Namjoon, of course, knew nothing of his eldest brother's plans to not join them for their usual dinner. It was a once a week tradition, and although none of the princes enjoyed it, they all went to keep peace and appearances.

Namjoon was stressed. He was tired. He was angry.

His brothers walked all over him, after everything he did for them. They had no respect for him. Was it because he was the middle child? Not quite the eldest, but not the youngest. Just somewhere in the middle? He was sick of it. Seokjin was the eldest, and yet nothing was expected of him. The man couldn’t even get himself married– no, wouldn’t. He wouldn’t get married, not even to help his own brothers.

Why did he have to take the blame for every issue his brothers have caused? Tripped a maid down the stairs? Namjoon why didn’t you stop them? Got too rough with Jeongguk and cut his cheek in training? Well Namjoon should have been there to keep them in line. Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon.

Seokjin sat on the hallway floor, back against his door as he fiddled with his fingers. His plan had gone to shit. He had no intention of being so late. He was going to show up, you in arm, dressed in the most beautiful gown and announce his engagement to his family. He was supposed to bask in his mothers joyful praises and loll in the thankful songs of his brothers, who would forever be in his debt, while they all whined in jealousy. His father would applaud him for finding such a beautiful bride, pat his back and scold his brothers for being so difficult.

“Follow in your brother's footsteps!” he would say.

Instead, he was sitting on a freezing floor, thinking of how to get back into his room without damaging his doors. He really liked his doors.. His plan was to get food, surely you were hungry, and lure you out with the smell. His plan could have been perfect if he had taken into account that he had missed dining with his family, angering his father and ultimately, Namjoon. But he hadn’t thought of this, too wrapped up in getting you to open up the doors. Instead he very proudly had jumped off the floor and rushed off toward the kitchen to have a feast prepared for you. He knew he shouldn’t be rewarding this behaviour, but he was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, he assumed you were scared and how could he blame you for this? Being in the presence of a prince, and one as attractive as himself, must have been incredibly overwhelming to a commoner such as yourself.

He will just prove to you that he is as kind as he is handsome.

When Namjoon had first begun his rampage through the palace he had every intention of tearing his eldest brother's head from its shoulders and kicking it out the nearest window. Yoongi had mentioned that Seokjin had gone for a walk that afternoon, promising to be back for dinner. So the eldest had actively missed out on meeting the women lined up for them, and then purposely skipped dinner with their father, clearly more than happy with getting Namjoon in trouble. The more he learned, the more heated he began to feel.

Oddly enough, when arriving in the hallway that his brother's room resided in he found the eldest prince with his head to the door, speaking so softly he couldn’t hear a word he uttered– which was odd considering how loud the man usually was. Namjoon watched as the elder man pushed off the door, a determined look on his face as he ran off down the halls in the opposite direction. A few beats passed before his door creaked open, a head poking out. Hair covered the face, but it was clearly a woman. Namjoon wasn’t sure which emotion was currently winning, curiosity or anger. Did his brother really skip out, and cause him trouble, for a woman?

The door quickly shut again, the girl disappearing back into the room. Namjoon had decided he would approach the woman, find out who she is and confirm his suspicions. Anyone in the court knows not to involve themselves with the princes at certain hours of the week, so who did she think she was to ignore the rules? To get him chastised for an action that he didn’t even do?

Namjoon had advanced toward the room, reaching for the door but his actions fell short when the door yanked open and a much smaller body collided with his own.

Fire.

His body was on fire.

Namjoon quickly shoved the body away, jerking himself backward as he examined his body looking for something, anything that would indicate harm, but he found nothing. He looked up, finding the woman on the floor, staring up to him with wide eyes. Messy damp hair hung over most of her face, pretty pink lips parted slightly in shock. Neither said a word, only staring for a minute before the girl scrambled to her knees and bowed, head to the floor. You didn’t speak, no apologies, just head to the floor.

Why did this irritate him?

He wanted you to look at him again.

“Who are you?” He asked, finally seeming to find his voice again.

Seokjin couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to the kitchen. For a while the prince had actually been banned at some point of time and just never bothered to go back, not that he had ever really needed to, the maids could do it for him. Only Jeongguk enjoyed going down to the kitchens, snooping through the ingredients, picking at the food while being cooked and for a while, watching the maid he was so enraptured by. Admittedly, Seokjin had never understood his brother's obsession with the dirty girl, she was less than average, filthy and all bones. He remembers laughing and teasing his brother, loving how angry and defensive the younger one got.

But now he understood.

Upon his arrival Seokjin’s eyes instantly landed on the remaining two chefs. One stood by the doorway, carrying in freshly washed pots, and the other looked ready to shit his pants. At first, the prince didn’t understand the instant look of fear that hit the man's features, but the sight of the gruesome scar over his right eye made him light up.

“Chef Geum, it has been some time.”

The head chef, Ho Geum, was especially cautious of the royal family, especially the eldest two. The older sons, Seokjin and Yoongi were both excellent cooks, their nannies had taught them as children and young teens per their request. Their nanny had believed she was doing a good thing, encouraging a hobby, helping them with independence. Unfortunately this made the princes far more pedantic toward the meals they were served. One wrong flavour, a change to a recipe, and there would be hell. He had learnt this the hard way.

//flashback; three years//

The kitchen staffed six chefs, two for deserts and four for the other three meals a day. They were older men, sweaty and exhausted. They not only cooked for the royal family, but the other staff, and any guests that the palace seemed to constantly house. There was never a moment for breaks or rests. These four chefs often rotate shifts overnight, two on and two off, allowing a few hours breaks to rest before jumping back in for the breakfast routine.

Prince Seokjin had been 21 when the incident occurred. The current head chef, had been on his first week and unaware of all the rules in place. There were just so many, and it was hard to keep up with them all. His previous employers had no issue with his food experimentation, in fact they encouraged it. They were foodies after all, and would often brag to guests about their creative chef who prepared the greatest dishes in the whole of Korea. Eventually Emperor Munpyo caught wind of the rumours and demanded he had the chef for himself.

Who could turn down an offer like that?

He quickly learnt his creative dishes weren’t appreciated. The fifth night of his new job he found two of the princes in the kitchen entryway, the taller of the two with a friendly smile on his plump lips, while the shorter looked at him with an expression that mirrored someone staring at a bug on the wall.

The smile never left the taller prince's face, not when he cut off the chef's index fingers. Not when he pinned poor Geum to the large counter, giggling at the way he squirmed and begged to be let go. The shorter brother hadn’t smiled throughout most of the ordeal, keeping his lips slightly pursed as he watched his brother explain every single thing wrong with every dish that had been served that evening. Seokjin had demanded the chef keep his eyes on him, he should be respected. Unfortunately, because his focus was directed to only one of the princes, he failed to notice Yoongi standing by the furnace with a metal ladle resting over the heat. The metal had begun to melt before the prince was satisfied. He quickly pulled the ladle out, and stalked over to the cook who had finally caught on to the younger princes movement.

No amount of begging, or screaming, helped the man. In fact, the begging only seemed to fuel the excitement the prince felt, because for the first time in the hours they had been down in the kitchen, he grinned. It had made him sick. His smile had seemed so kind, almost childish. It was such a sweet smile to give to someone right before you disfigured them. Yoongi had stood over him, his face hanging above the chefs who could only sob a blubbered apology, begging him to stop before he had even started.

The pure excitement on Yoongi's face had haunted the chef’s dreams even to this day. The smile on his lips as the prince pressed the underside of the burning ladle into his eye. The laughter sounding in the emptied kitchen that moulded into his pained screams. Geum was probably lucky he hadn’t seen the look of pure glee on the scarred prince's face as he pushed the burning utensil harder, or the elated look he had as the skin melted on his face.

When Yoongi had finally pulled away, it took a bit of force to rip the ladle from the skin that had melted onto it. The chef was quickly let go, and the princes watched as he rolled over, dropping from the counter top to the floor with a grunt. His hands shakily cupping over the face wound, hands still bloody from the elder prince's punishment. It was probably for the best that the chef had been looking to the floor, sobbing, otherwise his good eye would have seen the way Yoongi had admired the skin burnt to the ladle.

He would have seen the prince pluck off a chunk of burnt flesh, and eat it.

//flashback end//

“Y-your Highness, it is an-an honour to see you again.” Geum stuttered out, bowing deeply.

The prince quickly waved the man off, walking further inside as he looked through the baskets of fresh vegetables. “I need you to cook a meal,” He told the man, turning to look back at him.

“Something romantic.” He added, nodding to himself. “I’ll need deserts as well, so wake up the rest of the staff.”

The two cooks looked between each other, raising a brow before looking back to the prince.

“My prince, was the dinner not up to satisfaction?” They inquired, the blinded chef looking to his companion in shock.

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there– do you have doubts about your work?” Seokjin grinned,

The two men quickly shook their heads, stuttering out incoherent sentences before the prince cut them off again, walking back toward the kitchen's exit.

“Have it in my room within the hour.”

You didn’t look up when he spoke, irking him further. His jaw clenched as you kept your head down, slightly shaking at the shoulders.

“Y/n.”

“Y/n, look at me when I speak to you.”

The words were familiar. Seokjin had said the exact same thing to you only hours earlier. Only this time you obeyed, his tone of voice didn’t feel as mischievous as Seokjin’s. And while yes, Seokjin had sounded playful, he still had an edge to his words, one that you were willing to ignore. This man held no mirth to his tone, there was a lingering anger to his words. You weren’t sure why, maybe he was angry at you for touching him? You weren’t aware of who he was, but by the fabric at his feet, and the attitude he spoke with, you were sure he was important. Was this the Emperor that Seokjin had wanted you to meet?

The air around him was suffocating. You wonder if he knew how stifling his presence was.

Ruffling of fabric filled your ears, making you peek up slightly. The man had squatted down to your level. You quickly tried to avert your gaze back to the floorboards but his hand shot out, grabbing your chin. He seemed to freeze when he touched you, fingers tensing on your skin making his nails dig into the flesh.

“I didn’t ask your name, I asked who are you?”

You frowned, is that not the same thing?

A soft grunt left your lips when he jerked your face upward to meet his gaze. He was handsome, even with the glare he was shooting your way. You weren’t sure how to answer his question, because who even were you here? You could imagine his reaction now if you told him: ‘I’m Y/n, and I’m not from here– wherever here is. I’m a homeless woman from what I can only presume is the future.’

Yeah, no. You would rather keep that information to yourself.

“I-I.. I don’t know.” You finally admitted, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

You barely knew where you were, you clearly weren’t home. You weren’t from here, from this time. That much you had gathered during your small meltdown in the room. You felt guilty when Seokjin tried to coax you out of the room, complaining about how late he was running. But the realisation of just how fucked of a situation you had gotten yourself into had dawned and you just wanted to hide. Which is exactly what you had done. Definitely not your finest hour, but how else is someone supposed to react?

You had been so relieved when the prince had told you he was leaving for a moment. It was a moment to escape. Once his footsteps had disappeared you had every intention of grabbing the clothes you had woken up in, and making a run for it. You had quickly changed back into the dirty, slightly damp silk nightgown, even putting the robe back on, deciding it was way too cold to leave it behind, and you were ready. You didn’t have any ideas of where to go exactly, but the feeling in your gut promised anywhere was better than here.

Clearly, your master escape plan didn’t go as you had hoped because the second you opened the door you almost broke your nose. The body clearly didn’t appreciate the unwanted contact, because within a split second you were on the floor. A new wave of fear had washed over you, terrified to do anything, so you had quickly moved into a bowing position.

The energy pulsing off this man was a true force. It shook you to the core. You feared speaking the wrong words, or even moving. You felt like a small animal, too scared to make a move, fearing the slightest movement of muscle would trigger an attack from the predator ahead.

Clearly your words hadn’t satisfied the man, how could it? You weren’t sure you would be convinced if some random woman claimed she didn’t know who she was either.

“Namjoon, what are you doing here?”

You froze at the icy tone. The man, who you could now only assume to be Namjoon, didn't budge. His gaze stayed on you, even if you were no longer looking at him. The floor seemed like the safest bet right now. You knew the other voice, it was the Prince who found you. He had spoken so much during the few hours you both had shared, that you could probably pick up on his voice from anywhere. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved for him returning, or annoyed. While you were glad that he was back, the only familiar thing you had so far in this place, you weren’t sure he could be of much help in this situation. You were convinced that the man before you was the Emperor. The way he spoke, the power he emitted.. There was nothing else he could be.

“I would appreciate it if you got your hands off my fiancé.” He spoke again, walking further into the room.

Seokjin wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation before him. While on one hand he was happy to see that the room was unlocked, allowing him to come back into you, he was bitter to find his brother's hands on you. He had barely been gone twenty minutes, he hadn’t expected any of his brothers to go to his room. Usually Namjoon would go off to his room to wallow in self pity before taking any anger out.

Either way, Namjoon had no right to be touching his woman.

“Fiancé?” He echoed, making no move away from you. If anything, his hand only tightened.

Huffing, Seokjin stomped forward. He grabbed the pale green collar of his brother's shirt and tugged him off you. The taller man hit the floor with a grunt.

“What the fuck Hyung!” He hissed, rubbing the back of his head.

Namjoon wasn’t sure why his chest had constricted at the news his brother had dropped. He wasn’t sure why his skin burned when he touched you, or why his lungs felt strangled when your eyes looked into his own. What he did know was that he didn’t like it. He didn’t like how he was feeling, and he didn’t like that his brother was claiming you.

“Who is she, Jin-Hyung?” Namjoon asked calmly, having pushed himself off the floor and brushed imaginary dust from his outfit.

Both brothers looked at you, still bowed to the floor.

“My future wife, was that not clear?” Jin asked dumbly.

Namjoon rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “What clan is she from?” He pushed. Seokjin was frustrating, as per usual, but Namjoon noticed he was slightly nervous at the question.

“She isn’t from here.” The elder shrugged, still avoiding answering directly. Moving around his little brother to crouch down beside you. His heart ached seeing you pressed to the floor, shaking in fear. But he couldn’t deny the butterflies in his stomach from seeing you in such a submissive state. Would you behave this way for him?

He rested a hand on your back, grinning when you didn’t flinch away. Even with the materials on your body, he could still feel the burning sensation as if he were pressing against your bare skin. Would the feeling intensify if you had been stripped bare?

“You never answered my questions.” Namjoon pressed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And you never answered mine, and you best watch your tone Namjoon.” Seokjin scolded, not bothering to look at his brother. Instead, he gently took your chin between his fingers, just as Namjoon had been doing only minutes before. Seokjin’s grip was feather light, almost as if he wasn’t even touching you.

“My love, are you okay?” He murmured when your eyes met his. “Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, making him smile in relief before he stood up, pulling you along with him. Seokjin’s arm curled around your waist, forcing you into his side as he looked back at the man standing across from you. His eyes were glued to the arm around your hips making you squirm uncomfortably. The movement only seemed to make the man's grip tighten on you.

“Y/n, meet my little brother Namjoon, Namjoonie, meet my soon to be wife, Y/n.”

Wife.

The word made your stomach twist. He kept saying that, you didn’t know him, and he you. How did he expect you to marry him? He hadn’t even consulted you on the idea. What made him think you even wanted him? You wanted to leave. You wanted to find your way home.

But what if there wasn’t a way home…

Jeongguk was a heavy believer in the spiritual realm, and a romantic at heart. He believed in the after world, reincarnation, he believed in true love and soulmates, and that there was always fate there to guide him to where he needed to be. He had believed Jin-i to be his soulmate, but soon after her death, despite the immense sadness he felt, he knew she hadn’t been the one. Fate had been kind to him, showing him a glimpse of what he could feel, promising that it had only been the beginning of how love would feel. It had allowed him some practice before true love found him.

Jin-i could have been a problem. If she had lived, what would have happened when he found his soulmate? He had always swore to be a loyal husband, so an affair would have been out of the question. Of course, there was always the option of just completely removing Jin-i from the situation, but he wasn’t too sure if that would have sat right with him.

Thankfully, he didn’t have these stresses anymore. He would be alert, ready to find the woman he was destined for, and all the while, better himself for her. Although, he wasn’t sure what more he could improve on.

Well, maybe he was.

Despite being 25, Jeongguk hadn’t been very experienced with women. He had dozens of them ready for him at any given moment, women that would do anything he desired and more. They had been used before, but not to the same extent his brothers had used them. Jeongguk had only used the women when his hand would no longer work, and even then he would only let them suck him off. He wanted he and his soulmate to experience sex together, for the first time, to be each others firsts. That plan very quickly went out the door.

He had been devastated to realise Jin-i wasn’t his soulmate. His promise to himself, to remain a virgin, had been ruined. After Jin-i’s husband's unfortunate death, Jeongguk, admittedly had little self control at the moment. He had slit her throat, and as she bled to death, he fucked her. A poor, and messy choice on his behalf. But the sight had been so exciting. The blood that covered her face and body, getting all over him as well was a feeling he wished to someday replicate. She had choked out incoherent words, clawing at any bare skin her nails could find with leaky eyes. 

She had never looked prettier.

He had been devastated at first, guilt eating away at him. He was saving himself for his soulmate, and he was soiled. Jin-i had ruined him. 

Would she be disappointed in him? He wouldn’t be able to blame her.

It had admittedly taken the prince a while to realise Jin-i wasn’t his fated one, and in his distraught state, he had.. Let himself go a little. The concubines had dropped in numbers, quitting or going missing after the youngest prince got his hands on them. He was too rough, too demanding, too unstable. Most women left bloody and bruised after their hours with him, weeping and begging the Emperor to release them of their duties.

Jeongguk had felt something in his chest. It ached, and pulled. It had felt that way since morning, and he had tried his best to ignore it. He was on his best behaviour. But the light tingle in his chest had turned into full fledged throbbing, it was like something was trying to tear its way out of his ribs. Nothing was easing the pain. So he had decided to let the pain lead the way. Whatever it was, the closer it got, the more the pain eased, the further he got the more it hurt.

He probably looked crazy, running around the halls with a hand to his chest, bursting in and out of different rooms. But he didn’t care, all he could focus on was the pang, pang, pang in his chest. The familiar hall that roomed Seokjin and Yoongi came into view, and the ache began to ease more. Jeongguk stumbled slightly, hand to the wall as he moved further down, passing Yoongi’s quiet room first, but the ache remained.

“You can’t be serious about this.” Namjoon’s voice echoed, catching the younger's attention.

“We’re in love, Joonie. Is this not what you all wanted?” Seokjin scoffed, his tone of voice lower than usual. He was pissed.

Jeongguk kept voice, his brother's voices getting cleared and the ache nearly disappearing. Fate was leading him somewhere, he was sure of it.

Seokjin’s door was wide open, Namjoon standing closer to the doorway with a ridged back. The eldest brother stood slightly to the side, one arm on his hip and the other seemed to be wrapping around something–or someone. The youngest prince stood just outside the door, head peeking around the corner of the door only just out of sight. The ache was gone, back to an itch. Whatever fate wanted him to find, it was in there.

“You just met her, how could you love her?” Namjoon groaned, head dropping into his palm. His larger body was blocking off whoever stood beside their elder brother, irking the youngest prince. He was curious.

“Oh what do you know, Namjoon?” Seokjin sneered, pulling away from the body beside him to step closer toward his brother. “Just because you’re so unloved, everyone else has to be too?”

Namjoon’s shoulders shuddered as he sighed, shaking his head. But he said nothing, letting Seokjin step closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “She will be my wife, it is destiny.” The elder nearly whispered, the words only just ghosting Jeongguk’s ears.

Jeongguk was weighing his options, unsure if he should make his presence known. But it didn’t seem he had to. Seokjin seemed to have spotted him over Namjoon’s shoulder, raising a brow to the younger brother. In shame the youngest brother shuffled into the doorway, head hanging too embarrassed to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled pitifully.

Namjoon raised a brow, looking between the youngest and the eldest. “How long have you been listening?” He asked.

He shrugged. “Not that long.”

Seokjin eyed up the younger boy, purposely shielding you away from him. The young boy looked erratic. Sweat beading on his forehead, a red flush on his neck and cheeks, and his body shaking. Some would think he looked ill.

“Why are you here, Jeongguk?” Jin asked.

The younger boy frowned, itching at his neck. Why was here? He had only been following where fate had demanded, he hadn't thought he would find himself here. He himself was beyond confused.

“I’m not sure hyung,” He paused, thinning his lips in thought. “I just thought something of mine was here.”

It was a weak explanation, but it was true. The elder man grinned, stepping closer toward his brother gently patting his hair.

“What could you have possibly thought could belong to you here?” The tone was almost condescending. This bothered the younger prince, but he simply shrugged. He had nothing to answer with. He knew he had nothing in this wing of the palace, let alone his eldest brother’s room.

Namjoon seemed just as bothered by the eldest boy's tone, shoving the man slightly. He seemed unprepared for the force given, stumbling over and revealing you, wide eyed at the entire situation unfolding. The moment Jeongguk’s eyes fell to yours, the ache returned tenfold. He almost doubled over in pain, his hand shooting up to his chest, nails digging into the fabric of his dark shirt.

“Her.”

----------

Once he fills out the sign-in form, you volunteer to show him around the facility while he tells you his pet preferences. The whole time, you feel like you are vibrating with excitement, but you keep your cool the entire time despite your ARMY heart threatening to give out any moment.

As you head up to the front, he tells you that there's such a good selection that he needs to think it over before he says, "Thanks for all of your help, y/n. Will you be here tomorrow? I don't really feel like re-explaining everything to someone else you know?".

This time, you aren’t able to prevent the flush that appears on your cheeks. Because even though it's work-related, Jimin CHOSE YOU; it's a step towards your dream so yay! You fervently nod your head, ignoring your coworker side-eyeing you.

You know you’re supposed to be off tomorrow, but you will be there no matter what; you have been in love with this man for years, so you will show up unpaid in uniform if it means you can be his little helper.

As soon as he leaves, your coworker agrees to let you pose as though you are on shift, and if he needs access you can't do since you aren't on the clock, she will help you out. You rush home after your shift to ensure everything is ready and clean at a good time so you can be well rested.

For the first time in your life, you wake up a half hour before your alarm from anticipation! You get ready and go in after getting some coffee and a breakfast sandwich at the café nearby.

After waiting for what felt like forever (maybe 2 hours), Jimin shows up with two coffees, which your nerves didn't need but you will accept of course. He insists on walking the whole facility again despite barely looking around, focusing on your words more intently than yesterday.

He says he wants your help figuring out which dog to go with but respects that the shelter closes soon. Naturally, he asks you, "Hey, I'm indecisive, but I know y'all close soon. So would you like to grab some boba with me and help me decide?".

At this, your coworker's jaw is on the floor while yours is trying to maintain normalcy. You grin and, with a shaky voice, say, "I…I'd be honored if you would prefer that over returning tomorrow. I mean, since you can't adopt once we close. Aish, what am I saying…you're a busy man, so let's go get this decided then!".

He can't help but giggle at your flustered state and logic. He knows he will need to return anyway, but if this gets him on a date with you, it's worth the extra trip.

Even though he decides on the brown and white cocker spaniel named Mandu in about 30 minutes, y’all spend hours at the boba shop talking about everything and anything.

This leads to many more meetings starting off as you helping him learn how to take care of and train Mandu, morphing into chill hangouts, and eventually, y'all making your relationship official.

Life is bliss and everything you could dream of until he starts acting strange. It begins with your dates becoming less frequent and Jimin seeming agitated more often than not when he is around you.

A week after your 10-month anniversary, you question your boyfriend, "Chim Chim, what's wrong? You can talk to me…If I did something, please tell me, yell, anything…”

He rolls his eyes, "Y/n, you didn't do anything, okay? Just had a lot on my mind lately. You wouldn't understand; you live a simple life." At this, tears well up in your eyes. "Ouch… I'm just trying to be supportive. Plus, just because I'm not an idol doesn't mean my life is a cakewalk.

You know how much I've struggled before and during being with you. Just because you're great doesn't mean our relationship hasn't also given me side effects. Do you realize how much hate and death threats I've gotten since I started going out with you???

Now, yes, your company is good at shutting them down and ensuring I'm safe, but it isn't fun to encounter. Not to mention you being around all those beautiful idols all of the time…

I know you care about me, but I look nothing like those people, and I am just worried that eventually you will see me the way I do and…don't look at me like that, I'm just saying.".

He just clenches his fists and pokes inside of his cheek with his tongue and responds with, "That's not fucking fair y/n. It's not like I caused those things or given you a reason to be insecure.

I thought I was helping you with anxiety and self-esteem, but I guess I was wrong. I knew this was too good to be true…" With that, he walks out of your apartment and starts the detachment.

It’s the longest month of your life. Feeling like a bother, you stop texting and hanging out with Jimin, partly to teach him a lesson and somewhat because he hurt your feelings. Despite his frequent attempts to meet up and talk things out, you shut him down or give one-word responses.

Feeling desperate, Jimin goes to your work to talk things out only to learn from Alice, your coworker from before, that you purposely changed your schedule so he couldn't just pop up. She also gives him the cold shoulder in solidarity, as she knows what happened.

As it happens, you pull in right as he departs down the road, and for a moment, you consider following him. You miss him but aren't sure you are ready to see him yet.

Fast forward a week, and Alice hits you up because she is tired of you being a homebody. You agree to meet up with her at a local café since you know that alcohol is not a good idea right now.

After waiting an hour and no sign of her or anyone else besides a couple of workers, you are about to leave when you look up from your phone only to see Jimin standing before you.

Gently resting his hand on yours, he pleads for you to give him 10 minutes, and if after that, you aren't convinced, he will never bother you again. He admits that he rented out the café and prepaid for your drink since he knows this is your favorite spot. In addition to the centerpieces being your favorite flower, he just wanted privacy with you in one of your safest places.

For the first 3 minutes, he is profusely apologizing, saying that there had been so many rumors about him and Nayeon recently that you bringing up other women just set him off because he thought you knew that you were the embodiment of beauty to him and never looked at anyone else.

Then he leans forward and rubs your arm for comfort as he sees tears about to fall down your cheek and continues, "Jagiya, I'm so sorry again. When I said, I had a lot on my mind that you wouldn't understand… I don’t mean that you've never had struggles. It was something that I was worried about but didn't know if you were too, but.. now it's time to find out, I guess."

You cock an eyebrow and wipe the tears from your face, "Just tell me, Mochi, I swear it's fine. Just be honest. It can’t be worse than what I’ve been imagining for the past month.”.

He leans back and lets a deep sigh escape his mouth, "Alright, here goes, I love you. I have been for months now. I realized it 2 months before the day I went off and hurt you, but I was worried about saying it too soon. So, I tried to shove the desire down, but it only made me angry because why has society dictated milestones?

If I love you, I should be able to say so whenever I feel it, right? Aish…anyway, when you said you knew I cared about you, it made me pissed again because I wanted to shout to the heavens how in love I was and am with you but didn't know if I should, so yeah….".

The timer goes off, and he sits up straight, staring at you with pleading eyes to say something. You are looking down, fidgeting with your fingers, and processing everything he just said. He goes to leave, taking your silence as a goodbye.

As he arises, you grab the sleeve of his sweater and stand up, saying, "I feel the same way, which is why everything hurt so bad, and I detached so abruptly. I wanted to tell you how I felt, too, but I was too scared of rejection, so I took that day as a sign to back off. “

His eyes go wide, "Oh…I…cool…I mean.. you know what I mean? I just feel like such a pabo (fool) and hope one day you can forgive me, but I get if no—" He is cut off by your lips crashing into his and smiling as he has wanted this for so long.

Once you detach for the sake of breathing, you hurry hand in hand to the public transportation stop, giving little pecks as you wait. Once you get on, you can't help but be stereotypical and sit in his lap. Y'all seem all tiny and cutesy to the others on the train.

Until you get home, and the second that the front door locks, he has you pushed up against the wall, leaving sloppy kisses along your neck and jawline before passionately devouring your lips in his until you are both gasping and trying desperately to hold on to anything to stay grounded.

As soon as y'all head into the bedroom, it's a race of who can get their clothes off faster. Honestly, you can't recall because the millisecond it happens, he has you trapped under him for who knows how long. He shows you with his body how much love he has for you, how sorry he is, and most of all, how much he missed you.