#kittenanwrites

The wedding had been beautiful.

Too beautiful.

White roses lined the aisle like a dream you weren’t sure belonged to you. Silk dresses, soft music, champagne that sparkled under chandelier lights, the kind of luxury you only ever saw in magazines. Everyone had smiled and whispered that the two of you looked perfect together, their voices sugary sweet.

You’d smiled too. But your palms were sweating inside Taehyung’s warm, steady grip.

Arranged marriages weren’t supposed to feel like this.

Not like a fairytale.

Not like falling into something soft and terrifying all at once.

But Taehyung leaned in that day, his breath brushing your cheek, eyes wide and earnest like he was promising you the world.

“I won’t ever touch you until you ask me to. Until you want it.” he murmured, voice low enough for only you. “I promise.”

Your breath caught.

You’d managed a tiny nod. A whispered “okay” that came out more like a sob.

And two months later… that promise still stood. A quiet barrier between you—warm, gentle… maddening.

He kept it in the sweetest, most devastating ways.

Every morning he kissed your forehead before leaving for work, a soft “Morning, sweetheart,” whispered against your skin, leaving you blinking up at him like a flustered fool.

He back-hugged you while you brushed your teeth, chin heavy on your head, humming half-asleep into your hair. “Mm… you smell nice,” he’d mumble, not even realizing he was killing you slowly.

He carried all the grocery bags with one hand, veins bulging, T-shirt stretching over his shoulders.

You’d stare.

He’d catch you staring.

And instead of teasing, he’d just smile. “You okay, baby?”

He let you fall asleep on his chest during movie nights, fingers absent-mindedly threading through your hair until you were drooling on his hoodie. “You’re so cute when you sleep,” he’d whisper, brushing your bangs back.

And every night, every single night, he’d pull you close under the covers, strong arms locking around your waist, body warm behind yours — and whisper into your neck, “Goodnight, wifey.”

You were drowning in him. Completely, helplessly drowning.

And he didn’t even know.

Because lately… your body had started betraying you.

The way he smelled when he came home, it made heat curl low in your belly. His deep voice when he said “baby or sweetheart or wifey” made you choke on your own air. The way his T-shirt clung to his back after a workout left your pulse hammering in places you didn’t admit.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him so badly.

But you were shy. Painfully, frustratingly shy.

So you did the only logical thing your shy, horny, newlywed brain could produce. You stole his clothes.

At first it was innocent.

An oversized white button-up you found in the laundry basket. You wore it while making tea, sleeves brushing your thighs, and felt… safe.

Wrapped in him.

Then it was one of his gray hoodies — so big it almost reached your knees. You curled up on the couch, tugging the sleeves over your hands, whispering into the collar, “Ugh… why do you smell so good?”

Then came the black crewneck. The one you knew he loved. The one that still smelled like his cologne even after washing. You wore it while working on your laptop, fingers brushing the fabric whenever you missed him, which was embarrassingly often.

You wore them when he wasn’t home.

Always when he wasn’t home.

Curled on the couch… On the bed… Sometimes standing in front of the mirror, pretending his arms were wrapped around your waist instead of fabric and imagination.

It was ridiculous. It was addictive. It was comfort. It was want.

And today… today you’d gone too far.

You finished your remote work early, shut your laptop with a satisfied sigh, and padded to the bathroom. A hot shower sounded like heaven, steam curling around you, loosening your muscles, making you feel warm and soft and reckless.

You stepped out wrapped in a towel, droplets sliding down your skin, hair dripping over your shoulders. You padded into the bedroom, humming under your breath, still flushed from the heat.

Your eyes landed on his shirt.

Not just any shirt, the oversized black one he always wore on lazy Sundays. Soft, worn-out cotton. Smelled like him even from across the room.

You stared at it.

Then at the towel barely staying on your body.

Then back at the shirt.

Your pulse stuttered.

“…Screw it,” you whispered.

The towel dropped to the floor.

You slipped the shirt on.

The sleeves swallowed your arms completely, the hem brushing mid-thigh. One shoulder slid down no matter how many times you tugged it up.

You looked tiny. Drowned. His.

It felt like he was wrapping himself around you.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wet hair, bare legs peeking out beneath his shirt... and your breath hitched.

You held it against your chest, whispering to no one, “…Is it bad if I love this more than my clothes?”

You whispered, breath shaky. “Tae… what are you doing to me?”

You twirled in front of the mirror like a happy idiot, lifting your arms so the loose fabric floated around you. Then you hugged yourself tight, burying your face in the collar, breathing him in.

“Ugh... Why does this feel better than my own clothes?” you groaned into the fabric. “God… he’d laugh at me so hard if he saw me doing this.”

You were too busy cuddling his shirt to notice anything else.

Not the front door unlocking. Not his footsteps in the hall. Not the soft crinkle of the bouquet he’d brought to surprise you.

You only heard the quiet creak of the bedroom door.

And then, “Oh... My... God...”

The flowers slipped from his hand and hit the carpet.

You spun around so fast you almost tripped.

Taehyung stood in the doorway, completely stunned. Still in his work clothes —white button-up rolled up his arms, slacks hugging his thighs, hair a little messy like he’d rushed home.

His eyes dragged down your body slowly.

Too slowly. Taking in the sight.

His shirt. Your bare legs. Your flushed cheeks.

“Taehyung—!” you squeaked, trying to cover yourself even though his shirt already hung past mid-thigh. “You… you’re early!”

He didn’t answer. For a moment he didn’t even breathe.

Then he shut the door behind him, leaning against it, arms crossing over his chest. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

“…Having fun without me?”

Your soul left your body.

“I... I was just...” you stammered, voice going embarrassingly high. “I thought it would be… fun? Maybe? A little? I just... I don’t know!”

He pushed off the door, walking toward you with lazy, confident steps like a man who already owned the room and your heartbeat.

“Fun,” he repeated, voice dropping into that deep honey tone that always made your knees weak. “Baby… you’re wearing my shirt, looking like that… and you call it fun?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you’d see me…”

He stopped inches away, towering over you, and slid both hands around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over the fabric of his own shirt on your body. His breath was warm against your neck as he leaned in.

“Gorgeous,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You can have my whole closet if this is how you look in my clothes.”

His thumb lifted your chin, forcing your shy gaze to meet his dark one.

“Have you tried on my shirts before?” he asked softly.

You froze. Then nodded slowly.

“Yeah?” he breathed, eyes darkening instantly. “How many times?”

“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, cheeks burning. “A few. Maybe more.”

Taehyung let out a low, hungry sound that made your stomach flip.

“You should’ve told me, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. “I would’ve helped you undress… and helped you try every single one… slow and careful.”

A tiny whimper escaped your throat.

He smiled, loving it.

With gentle pressure on your waist, he walked you backward step by step until the back of your knees hit the mattress. His body stayed close, heat radiating through the shirt you stole.

He ran his hand down your thigh, stopping at the hem of the shirt. His fingers brushed your bare skin, making you gasp.

“My shy little thief,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, then your jaw. “Stealing my clothes… stealing my scent… stealing my sanity... stealing my self-control…”

You trembled in his hands.

“And you know the worst part?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I don’t want any of it back.”

You were shaking in his arms, cheeks burning hot, voice barely above a whisper. “I like how you smell…” you admitted, burying your face against his chest. “It… it makes me feel close to you.”

Taehyung froze. His breath hitched, like your words had punched the air out of his lungs. For a single heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Messy. Hungry. Desperate.

He pressed his lips to yours, tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip until you whimpered into his mouth. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it. The other gripped your waist, holding you as if you could disappear.

He broke away for just a second, growling against your lips, “Two months of waiting… baby... and you say that now?”

Before you could answer, he kissed you again, flipping you until his knees hit the bed. He sank onto it first, pulling you down so you straddled his lap, thighs pressed against either side of him.

The oversized shirt rode up immediately, pooling around your hips. You tried to tug it down, embarrassed, but he caught your wrists with his one hand, holding them gently behind your back with one hand.

“No more hiding,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Let me look at you.”

His free hand slid under the shirt, palm gliding over your waist, thumb brushing against the underside of your breast. You gasped when his fingers circled your hardening nipples, teasing slowly.

You arched into his touch, shivering at the sensation.

You moved instinctively, trying to ease the ache in your core. The friction of your bare heat against his rigid pants made both of you freeze.

Taehyung groaned low, hips jerking up slightly. You felt him... thick, impossibly hard... beneath you. Your chest tightened with the knowledge that you had already made him like this.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you firmly.

You rocked again, tiny and hesitant.

“Baby…” he warned, forehead pressing to yours, voice rough. “If you keep moving like that—”

You tested him again, slower this time, watching his face twist with pleasure and restraint. His grip tightened on your wrists, almost bruising.

“Wearing my clothes is cute…” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, hot breath against your skin. “But sitting here… without panties?”

He released your wrists to cup your ass, spreading you slightly. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, as your next movement ground against the hard length of him.

He growled into your neck, teeth grazing the tender skin.

“…that’s going to be a problem, sweetheart.”

You felt how soaked you already were, sliding over him effortlessly. The fabric of his slacks now dark and ruined where you’re pressed together. Every tiny movement sent sparks shooting up your spine.

“Taehyung...” you whimpered, unsure if you were begging or warning.

“I know,” he breathed, guiding your hips in a slow, filthy grind. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He let you move against him, letting you find the rhythm, swallowing your moans with his mouth. “You feel so good like this…” he murmured, voice rough, teeth grazing your jaw.

“Taehyung… I... oh—I can’t…” you gasped, pressing closer, thighs trembling.

“Can’t what, baby?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“Tell me… do you want me?”

“Yes… please…” you breathed, rocking a little harder. “I want… I need you… so bad.”

He groaned, gripping your hips tighter. “Damn, you’re so wet for me… all for me…”

“I—fuck...” you moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. “Tae… it feels so good…”

“You’re mine, baby,” he rasped, voice low and possessive. “Mine for wearing my shirt, mine for wanting me…”

Your body shivered, burning hotter with every word. Every teasing murmur from him made you ache more, and your thighs trembled uncontrollably against him.

Then he flipped you gently onto your back, crawling over you. His eyes burned black with want.

“Enough teasing,” he rasped, sliding the shirt higher. “Now… I’m going to take care of you properly.”

He lowered his lips, teeth, and hands, leaving a trail over every inch of skin the shirt exposed. His mouth pressed to your throat first, biting gently, making you gasp and whimper.

“Taehyung… ah—” you moaned, chest rising and falling.

He growled, sliding down to your collarbone, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, leaving dark, messy marks. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders as he nipped and sucked, pulling low groans from his chest.

“Fuck… you feel so good, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing below your jaw.

You shivered, tilting your head back. “Tae… more… please...”

His hands cupped your waist, thumbs teasing over your bare skin, keeping you pressed to him. Each bite, each kiss made you tremble and moan, your heat sliding over him with every tiny movement.

“God, I can't believe... you’re mine,” he groaned, lips leaving one last hickey below your jaw before capturing your mouth in another hungry kiss.

You clung to him, breathless, every moan spilling between you both, tangled, desperate, and entirely his.

When he reached the tops of your thighs, he paused, hands sliding under them, thumbs stroking the sensitive edge where leg met hip. He looked up at you, eyes dark, reverent, almost pleading.

You tried to close your legs out of pure reflex.

He didn’t let you.

“Let me see you,” he whispered again, voice cracking with awe. “Please, baby. I’ve dreamed about this.”

His big, warm palms spread you open so gently it made tears prick your eyes. The shirt had ridden up to your waist; cool air kissed your soaked core and you whimpered.

Taehyung’s breath stuttered.

“Fuck… look at you,” he breathed, voice trembling. “So pretty. So fucking perfect for me.”

He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your left thigh, then your right, lingering, inhaling like he was addicted to the scent of your skin.

“You have no idea how many nights I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against you, lips brushing your folds with every word. “How many times I’ve jerked off imagining your taste of you on my tongue.”

A broken sound escaped your throat. He smiled, slow and filthy, then dragged his tongue up your centre in one long, deliberate lick.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pinning your thighs wider with his shoulders. “Let me take care of you.”

The second lick was slower, parting you, savouring. The third circled your clit with his tongue and you saw stars.

“Tae—”

“Shh, I know,” he hummed, the vibration making you clench around nothing. “You taste like heaven, baby. Sweeter than I dreamed.”

He licked into you like a man starved, tongue sliding deep, curling, fucking you open while his nose nudged your clit on every stroke.

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard.

He moaned into you, loud and shameless.

“That’s it, pull harder. Use me.”

He sucked your clit between his lips, gentle at first, then harder, flicking the tip of his tongue in quick, ruthless circles until your thighs started shaking uncontrollably.

“Taehyung, please...”

“Please what, sweetheart?” He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny, eyes glazed with lust. “Please stop? Or please make you fall apart on my face?”

You couldn’t answer, only sobbed his name.

He dove back in, merciless.

Two thick fingers slid inside you without warning, curling instantly against that spot that made your back arch clean off the bed.

“Look at you,” he groaned, pumping slowly, tongue still swirling. “Taking my fingers so well. Gonna take my cock just like this, aren’t you? Gonna let me ruin this pretty little pussy while you wear my shirt?”

The dirty praise sent you spiralling.

He felt it, felt you tightening, and doubled his efforts, sucking your clit hard while his fingers fucked you faster, palm grinding against you with every thrust.

“Come for me, baby,” he growled against your folds. “Come on my tongue. Want to drink every drop.”

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

You screamed his name, thighs clamping around his head, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth and fingers as pleasure tore through you in violent, endless waves.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, gentler now, lapping softly, coaxing every aftershock until you were a trembling, sobbing mess.

Only then did he pull back, pressing one last reverent kiss to your swollen clit that made you jolt.

He crawled up your body, face glistening, eyes wild with love and hunger.

“You okay, my love?” he whispered, voice hoarse, brushing tears from your cheeks you hadn’t realized had fallen.

You could only nod, boneless, chest heaving.

He smiled, soft and proud and utterly wrecked.

“Good girl,” he murmured, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste how completely you’d undone him. “Because I’m nowhere near done worshipping you.”

His lips were swollen, his chest rising hard, breath shaky. You were still trembling from the orgasm he had just pulled out of you, thighs messy, his shirt bunched beneath your ribs like a reminder of everything you had just shared.

Taehyung hovered above you, braced on his forearms, and simply stared.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice completely ruined. “My pretty baby… wearing my shirt… shaking because of me.”

You tried to hide your face in the pillow, flustered. He didn’t let you.

His fingers caught your chin gently, but firmly enough to keep you with him. “No hiding,” he whispered. “Not tonight… not from me.”

His nose brushed yours, soft and warm and intimate. “You okay? Still right here with me?”

You nodded, though your throat felt tight. “I’m okay. I… I want you. All of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut like the words physically hit him. “God,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to stay gentle.”

He kissed you softly, slow presses of his mouth that made your chest ache. Then deeper... warm tongue, soft teeth, hungry breath, until your head spun.

You felt him hard against your thigh, thick and hot through his slacks. Your hips moved without thinking.

He broke the kiss with a shaky hiss. “Baby… wait, I need to—”

He reached for the drawer, one hand still cupping your cheek like you were fragile. The condom packet trembled between his fingers. Seeing him nervous, made your heart squeeze.

You sat up a bit, fingers curling into the open fabric of his shirt. “Let me see you too.”

He let you push the shirt down his arms. Golden skin... Sharp collarbones... V-line peeking out under his belt. You followed that faint line with your fingertip. He shivered.

“Cold?” you teased softly.

“No,” he breathed out a tiny, shy laugh. “Just trying not to lose it before I’m even inside you.”

He stood only long enough to shove his pants and briefs down, kicking them aside carelessly.

Your breath caught.

He was beautiful. Thick, flushed, already leaking for you.

He rolled the condom on with slightly clumsy fingers, muttering a soft “shit” when it snagged.

Then he was back over you... warm, solid, settling between your open thighs like he had always belonged there.

“Tell me again,” he whispered against your lips. “Tell me you are ready. Tell me you want this.”

“I want you, Taehyung. Please.”

He exhaled your name like a prayer and lined himself up, dragging the head slowly through your wetness, coating himself.

Your hips jerked on instinct.

“Easy,” he soothed, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”

He pushed in... slow, so slow, never looking away from your eyes.

The stretch burned. It burned and bloomed at the same time. You felt full, overwhelmed, breathless. A whimper escaped you, nails digging into his shoulders.

He froze instantly. “Too much? Want me to pull out?”

“No,” you gasped, half-laughing, half-moan, “just… big.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, his forehead resting on yours. “I’ll go slow. I promise.”

He pushed deeper inch by inch, letting you feel everything, until he was fully inside and both of you were trembling.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice cracking. “You’re so tight… so perfect around me.”

He stayed still, letting your body relax, kissing your eyelids, the tip of your nose, anything he could reach.

“You feel that?” he whispered, rolling his hips just a tiny bit. “That’s me inside you. I’m yours. All yours.”

You clenched without meaning to. His hips stuttered. “Fuck... Don’t do that unless you want me gone in ten seconds.”

You laughed through the haze, breath shaky. He laughed too, forehead against yours. It made everything warm, soft, safe.

He started moving... slow, deep strokes that touched every sensitive place inside you. The shirt you wore... his shirt — rode up with every thrust, exposing your stomach, ribs, the curve of your breasts.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes dark with emotion and heat. “So small in my clothes… taking me so well… my perfect girl... my wife.”

He kissed down your throat, sucking new marks beside the ones he had left earlier, kissing the sting after each one.

“I love seeing you like this,” he whispered against your skin. “Knowing you wear my things… think about me… get wet for me…”

Your back arched, a soft desperate sound leaving your throat.

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers pressing against your slick heat while he thrust inside you, hard and slow at first, then faster as he lost control. His thumb found your clit instantly, pressing and circling like he knew every nerve, every sensitive spot that made you shiver.

“Oh… Tae—” you moaned, head falling back against the pillow, body arching into him. “Ah… harder… please…”

He groaned, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. “Fuck… you feel so good, baby… so tight, so wet…” His hips jerked violently, driving deep into you as his thumb worked magic against your clit.

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “Taehyung… I’m—oh! I’m—”

“Come for me again... baby,” he coaxed, voice soft but intense. “I want to feel it… want to feel you fall apart on me while you’re wearing my shirt.”

Everything hit you at once — his voice, his words, his body.

Your body trembled uncontrollably.

His thumb flicked faster, harder, keeping you on the edge while his thrusts became punishing, relentless. You couldn’t hold it in anymore... a shuddering gasp tore from your lips, and your slickness spurted over his fingers.

“Ohh... fuck! Taehyung! I’m... ahhhh! I’m cumming!”

He groaned, thrusting through your orgasm like he wanted to match you. “Shit… baby, look at you… so wet… so perfect…”

He groaned, his rhythm breaking. “That’s it… fuck, baby… that’s my girl…” His thrusts grew rougher, desperate, chasing the edge. “Close… baby, I’m so close—”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and whispered, “Come for me, Tae. I want to feel you.”

He broke.

A raw, broken moan fell from his lips as he buried himself deep, hips jerking helplessly through his orgasm, your name spilling out of his mouth like a promise.

He stayed there, chest pressed to yours, breathing hard, the room quiet except for your mixed breaths and the soft rustle of fabric against sweaty skin.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Just kissed you — slow, lazy, gentle, like he wanted to taste every emotion on your tongue. “My beautiful wife… My shy little thief… I love you so much it scares me…”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he kissed your tears away.

Taehyung didn’t move at first.

He stayed inside you, holding you like he feared you might disappear if he let go. His arms wrapped around your shaking body, pulling you tight to his chest.

He pressed slow kisses everywhere his lips could reach... your shoulder, your temple, the corner of your lips — gentle, soft, almost shy, like he thanked your skin for letting him touch you.

When he finally slipped out, he did it carefully, his voice low and warm. “Easy, baby… I’ve got you.”

He rolled you onto his chest, settling you there like that was exactly where you belonged.

One big hand stroked your spine, steady and grounding, bringing you back from the haze. The other cupped the back of your head, his fingers combing through your hair like he tried to comfort you after a nightmare.

He slowly took off the stretched, ruined black shirt from your body, like it was something delicate and, set it aside. Then he disappeared for only a moment and returned with a warm cloth. He knelt between your thighs again, cleaning you with soft, almost trembling touches.

Every time you flinched, he whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart… if I was rough... I’m right here.”

He kissed the inside of your knee when you whimpered, trying to make you smile even through the soreness.

He brought you water next, held the glass to your lips. When you pouted for another sip, he gave it to you right away, wiping the tiny drop from your lip with his thumb, smiling like he fell deeper for you.

Your thighs ached, and he noticed instantly.

His hands... those gentle, patient hands, started massaging the sore muscles, slow circles, warm pressure. “I’m sorry if I was too much,” he murmured every time your breath caught.

But his voice stayed soft, full of pride and love.

He fixed your hair next, tucked it behind your ear, and kissed your cheek with an affection so pure it made your chest tighten.

Then he pulled one of his softest hoodies over your head, the one that smelled like him. It slipped to your thighs, the sleeves covering your hands entirely.

“Perfect,” he said softly, admiring you like you were his entire world wrapped in his clothes.

You hid in the hood.

He giggled — that warm, breathy little sound, and gently pulled your hands away so he could pepper your cheeks with kisses. He tucked you both under the blanket, arranging you exactly how he wanted, your leg over his hip, your cheek on his chest, his arm under your head.

Your place. Your home.

He was about to say something sweet when your stomach growled.

Loud.

You froze. Then mumbled into his chest, “Shit… I didn’t prepare anything for dinner. Now I’m hungry…”

Taehyung laughed... that deep, golden laugh that melted your heart.

“Sweetheart… you think I came home early without planning anything?”

He suddenly remembered the flowers near the door. “Oh— wait!” He stood up and grabbed them.

He held them out to you like they were precious, before again settling beside you. “I even brought flowers for you.”

Your eyes softened instantly, warmth gathering in your chest.

“And I booked a restaurant. Wanted to take you out for a date.”

You buried your face in his chest, whining softly. “I can’t walk anywhere… I’m sore…”

He kissed your forehead, smiling like he adored every bit of you.

“I know. That’s why I cancelled.” He tapped your nose gently. “And told them to send takeout instead.”

You smiled, slow and sleepy. “You spoil me…”

He pulled you closer, his voice warm and full of love. “Of course I do. You’re my wife. Now rest until the food arrives.”

You curled into him, feeling safe, loved, and treasured.

He whispered into your hair, voice low and deep, “Wear my clothes every day. And if you ever want me again… just tell me, princess. I’ll always come to you.”

But your eyes kept drifting to Namjoon.

He was seated at the edge of the room, scribbling in his notebook, his brows furrowed in that adorable way that made him look like he was solving world hunger instead of probably just writing a rap verse.

His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them up with a clumsy swipe, nearly knocking them off entirely.

You stifled a smile.

Two years... You’d been their manager for two years, and Namjoon had always been your favorite to work with. Not that you’d ever admit it out loud but he made it easy.

He was low maintenance, respectful, and had a quiet charm that disarmed you from day one.

He was also adorably clumsy, always tripping over cables or dropping his phone. You’d lost count of how many times you’d saved his AirPods from certain doom.

But it wasn’t just his clumsiness or his dimpled smile that got to you.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were the only person in the room who mattered.

You’d catch him staring during meetings, his eyes soft and intense, only to look away when you met his gaze. It was subtle, but it was there.

Always there.

And it was forbidden.

The contract clause was crystal clear: No inappropriate relationships with staff.

It was a line neither of you could cross, no matter how much his quiet gestures... bringing you tea when you were exhausted, offering his hoodie when you shivered, cracking dumb jokes to make you laugh, made your heart stutter.

You’d had a boyfriend for most of those two years, anyway.

A boyfriend who barely noticed you. Missed dates, ignored texts, forgot to pick you up from airports. You’d smile through the disappointment, but Namjoon always saw it.

One particularly rough night in Seoul, after your ex had bailed on yet another dinner, you were sitting in the empty practice room long after everyone else had left, staring at your phone screen with a forced smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

Namjoon lingered by the door, hesitating before stepping inside.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice gentle like always.

He held two cups of tea, the steam curling up between you.

You nodded quickly, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Yeah, just… long day. Thanks for the tea, Joon. You didn’t have to.”

He sat down on the floor across from you, crossing his long legs. “I wanted to. You’ve been running around fixing everyone else’s messes all week. Figured you could use a break.”

He paused, studying your face. “You sure you’re alright? You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world again.”

You laughed lightly, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing. My boyfriend just… got caught up with work. Again. No big deal.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened further. “If it’s ‘nothing,’ why do you look like you’re forcing that smile? You know you can talk to me, right? I’m a pretty good listener. Even if I trip over my own feet half the time.”

You sighed, taking a sip of the warm tea.

It was exactly how you liked it—slightly sweet, with a hint of honey.

He always remembered.

“I don’t know… sometimes it feels like I’m the only one putting in effort. He forgot to pick me up from the airport last week, too. I waited for an hour.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened just a fraction, but his voice stayed calm. “That’s not right. You deserve someone who shows up for you. Who sees how hard you work and makes sure you’re taken care of too.”

He hesitated, then added with a small, self-deprecating smile, “Not that I’m one to give relationship advice. I can barely manage my own schedule without your help.”

You chuckled despite yourself. “You’re not that bad. You’re the easiest one on the team, honestly. The others would be lost without you keeping them grounded.”

He grinned, dimples flashing. “See? We make a good team. You keep me from breaking expensive equipment, and I… bring you tea and bad jokes.”

His tone turned more serious. “But really. If you ever need to vent, or if things get too much, I’m here. No judgment.”

That became a pattern.

After tough days, he’d find little ways to check in.

Another time, weeks later, you were rushing through the hallway after a delayed flight, eyes puffy from holding back tears because your boyfriend had ignored your messages all day.

Namjoon appeared out of nowhere, jacket in hand.

“You look cold,” he said, draping it over your shoulders without waiting for permission. “And tired. Rough trip?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, pulling the jacket tighter. It smelled like him... clean, with a hint of his cologne. “Just… some personal stuff. Thanks, Joon. I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Keep it as long as you need,” he replied, falling into step beside you.

“You know, I read this article about how holding onto things that drain you can mess with your creativity. Not saying that applies to you, but… you deserve people who lift you up, not leave you waiting at airports.”

You glanced at him, heart twisting at the quiet care in his words. “You’re too nice for this industry, Kim Namjoon. Seriously, how are you so… observant?”

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just pay attention. Especially to the people who matter.”

His eyes met yours for a beat too long before he looked away. “Anyway, want to hear a dumb joke I just heard from Jin Hyung... to cheer you up? Why did the scarecrow win an award?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Why?”

“Because he was outstanding in his field.” He delivered it with such earnest clumsiness that you burst out laughing, the tension easing from your shoulders.

“God, that was terrible,” you said, nudging his arm. “But thank you. I needed that.”

“Anytime,” he murmured, his voice warm. “I mean it.”

He never pushed, never said anything outright about your boyfriend.

But he knew.

He always knew.

When you finally broke up with your ex, it was like a weight lifted. You didn’t talk about it publicly, but Namjoon noticed the change immediately.

A week after the breakup, you were in the studio helping him organize some lyric sheets. You were humming softly, moving with a lightness you hadn’t felt in months.

Namjoon looked up from his notebook, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You seem different lately. Happier. Did something good happen?”

You paused, biting your lip. “Yeah, actually. I… ended things with my boyfriend. It was overdue. I feel lighter, like I can breathe again.”

His eyes lit up, genuine relief and something deeper flashing across his face. “I’m glad. You deserve that lightness every day. No one should make you feel like you have to dim yourself to fit.”

You laughed softly. “Thanks, Joon. You’ve been… a really good friend through all of it. Even when I didn’t say anything.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that look... the one that made your stomach flutter.

“Friend, huh? I’ll take it. But seriously, you smile more now. It’s beautiful. You deserve someone who never lets that smile fade. Someone who’d worship the ground you walk on. Someone who notices when you’re carrying too much and helps carry the load.”

Your chest stuttered, your breath catching at the intensity in his voice. The air between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken feelings.

You laughed it off, though your cheeks warmed. “Wow, that’s a really cheesy line, Mr. RM. Practicing for a new song?”

He chuckled, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe. Or maybe I just mean it. You work so hard for all of us. Let someone work hard for you for once.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the words lingered. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re flirting with your manager.”

“Would that be so bad?” he teased lightly, but there was a vulnerability underneath.

Before you could respond, he stood up clumsily, nearly knocking over a stack of papers. “Shit—sorry. See? I still need you to manage my clumsy ass.”

You both burst into laughter, collapsing onto the couch in a fit of giggles as you helped him pick up the scattered sheets. The moment felt light, easy, but underneath it all, something had shifted.

That night, as you packed up your things, he leaned against the doorframe, watching you with that look again.

“You smile more now,” he repeated softly, almost reverent. “Don’t let anyone take that away.”

Your heart raced.

You muttered something about “cheesy lines,” but the words stayed with you, looping in your mind like a song you couldn’t shake.

Forbidden... Contract... Bad idea...

Right?

The international tour was a whirlwind after their recent comeback.

Tokyo, LA, Mexico, Vegas, Paris—each city blurred into the next, a kaleidoscope of jet lag, screaming fans, and endless schedules.

You were in your element, juggling logistics, calming frantic staff, and making sure the boys were where they needed to be. But the exhaustion was real. 6 a.m. wake-up calls, late-night soundchecks, and the constant pressure to keep everything running smoothly.

Namjoon was getting bolder.

You felt it in the way his hand brushed your waist when he guided you through a crowded backstage area, his touch lingering a fraction too long.

Or the way he leaned close during breaks, whispering dumb jokes in your ear to make you laugh. You’d swat him away, muttering, “Behave, Joon,” but your heart raced every time.

Don’t go there, you told yourself. Don’t.

But then there was the dancer.

One of the new backup dancers, Minho, had been… off.

You’d noticed it early on... his eyes lingered too long, his smile too sharp and creepy. He’d hover near you during breaks, making small talk that felt too personal.

You’d caught him taking selfies with you in the background, his phone angled just so. It was creepy, but you brushed it off. You were used to handling weirdos in this industry.

Until that night in Paris.

You were in the dressing room, checking in with stylists and organizing the boys’ outfits for the next show. The room was quiet after they left, the chaos of the day finally settling.

You were alone... or so you thought.

The door creaked open, and Minho slipped inside.

His smile was too wide, his eyes too dark.

“Hey,” he said, his voice syrupy. “You’re always so busy. Thought I’d keep you company.”

You forced a polite smile, your skin prickling. “I’m good, thanks. Just finishing up.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he stepped closer, his body blocking the path to the door. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re always with them. Don’t you want someone to notice you for you?”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m fine. You should go.”

He didn’t.

He moved closer, his hand reaching for your arm. You stepped back, but he grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to sting.

“Don’t be like that,” he murmured, leaning in. His breath was hot against your cheek, and panic surged in your chest.

“Let go,” you said, your voice sharp as you yanked your arm back. But he didn’t budge, his fingers tightening.

And then the door slammed open.

Namjoon stood there, his silhouette filling the doorway. His eyes, usually so warm and soft... were dark, blazing with a rage you’d never seen before.

“Take your hands off her. Now.”

His voice was low, deadly, each word dripping with barely restrained fury. Minho froze, his grip loosening as he stumbled back under the weight of Namjoon’s glare.

“I... I was just—” Minho stammered, but Namjoon cut him off.

“Get out.”

Minho didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled for the door, nearly tripping in his haste. Security appeared moments later, dragging him away.

Namjoon turned to you, his jaw tight, his hands shaking as he grabbed your arm... not roughly, but urgently, and pulled you out of the room.

He slammed the door behind you, his chest heaving as he paced the hallway, hands raking through his hair.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice raw. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice trembled. You held up your wrist, where faint red marks lingered. “Just… shaken.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed on the marks, and his expression darkened further. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing over your wrist with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the storm in his eyes.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve said something sooner. I saw how he looked at you, and I... fuck... fuck the rules.”

Your heart stopped. “Namjoon, don’t—”

But he wasn’t listening.

He was too close now, his breath warm against your face, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

“I’m done pretending,” he said. “I’m done watching you hurt and not doing anything about it. I’m done acting like I don’t—”

He stopped himself, his hands clenching into fists as he stepped back, trying to rein himself in. But you saw it... the raw, aching need in his eyes.

The same need you’d been burying for months.

“Let’s get you to Hotel,” he said finally, his voice softer but still edged with something dangerous. “You are coming with me. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Instead of taking you to your room three doors down, Namjoon guided you gently toward his suite at the end of the hall. “Come to mine,” he said quietly. “I have a first aid kit. We should treat those marks before they bruise worse.”

You nodded, still shaken, letting him lead the way.

Namjoon’s hotel suite was a mess of books, lyric sheets, and half-empty coffee cups—a reflection of his chaotic, beautiful mind.

You sat on the edge of his bed, your hands still trembling from the encounter with Minho. Namjoon didn’t touch you, didn’t sit too close at first. He just stayed with you, his presence steady and warm.

He paced for a while, muttering to himself about “fucking creeps” and “stupid contracts.” You watched him, your heart aching at how unhinged he was, how much he cared.

“I’m okay, Joon,” you said finally, your voice soft. “Really.”

He stopped pacing, his eyes snapping to yours. “You’re not okay. I saw your face. I saw how he—”

He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face. “I should’ve been there.”

“You were,” you said. “You stopped it.”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Not soon enough.”

Namjoon disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with a small first aid kit. He sat beside you on the bed, close enough that his knee brushed yours, and gently took your wrist in his large, warm hand.

With careful movements, he applied a soothing ointment to the faint red marks, his thumb stroking lightly over your skin as if to erase the memory of the grip.

“This should help,” he murmured, voice low and focused. “Tell me if it stings.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with unspoken things.

You wanted to reach for him, to tell him it was okay, but the weight of the contract, the company, the rules held you back.

After a while, you stood, murmuring that you should head back to your own room just a few doors down the hall. He walked you there but didn’t push to stay, respecting the fragile space between you.

The next day, you were back to work, but the incident lingered heavily. The boys were busy with final sound checks on stage, the distant thrum of music and Jin & Jungkook’s laughter echoing through the arena.

You slipped away backstage to check in something, almost against your will to the same dressing room where everything had happened yesterday.

As soon as you stepped inside, the memories flooded back—the creep of Minho’s voice, his tight grip on your wrist, the fear that had gripped your chest.

Your eyes grew teary, your breath shaky as you leaned against the wall, realising what could have possibly happened if Namjoon didn't arrive on time.

You didn’t hear the soft knock on door behind you.

“Hey,” Namjoon called, his voice low and gentle, muffled slightly as he stepped in. “It’s me. I saw you come this way during the break. The others are still on stage for another twenty minutes or so. Can I come in… properly?”

You wiped at your eyes quickly, trying to steady your breathing as you turned toward him.

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked, betraying the tears you couldn’t quite hide. “Really, Joon. You should be with the members.”

He saw right through you.

His eyes softened with deep concern, but there was something else there—something fierce and protective, layered with a tender longing that made your heart ache.

He stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, and leaned against the wall near the sink, giving you space but never taking his eyes off you.

The air between you felt charged, heavy with everything unsaid.

“I’ve spent two years watching you carry everyone else’s burdens,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word deliberate and full of quiet emotion.

“I’ve seen you smile through things that would break anyone else. I’ve watched you put on that brave face after every missed call from your ex, after every long flight, after every crisis that wasn’t even yours to fix. And I’ve stayed quiet, because I thought that’s what you needed. And because of that damn contract. Because I didn’t want to make things harder for you, or risk messing up what we already have.”

He took a slow step closer, his large hands twitching at his sides like he was physically fighting the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms.

“But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t pretend I don’t see you, that I don’t feel you, every single day. I’ve been in love with you for so long it hurts, and I—”

His voice broke, raw and vulnerable, and he looked down for a moment, jaw tight as he gathered himself.

“God, saying it out loud feels terrifying. But I need you to tell me what you want. If you want me to keep my distance, to stay just your clumsy RM who brings you tea, I will. I’ll try my best, even if it kills me. But if you feel even a fraction of what I feel… if there’s any part of you that’s been wondering the same thing… say it. Please. I need to hear it from you.”

Your breath caught sharply in your throat, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your chest. The sincerity in his eyes, the way his voice trembled just slightly on the words “in love with you,” cracked open every wall you’d built.

You’d spent so long burying your feelings, hiding behind professionalism and fear, convincing yourself this was impossible. But here he was, standing in the very room, offering his heart so openly.

“Namjoon…” you whispered, your voice trembling as fresh tears welled up, not from fear this time but from overwhelming emotion.

“I’ve wanted you for so long. Longer than I even admitted to myself. Every time you brought me tea, every quiet ‘you okay?’ after a bad day, every time I caught you looking at me like I was something precious… it killed me to pretend I didn’t feel it too. But I’m scared. The contract, the company, what this could mean for you and the boys—”

“I know,” he said softly, stepping even closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with stage nerves.

His hand lifted slowly, hovering near your cheek before gently brushing a tear away with his thumb. “I’m scared too. Terrified, actually. But I’d rather face every consequence, than keep pretending I don’t love you. You’re worth risking everything for. Tell me I’m not alone in this. Tell me you feel it too.”

The dam broke completely.

The tension that had been building for months snapped like a live wire. You closed the distance in one desperate step, your hands reaching up to cup his face, fingers threading into his hair as your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative and trembling.

But then it deepened with fierce intensity—his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he was afraid you might disappear.

His lips moved against yours with hungry passion, a slow burn turning into wildfire, tongues brushing in a dance that sent sparks down your spine. You could feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own frantic rhythm.

Every brush of his fingers along your back, every soft groan he let out into your mouth, every second of built-up longing poured out in waves that left you dizzy and breathless.

He tasted like coffee and desperation, like every stolen glance and unspoken word finally set free. Your bodies pressed closer, his large frame enveloping you protectively as the kiss grew more urgent, more consuming.

Butterflies erupted wildly in your stomach, a fluttering storm of desire, relief, and pure love that made your knees weak.

Time seemed to stop in that dressing room—the same place that had brought terror now filled with something beautiful and electric.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen and eyes locked in a gaze full of wonder and heat.

Your hands stayed on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall.

“We’re going to get in so much trouble,” you murmured, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you as you traced his jaw with your thumb. “But God, Joon… that felt right. So right.”

He smiled, those beloved dimples flashing, but his eyes remained serious and dark with emotion. “Then we’ll face it together. No more hiding. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long I don’t remember what it felt like before.”

“I love you too,” you whispered back, the words tasting like freedom on your tongue. “More than I knew how to say.”

You lingered for another moment, stealing one more soft kiss, then another, the tension between you crackling like electricity. But reality nudged in.

You pulled back slightly, hands still on his chest.

“You should probably head back,” you said softly, voice laced with reluctance.

“Sound check is wrapping up, and the concert is in less than an hour. The boys will be looking for you. We… we’ll talk more after. But for now... go. Be amazing as always out there.”

Namjoon nodded, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead, his arms squeezing you tight. “I’ll be thinking of you every second I’m on that stage. We’ll figure this out. Promise me you’ll be okay until then?”

“I will,” you assured him, smiling through the lingering butterflies. “Now go, before someone comes looking.”

He stepped back reluctantly, eyes full of promises and heat, then slipped out the door, leaving you alone in the room—heart racing, lips tingling, and the sweet tension of what was to come hanging thick in the air for the entire concert ahead.

The concert had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline still hummed wildly in your veins, mixing with something far more dangerous.

The entire ride back to the hotel had been pure torture.

You and Namjoon sat close in the van, the air thick with unspoken promises and weeks of pent-up tension. Every stolen glance, every accidental brush of his fingers against your thigh, every shared look that lingered too long had only worsened the ache that started the moment your lips met backstage.

The kiss you shared hours ago still burned on your skin, a promise of what was coming.

As you stepped off the elevator onto your floor, the hallway was quiet except for the sound of your racing heart.

You stopped in front of your door, just three rooms down from his, and turned to face him. Your body ached for him, heat pooling low in your belly, but you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little longer.

You gave him a soft, playful smile, biting your lip as you looked up at him through your lashes. “I should probably head to my room,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s late… We wouldn’t want to risk anything tonight, right?”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened instantly, the hunger in them unmistakable.

He stepped closer, towering over you, his presence overwhelming in the dimly lit hallway. He knew you wanted him just as badly... he could see it in the way your breath hitched, the way your thighs pressed together, the way you hadn’t stopped looking at him since the concert ended.

“Like hell you are,” he growled low, his voice rough and filled with raw need. His large hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, not rough but possessive, pulling you toward his suite at the end of the hall.

“You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing? Teasing me like this after that kiss backstage? After hours of this fucking tension building between us?”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh as he tugged you along, your pulse skyrocketing. “Maybe I’m just being responsible, Joon. Wouldn’t want to break any more rules tonight…”

He stopped in front of his door, swiping his keycard with his free hand while keeping his grip on you. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and dripping with desire.

“Responsible? Baby, we both know you want this as much as I do. I saw how you looked at me during the encore. I felt how you trembled when I kissed your forehead. That tension from the dressing room? It’s been killing you too. Stop pretending.”

The door clicked open.

Before you could tease him again, he pulled you inside, shutting the door behind you with a decisive thud.

“Joon—” you started, but he cut you off, pressing you against the closed door, his body flush against yours.

“No more teasing,” he murmured, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Tell me you don’t want me right now and I’ll let you go to your room. But we both know that’s a lie.”

You shivered, staring into his intense eyes, the air between you thick and reeking of barely contained lust. “I do want you,” you whispered, finally giving in. “So much it hurts.”

A low, satisfied groan escaped him. “Good girl.”

Namjoon was on you like a man starved.

His hands cupped your face as he crashed his lips against yours in a desperate, claiming kiss. The kiss was hot, messy, and full of two years of longing—tongues sliding, teeth nipping, breaths mingling.

He pressed you back against the door, his tall, strong body pinning you there, and you could feel every hard inch of him, especially the growing bulge straining against his jeans.

“Fuck, you have no idea,” he murmured against your mouth, voice deep and wrecked as he kissed along your jaw, teeth grazing your skin. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights I lay awake thinking about you, touching myself while imagining it was you.”

“Joon…” you gasped, your hands fisting in his shirt as your head fell back against the door. “We’re really doing this. We’re gonna get in so much trouble if anyone finds out.”

“Let them try to stop us,” he growled, his hands sliding down your sides, fingers digging possessively into your hips as he ground against you. “I don’t give a fuck about the contract anymore. You’re worth it. You’re mine now.”

His fingers brushed over the faint marks still lingering on your wrist from Minho. His expression turned darker, almost feral. He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the tender skin with aching reverence.

“Let me erase every fucking mark he left on you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “No one else gets to touch what’s mine. Say it, baby.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered breathlessly.

He groaned at your words and suddenly lifted you, carrying you to the nearby couch. He set you down gently but urgently, then dropped to his knees in front of you like a man worshipping at an altar.

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, exposing your skin inch by inch.

“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark and intense as he stared up at you.

The sight of Kim Namjoon on his knees, broad shoulders between your legs, made your panties soaked. “So fucking perfect. Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Joon,” you moaned, voice shaking with need. “Please… I need you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He hooked his fingers into your panties and pulled them down slowly, letting them pool at your ankles.

Namjoon leaned in slowly, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His lips were wet and sloppy, sucking gently, then harder, leaving faint marks of his own as his tongue dragged over your skin.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably under the attention, the wet sounds of his kisses filling the room.

“Fuck, these thighs,” he murmured reverently between kisses, his voice thick with lust. “So soft… so fucking perfect. I’ve dreamed about burying my face between them for so long. You’re shaking already, baby. You like when I kiss you here?”

“Yes... Joon, please,” you whimpered, your hands gripping the couch cushions as your legs quivered.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Good girl. So responsive for me.” He continued his worship, sucking and licking higher, closer to where you needed him most, until you were a trembling, dripping mess.

Only then did he move in fully... his mouth was on you, hot, hungry, and relentless. He devoured you like a goddess, like he’d been starving for years and you were his salvation.

His tongue flicked over your clit with devastating precision before flattening to lick broad, messy stripes through your folds, tasting every inch of you.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, humming in pleasure as he worked you with expert skill.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned against your core, the deep vibration making you cry out.

“Sweeter than I imagined. So fucking wet for me already. This pretty pussy is dripping down my chin, baby. You’re soaking me and I love it. I could stay here for hours, eating this sweet cunt until you can’t take anymore.”

Your hands flew to his hair, gripping the soft strands tightly as your hips bucked against his face. “Joon—oh god, that feels so good… your mouth—fuck!”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and intense. “You’re doing so well for me. Such a good girl, letting me taste you like this. This pussy belongs to me now. Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you moaned, thighs trembling around his head. “All yours, Joon.”

He dove back in with renewed hunger, sliding one thick finger inside you, curling it perfectly against that spot that made your back arch off the couch.

Then he added a second finger, stretching you open while his tongue worked your clit mercilessly—sucking, licking, and flicking in a rhythm that had you seeing stars.

“That’s it, baby. Ride my face,” he growled between licks, his free hand gripping your thigh possessively. “You’re so tight around my fingers. So fucking perfect. I can feel you clenching already. Come for me, princess. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

“Joon... oh god, I’m so close already,” you whimpered, voice breaking as the pleasure built unbearably. “You’re gonna make me... fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

“Look at me,” he commanded, pulling back just enough for his dark eyes to lock onto yours, fingers still pumping steadily. “I want you to watch who’s making you fall apart. Who this pretty pussy belongs to. Come on my tongue like the good girl you are.”

You obeyed, eyes locked with his as he sucked harder on your clit, fingers thrusting faster and deeper. The coil in your stomach snapped violently.

You came with a loud, broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, waves of intense pleasure crashing over you as you gushed on his tongue.

But Namjoon didn’t stop.

He kept licking and fingering you through every aftershock, devouring every drop like he couldn’t get enough, murmuring praises against your oversensitive flesh.

“That’s my good girl… so fucking beautiful when you cum for me. Give me another one, baby. I’m not done worshipping you yet.”

You whimpered his name like a prayer, oversensitive and trembling, but he continued his relentless devotion until you were a moaning, shaking mess beneath him.

He finally stood, lips glistening with your arousal, and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was filthy and loving all at once, his tongue sliding against yours as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“OH... God... you’re mine,” he repeated against your mouth, voice rough and possessive, sending shivers down your spine. “Say it again while I fuck you. I need to hear it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped breathlessly between kisses, your hands clutching his shoulders. “And I’ll repeat it everytime you ask me, Joon. Only yours.”

He groaned deeply at your words, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Fuck, baby… you have no idea what you do to me.”

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he carried you to the bed.

The way he held you... so strong yet so careful, made your heart swell with love even as raw lust burned between you. He laid you down gently on the mattress, but his eyes were dark with hunger.

You reached for him immediately, tossing off his shirt, hands tracing every line of his toned chest and faint scars, worshipping the body you’d wanted for so long. He shoved down his jeans and boxers in one motion. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, and leaking at the tip.

“Need you so fucking bad,” he rasped, settling between your spread thighs. He spread you open with his large hands, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick, sensitive entrance, teasing you mercilessly.

“You’re so wet for me already. Been thinking about this since that kiss backstage, haven’t you? All through the concert I was hard just remembering how you tasted on my tongue.”

“Yes,” you moaned, hips rolling up desperately, trying to pull him inside. “Please, Joon. I want you inside me. I’ve wanted this for so long… I can’t wait anymore.”

He leaned down, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavily.

The tension in the air was electric—thick with love, lust, and years of suppressed desire. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely, voice trembling with emotion. “I love you so much it hurts. But right now I need to fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

He reached over to the jeans pockets, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a condom. A mischievous, slightly embarrassed smirk tugged at his lips as he tore the packet open with his teeth.

You blinked, chest heaving. “Wait… you already have those here?”

Namjoon chuckled lowly, rolling the condom down his thick length with steady hands, eyes never leaving yours. “I may have… asked the members for one after the concert. Told them I needed it for ‘reasons.’ Jin-hyung gave me three with the biggest shit-eating grin. They definitely know something’s up.”

You let out a breathless laugh, cheeks burning even as arousal pulsed through you. “Great. Now everyone’s going to know. By tomorrow the whole group chat is going to be unbearable.”

“Let them talk,” he growled, positioning himself at your entrance again, rubbing the tip against your clit teasingly. “I don’t care. As long as you’re mine.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you deliciously. You gasped sharply, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure bordered on overwhelming.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “So perfect around me. You okay, baby? Tell me if it’s too much.”

“I’m good—fuck, Joon, you feel incredible,” you begged, rolling your hips up to take more of him. “Move, please. I need all of you. Love me. Fuck me. Make me forget everything except you.”

He kissed you hard, full of love and raw lust, then started moving—deep, powerful thrusts that stole your breath. The room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your shared moans, and whispered words of love and filth.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your lips between thrusts. “I’m never letting you go.”

He didn’t hold back.

His pace was rough and desperate, hips snapping forward as he fucked you deep and hard, each powerful thrust pushing you further into the mattress.

The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your breathy moans and his low groans, filling the room with raw, filthy heat. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of sex and sweat.

“Look at me,” he demanded again, voice rough and commanding.

One of his large hands slid up to rest possessively around your throat... not squeezing, just holding you there, claiming you.

His eyes burned into yours as he drove into you relentlessly. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock. Say you’re mine, baby. Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes locked on his, your voice breaking with every deep thrust. “Only yours, Joon. Fuck—harder! Please, I need more—”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, his hips slamming into you even harder, deeper, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing louder.

“God, I love you so fucking much. You have no idea how long I’ve been dying for this. How many nights I lay awake aching for you, knowing you were with your ex… and he didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss while continuing to thrust into you with punishing rhythm.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes dark with lust and raw emotion.

“Every time that bastard ignored your texts, every time he forgot you at the airport, every time I saw that sad smile on your face… it fucking killed me,” he confessed between heavy thrusts, voice strained but full of passion.

“I wanted to pull you into my arms and tell you that you deserved someone who would worship the ground you walk on. Someone who would kiss the fucking floor you step on. I would never treat you like that. Never. You’re my everything.”

“Joon…” you moaned loudly, your nails raking down his back as pleasure coiled tighter inside you. The way he was looking at you... so possessive, so obsessed, yet so full of love, made your heart ache with overwhelming emotion.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he admitted hoarsely, hips snapping forward again, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over. “I’ve been obsessed for two fucking years. Watching you, wanting you, loving you from a distance because I respected you too much to ever do anything until you weren’t ready.”

His thrusts grew even more intense, deep and claiming, his hand still possessively around your throat as he stared into your eyes.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” he growled, voice dripping with lust and devotion. “No one else gets to hear you like this. You’re mine to worship. Mine to ruin. Mine to love until the end of time. Tell me again, baby. Tell me who you belong to while I fuck you senseless.”

“You!” you cried out, tears of overwhelming pleasure and love pricking your eyes. “Only you, Joon. I love you so much—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, pounding into you harder, chasing both your pleasure and his. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart. I’ve waited so long for this. So fucking long.”

The tension, the confessions, the raw love mixed with filthy lust pushed you over the edge. You came hard, clenching around his cock, crying out his name as stars exploded behind your eyes, your entire body shaking.

Namjoon followed right after, burying himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom. He stayed there for a moment, breathing heavily against your neck, before slowly pulling out.

He collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his strong arms. His lips brushed your temple, then your forehead, soft and reverent after the raw passion.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured tenderly, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on your back. “I’m never letting you go. I love you. More than you’ll ever know.”

You curled into his chest, heart still racing, body buzzing with aftershocks. “I love you too. So much. I never knew how much you were holding back… how deeply you felt all this time.”

For the first time in years, wrapped in his arms, you felt truly safe, wanted, completely loved and utterly claimed.

The next morning, reality crashed down.

You woke up in Namjoon’s arms, his warmth enveloping you, but the weight of what you’d done settled in your chest like a stone.

The contract. The company. The consequences.

“We’re fucked,” you muttered, burying your face in his chest.

Namjoon stirred, his arms tightening around you instinctively.

He let out a low, sleepy chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Probably. But damn… it was worth it, wasn’t it?” His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, gentle and reassuring.

You swatted his arm, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he said, kissing your forehead.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes still hazy with sleep but filled with unwavering affection. “Good morning, by the way. How are you feeling? Any regrets?”

You shook your head, tracing idle patterns on his chest with your fingertip.

“No regrets,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he murmured against your lips, deepening the kiss.

You both knew what had to happen.

You insisted on telling the company yourself, before anyone could twist the story. You marched into your superior’s office, your heart pounding, Namjoon’s hand brushing yours one last time before you went in.

“Let them fire me,” you told him, your voice fierce. “I’m not giving you up.”

He smiled, his eyes soft. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

They didn’t fire you—because, you were too good at your job, and Namjoon was RM. But you were reassigned, pulled off BTS’s team and moved to a different department.

It stung, but Namjoon was relentless.

He confessed to you, to the company, to anyone who would listen.

Months later, you were no longer his manager, but you were his.

The company eventually worked out a quiet deal—thanks to Jin’s smooth persuasions and Yoongi’s terrifyingly calm emails.

You stayed on as a general coordinator, traveling with the group when needed. You and Namjoon kept things low-key in public, but the boys knew.

And they loved it.

Backstage before the concert, the energy was electric.

You stood close to Namjoon, fussing over his in-ear mic.

“Hold still, Joon,” you murmured softly, your fingers carefully tucking the earpiece and smoothing the wire along his neck. “Why do I always end up doing this? You’d probably walk on stage with it dangling if I didn’t check.”

Namjoon looked down at you with a fond, dimpled smile, his voice low and teasing just for you. “Because you worry about me too much. But I’m a grown man, you know. I can handle my own mic… most of the time.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as your fingers brushed his collar, straightening it with gentle tugs.

“A grown man who dropped his phone in a water this morning? Yeah, sure. I fuss because someone has to keep the genius RM from technical disasters right before he owns the stage.”

He chuckled warmly, his hands lightly resting on your waist as you moved to brush a tiny piece of lint off his crisp black shirt. The simple, domestic gesture felt so natural now.

“You don’t have to, but I love that you do,” he admitted quietly, eyes soft. “Makes me feel like the luckiest guy here. Even if the members are about to roast me for it.”

The others noticed immediately.

Jin’s voice boomed with dramatic flair as he leaned against a nearby equipment case. “Yah! Look at this! Where’s the wedding invite, huh? I need to clear my schedule for the big day and be the emcee.”

Jungkook, bouncing on his heels with a mischievous grin, jumped in right away. “Hyung, do I get to be the flower boy? Or maybe the ring bearer? I promise I won’t drop them… probably.”

Jimin clapped his hands together, eyes sparkling with delight. “Oh my god, you two are so cute it hurts. Look at her fixing his collar like a proper wife already! Namjoon-hyung, you’re blushing so hard right now.”

Taehyung pretended to wipe away fake tears. “I can’t believe this. My favorite hyung is all domesticated now. Next thing you know, she’ll be packing his snacks and reminding him not to lose his passport again.”

Hobi laughed brightly, pulling out his phone to snap a quick photo. “This is pure gold! Someone pass the tissues... I’m getting emotional!”

Yoongi, ever the calm one, smirked from his seat while adjusting his own mic. “You all talk too much. Let them be. Though… yeah, keep the heart eyes off in public.”

Namjoon groaned loudly, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red as he rubbed the back of his neck.

He gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you aside, away from the group’s prying eyes and teasing laughter, his large hands settling warmly on your hips.

“They’re never gonna let me live this down,” he muttered, voice low and slightly embarrassed, though his eyes were soft and full of affection as he looked at you.

You smirked up at him, your hands resting on his chest as you tilted your head playfully. “You love it. Deep down, you love all this chaos. Admit it—it makes you smile bigger when they tease you about me.”

He chuckled, dimples deepening as he leaned in closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Okay, maybe a little. But mostly I just love you. Even when they’re being absolute gremlins about it.”

From behind you, Jin called out again, “Yah, lovebirds! Save the whispering for after the encore! Some of us are trying to focus here!”

Jungkook added with a laugh, “Yeah, hyung! If you drop the mic tonight because you’re too busy staring at her, I’m telling everyone it’s because of love sickness!”

You both laughed, and Namjoon pressed a quick, soft kiss to your temple before reluctantly letting go.

“We’ll continue this later,” he whispered promisingly.

Later that night, after the concert’s high energy had settled, the group gathered for a late dinner in a private room. Soju bottles were passed around as the boys recounted the show’s highlights, but the teasing quickly turned back to you and Namjoon.

Taehyung raised his glass dramatically. “To the real MVP tonight — our ex-manager who somehow keeps this clumsy giant in line!”

Jimin leaned forward with a grin. “Tell us again about the phone incident this morning. Namjoon-hyung, how are you a genius and a disaster at the same time?”

Namjoon groaned but smiled, his arm draped casually around your shoulders. “It was one time. And she’s a saint for putting up with me.”

You nudged him playfully. “One time? Babe, it’s at least the third this month your phone have been rescued by me. But I wouldn’t trade your clumsy ass for anything.”

Hobi nearly spit out his soju laughing. “See! That’s true love right there. She calls him ‘babe’ now!”

Jin wiped his eyes, still chuckling.

Namjoon leaned close to you amid the laughter, his lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to that low, teasing register that always sent shivers down your spine.

“Ignore them. Let’s get back to the room soon. I owe you some real worship tonight... slow, thorough, the kind that makes you forget all their teasing.”

Your face flushed hot, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your lips or the excited flutter in your chest.

As the boys erupted into mock-scandalized shouts... “Yah, we heard that!” from Jin, and “Get a room!” from Jungkook, you leaned into Namjoon’s side, feeling perfectly content.

You knew one thing for sure... you were his, and he was yours.

Contract or no contract, nothing was going to change that.

The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as you pushed through the heavy glass doors. The cold night air hit your face like a slap. Your scrubs clung to your skin after what felt like the longest shift ever—twelve hours stretched into sixteen because of an emergency surgery.

Your whole body ached, but there was a small glow in your chest.

You’d saved one more life tonight.

You fumbled for your car keys, ready to just collapse into bed, when your phone buzzed in your pocket. The screen lit up with JK ❤ and instantly, your exhaustion softened into a smile.

Sliding into your car, you answered and connected it to Bluetooth. Jungkook’s voice filled the car, warm and familiar, wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Baby, you’re leaving late again?” His tone was gentle, but you could hear the worry underneath.

“Yeah,” you sighed, starting the engine.

“Emergency surgery came up. But don’t worry, it’s my day off tomorrow. I’ll rest.”

He huffed, and you could almost see him pouting, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he leaned back at home.

“Take care of yourself too, baby. Promise me you’ll call once you get home. Or better—stay on call with me until you reach.”

You chuckled softly.

“Kook, it’s okay. I’ll text you when I reach.” You merged onto the empty highway, city lights blurring past. “What's my superstar doing anyway?”

“I just got home,” he said, his voice shifting as though he was kicking his shoes off. “Might work out for a bit, then shower. But I’m not hanging up till you reach home. No arguments.”

Your heart fluttered at his stubborn sweetness. “Stubborn.”

“Only for you,” he teased, and you could practically see his grin.

The empty road stretched out ahead of you, streetlights glowing softly. Jungkook started humming—a tune you didn’t recognize.

Probably something new he’d been working on.

His voice, smooth and tender, filled the quiet car. It made your chest feel warm, but it also made your eyelids feel heavy.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep while driving to my voice,” he suddenly scolded playfully, his tone deep enough to send goosebumps over your skin.

“I know you love when I sing you to sleep, but not tonight, baby.”

You laughed, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m not falling asleep. It’s just… distracting.”

“Good distracting or bad distracting?” His voice was soft, teasing.

“The kind that makes me want to pull over at your apartment and kiss you till you can't breath,” you mumbled under your breath.

He laughed, low and throaty, the sound making your cheeks burn.

“Save that energy for tomorrow, doctor. Sleep well tonight… I’ll think about you while I do push-ups.” His voice dipped, playful and cheeky.

“Actually, I’ll think about you under me while I do them.”

Your eyes widened as your face grew hot.

“Jungkook!” you squeaked, nearly swerving into the next lane.

His laugh exploded through the speaker, unashamed and loud.

“I love how flustered you get,” he teased.

Finally pulling into your apartment lot, you sighed, both exasperated and smiling. “I’m home, you menace. Go do your workout.”

“Mm. Fine. But call me if you need me, okay?” His voice turned soft again, full of quiet love.

“I will,” you whispered before hanging up.

The silence in the car felt heavier without his voice.

But the thought of him waiting for you, caring for you, stayed warm in your heart. You dragged yourself to your apartment and collapsed into bed, after changing into your sleep shirt.

Jungkook woke up just as the first light of dawn slipped through his blinds. His bed was warm, but it felt strangely empty without you beside him.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the memory of your tired voice from last night replaying in his head. You must’ve collapsed into bed the second you got home. The thought of you curled up in your bed, hair messy, it made his chest ache with love.

He smiled to himself, that softened every corner of his face.

He wanted to see you.

More than that, he wanted to take care of you, the way you always took care of everyone else. You saved lives every day, but who made sure you ate, rested, and felt safe?

That responsibility was his, and he wanted it with all his heart.

With that thought, he rolled out of bed, his feet touching the cool wooden floor.

In the bathroom, the hot shower steamed up the mirror as he ran shampoo through his hair, humming the same melody he’d hummed for you over the phone last night.

His mind was full of you—your laugh, your sleepy voice, the way you’d scolded him for teasing. By the time he towelled off, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, he’d already planned his morning.

He was going to spend the day making you feel loved.

He threw on a simple black shirt and grey sweatpants, grabbed his keys, and drove through the quiet streets, the morning sky painted in pale blues and soft pinks.

The city was just waking up, but his excitement built with every passing minute he was near your apartment.

He slipped into your apartment, using the spare key you gave him months ago.

The silence inside was peaceful.

He set his bag by the door, kicked off his sneakers, and padded softly toward your bedroom. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

You were sprawled across the bed, tangled in the blanket, one leg sticking out, hair a messy halo around your pillow. Your lips parted slightly as you breathed, and a faint crease still lingered between your brows.

Jungkook’s heart swelled, his chest tight.

You were so beautiful.

Not the polished, perfect kind of beauty, but the real kind—the one that made him want to kneel beside you and stay there forever.

He leaned quietly against the doorframe, just watching you.

The gentle rise and fall of your chest. The way your fingers curled loosely around the blanket’s edge. The little sigh you let out, making your nose scrunch in the cutest way. He wanted to kiss every inch of your tired face until you woke up smiling.

He walked closer, moving carefully, not wanting to wake you.

His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. You murmured something in your sleep and turned slightly, and Jungkook bit back a laugh.

He leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead, lingering there as he whispered, “Rest well, angel. You’ve done enough for the world. Let me take care of you now.”

He tucked the blanket snugly around your shoulders before standing, careful not to make a sound.

Instead of crawling in beside you, he busied himself.

He gathered the pile of laundry, folding each piece neatly.

He smiled when he came across the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from him—it still smelled faintly of his cologne, and the thought of you snuggling into it made his chest feel warm.

Next, he watered your plants, crouching down to check the little succulent he’d gifted you months ago. Seeing it thrive made him oddly proud, like he had a piece of himself rooted in your home.

After that, he tidied the living room, stacking your medical journals neatly, wiping down the coffee table, and fluffing the pillows on the couch. The faint scent of lemon cleaner began to fill the apartment, mixing with the soft morning air.

The apartment slowly came alive under his care—brighter, warmer, more like a shared home than just yours.

Jungkook looked around, chest heavy with something tender.

He wanted this every day. Morning chores, quiet moments, laughter echoing through these walls.

Not just visits, not just sleepovers—he wanted a life with you.

And as he glanced back toward your room, hearing your soft breathing, he thought, someday.

He moved into the kitchen, already thinking about what to cook, already imagining the smile on your face when you woke up to find him there, waiting just for you.

You woke to soft clattering and the delicious smell of garlic, herbs, and butter drifting into your dreams. Your body was still heavy from yesterday’s long shift, but curiosity tugged you out of bed.

Your feet padded against the cool floor as you shuffled toward the kitchen, hair sticking out in every direction, your oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder.

You rubbed your eyes, still half-asleep, until you saw him.

Jungkook stood at the stove, hair still damp from his shower, a fitted black shirt stretching over his back and shoulders, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He was stirring something in a pan, humming under his breath, like this was his own home and he’d been doing this forever.

The sight alone made your heart flip so hard it almost hurt.

You didn’t even think.

You just walked up and slipped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. His body went still for a moment, then he melted, a low chuckle vibrating through him. He reached down to gently squeeze your hand where it rested against his stomach.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice still rough and warm, making your knees go weak.

“When did you get here?” you mumbled against his shirt, your words muffled by the soft fabric.

He reached down to turn the heat low before glancing over his shoulder. His bunny smile—bright, dimpled, and entirely yours, made your knees weak.

“Around seven. You were sleeping so deeply I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You looked too beautiful to disturb.”

Your arms tightened instinctively, hugging him closer before you finally let go and dragged yourself to the counter stool. You propped your chin in your hand, yawning as you stared at him dreamily.

He moved around the kitchen with such ease, stirring the veggies, tossing in herbs, the muscles in his arms flexing with every motion.

“What are you cooking?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Pasta,” he answered simply, glancing at you with that proud sparkle in his eyes.

“Your favourite... Comfort food. And before you say anything, yes, I already put your laundry in the wash. And yes, I watered the plants. So the only thing on your to-do list today is… me.”

You blinked at him, your heart practically swelling out of your chest. “You’re… unfair.”

“Unfairly perfect?” he teased, winking.

You couldn’t stop your smile.

Your eyes trailed over him shamelessly—the way his shirt hugged his arms, the soft curve of his back, the casual way he owned the space.

He caught you staring, of course, and smirked.

“Like what you see, doctor?”

You didn’t even bother denying it. “It’s my kitchen. I can stare as much as I want.”

He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, before leaning against the counter, arms folded as if he were posing on purpose now. “You gonna sit there drooling, or are you gonna make us some coffee?”

You rolled your eyes but stood, muttering under your breath, “Bossy…”

Still, your smile gave you away.

“You’re lucky you’re this cute.”

“And you’re lucky I can cook,” he shot back without missing a beat, tossing a dish towel at you. You caught it clumsily, laughing, your cheeks aching from how much you were smiling.

The moment felt light, perfect, like a dream where nothing else existed except the two of you.

As he stirred the pasta one last time, you poured the coffee into mugs, the scent filling the air and mixing with the buttery garlic smell of his cooking.

The moment was filled with soft touches, quick glances, easy laughter.

Finally, Jungkook plated the pasta and set it down on your tiny kitchen table. He pulled out a chair for you, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your temple before sitting across from you.

The first bite melted on your tongue, creamy and warm, and you closed your eyes with a content sigh.

“This is so good,” you mumbled around your fork.

Jungkook’s grin widened, boyish and proud.

“Of course it is. It’s made with love.” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically, making you laugh so hard you nearly choked.

His eyes softened as he watched you eat.

“I knew it,” he said softly, more to himself than you. “This is exactly where I want to be. Cooking for you, making you smile like that.”

Your fork stilled, heart thudding wildly.

You met his gaze, and the love shining in his eyes made the whole world outside disappear.

Right here, right now—it was just you and him.

After breakfast, you and Jungkook settled onto the couch, the sun spilling warm golden light through the curtains and painting the room in a lazy glow.

Your legs draped over his lap as you took the last sip of coffee, savoring the warmth. For the first time in weeks, the tight knot of exhaustion that had been following you everywhere felt a little lighter.

Your shoulders ached from hours in the OR, and as you rolled them, a small wince escaped you.

Jungkook’s hands were immediately on you, his brows knitting in concern. “Sore?”

“A little,” you admitted, exhaling softly. “Just… post-surgery tension. It’s nothing.”

“C’mere,” he murmured, patting the space on his lap.

You shifted, leaning back so your head rested against his chest, and he settled behind you. His hands found your shoulders, kneading gently but firmly, coaxing the tightness from your muscles.

You let out a long, contented sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“God… that feels so good,” you whispered, letting your head sink further into him.

His chuckle was soft, full of warmth, and his breath tickled your ear. “I’m so proud of you, baby. Every single day, you save lives… and you do it all without even complaining. You’re incredible.”

The words hit you harder than you expected.

All the stress, the long nights, the endless pressure—he saw it.

He saw you.

A lump formed in your throat, and your chest tightened in that delicious, achy way that only happened when you felt truly loved. “Thank you, Kook,” you murmured, voice small, soft.

His hands didn’t just massage—they lingered, exploring the tense curves of your shoulders, easing knots you didn’t even realize you were holding.

And as his thumbs traced further, brushing the base of your neck, a different heat began to bloom, soft but insistent. Your sighs slipped into quiet, soft moans, betraying the pleasure building under his touch.

“Oh?” he said, his voice dropping low, teasing, smug.

“That doesn’t sound like pain relief anymore, baby.”

Your cheeks flushed, embarrassment and desire mixing as you tried to deny it. “Shut up,” you murmured, but there was no bite in it, only breathless laughter.

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Make me,” he whispered.

And you did.

In one fluid motion, you turned around and straddled his lap, pressing yourself against him and crashing your lips to his before he could tease again.

The kiss was desperate, hungry, full of every suppressed longing from the night before, and he responded immediately.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, grounding you against him, his laugh vibrating through the kiss—muffled, delighted, and full of love.

When you pulled back for air, his eyes were dark, sparkling with mischief and affection all at once. “Feisty,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your jaw. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You glared playfully, lips still swollen from the kiss. “You’re insufferable,” you said, voice soft but teasing.

He just grinned, as if he’d won, and you knew he had—but somehow, it didn’t matter. Here, in this warm golden morning, wrapped up together on the couch, it felt perfect.

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “I could do this all day…”

You wriggled slightly, trying to catch a breath, and he leaned back just enough to trace the curve of your jaw with his thumb, catching your lips with his own again.

This time, the kiss wasn’t rushed—it was slow, teasing, filled with unspoken words and longing. Every press of his lips against yours made the heat build between your legs, your fingers tangling in his damp hair.

He pulled back just enough to smirk at you, eyes dark and gleaming with mischief. “You’re so needy,” he teased, though the way he held you said he loved it.

You bit your lip, closing your eyes, letting the warmth of him envelope you.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, though your body pressed eagerly into his.

“And you love it,” he countered, hands holding you firmly against him now, thumbs rubbing circles along your sides.

A shiver ran through you at his words, and instinctively you shifted, straddling him fully this time, facing him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw as he leaned into you.

His hands gripped your hips possessively, holding you close, teasing, loving.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t ignore. You stayed in his lap, your knees on either side of him, hands resting on his strong shoulders.

Jungkook’s eyes roamed over you slowly, like he was memorizing every detail. His gaze caught where your sleep shirt had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the curve of your collarbone, and his lips parted slightly like he wanted to kiss you there.

His hands slid up your sides, warm and careful, fingers moving slowly like he wanted to savour every inch of you.

The touch was gentle but set your skin on fire, making a shiver race down your spine.

“Careful, baby,” Jungkook murmured, his voice low and rough, eyes meeting yours with that playful glint that always made your knees weak.

“The way you’re moving on me like this? I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back much longer.”

You froze for a second, realizing what you’d been doing—subtly rolling your hips against him, chasing the friction without even meaning to.

The blush crept up your cheeks, but instead of pulling away, you pressed yourself closer, rocking against him more deliberately this time.

His breath caught, sharp and shaky, and his hands gripped your hips harder. His eyes darkened with a hunger that sent a wave of heat through you.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned, a smirk tugging at his lips even as his voice shook, “you’re playing with fire. You know exactly what that does to me.”

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, your voice breathless.

You rocked against him again, feeling his growing hardness under you, and your body trembled with the thrill of it.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his head tilting back slightly, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His jaw clenched as if he was trying to stay in control, but his body betrayed him—his hips pressed up into yours, meeting your rhythm. “Keep doing that, and I’m done for.”

Your lips curved in a daring smile as you leaned in, brushing your mouth over the side of his neck.

His skin was warm, his pulse racing under your lips.

“Then lose it,” you whispered, your teeth grazing his earlobe gently before nipping at it.

A low moan escaped him, raw and unguarded.

His hands slid under your sleep shirt, palms warm against your bare waist, fingers spreading wide as if he couldn’t get enough of your skin. The touch made you gasp softly, arching into him.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he muttered, voice rough, though the way he looked at you was full of nothing but love.

His hands tugged lightly at the hem of your shirt, silently asking.

You lifted your arms, letting him pull it off easily, leaving you bare in front of him.

His eyes softened and darkened all at once as he looked at you, lingering over your chest, your skin, every detail of you.

“God… you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice full of awe, like he couldn’t believe you were his.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his words, warmth blooming inside you.

You reached for his shirt quickly, needing him just as much.

Your fingers fumbled with the hem, and he chuckled softly, helping you peel it off. The sight of him—warm skin, tattoos curling over his arm and shoulder, muscles flexing as he moved, stole your breath.

You ran your hands over his skin, savouring the warmth, the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

He groaned softly, hands returning to your hips as you ground down again, the friction more intense now without the barrier of your shirts.

Jungkook’s lips brushed against your neck, featherlight at first, like he was testing how much you could take. Then his kisses grew deeper, hungrier, his tongue flicking against your skin in slow, teasing strokes.

“You taste so good,” he whispered, his breath warm as it fanned over your collarbone. He nipped gently, making you gasp, and your fingers instinctively tangled in his messy hair, holding him closer.

Every kiss felt like fire.

His mouth moved lower, trailing over your chest until he reached the soft swell of your breasts. He looked up at you briefly, eyes dark and full of love, before taking one nipple into his mouth.

The gentle suck and swirl of his tongue made you arch into him, a needy whimper slipping past your lips.

“K-Kook,” you breathed, your voice shaky, overwhelmed by the heat building inside you.

He hummed against your skin, the vibrations shooting straight through you, making you squirm in his lap. He pulled back for a moment, lips glistening, and smiled softly at your flushed face.

“I love hearing you like this,” he said, voice low but full of awe.

He leaned in again, giving the other nipple the same attention, slower this time, almost worshipful.

Then his kisses trailed back up to your neck, lingering against your pulse as he whispered, “You’re so perfect. So fucking perfect, baby.”

Your chest ached with how much love filled his words, but before you could say anything back, he shifted.

In one smooth motion, he laid you down on the couch, his body pressing you into the cushions. The weight of him above you felt grounding, comforting, like you were safe in his hold.

His strong thighs bracketed your hips as he hovered over you, his gaze locked onto yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, lips brushing yours but not kissing, his teasing making your heart race.

“You,” you gasped, desperation breaking through as your hands tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Want you, Kook. Only you.”

He groaned, low and filthy, helping you push his pants down and kick them off. You were both frantic now, hands and mouths everywhere, the room filled with gasps and his low moans.

He slid your shorts off, leaving you bare beneath him.

When his fingers slid between your thighs, he found you already wet, and he cursed softly, his voice rough.

“Fuck, baby… you’re so ready for me.”

You pulled him closer, kissing him hard as he pressed himself against you, the tip of him teasing your entrance.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking with need, your eyes pleading with his. He smiled softly against your lips, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“Patience, love,” he teased, but the tenderness in his eyes gave him away—he wanted you just as much.

Then he kissed you deeply as he slowly pushed inside, inch by inch.

The stretch made you moan, nails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusted to him.

He buried himself fully, stilling once, letting you adjust.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven, his voice shaking as he asked, “You okay, baby?”

Your eyes met his, and even through the haze of pleasure, your heart swelled. You cupped his face, smiling through your heavy breaths.

“More than okay,” you whispered.

“You feel so good… always so good.”

He gave you that boyish grin, the one that always melted your heart, and kissed you slowly, sweetly, like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re gonna make me blush, doc,” he whispered against your lips, teasing even as he started to move inside you with slow, steady thrusts that made your breath catch.

“Fuck, you feel so tight.”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll really make you blush,” you whispered back, your voice shaky but playful.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and the vibration of it seemed to sink straight into your chest. Then his hips rolled again, deeper this time, making you gasp, your arms tightening around his shoulders.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and shaky. “I’m only getting started. Gonna make you feel every little second of this.”

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, desperate for him, pulling him even closer.

The movement made him groan, the sound raw and needy.

He started thrusting a little harder, his control slipping, and you laughed breathlessly.

“You’re so clingy,” he teased between kisses along your neck, though his voice carried so much affection it almost broke you. “Love when you’re like this… holding onto me like you’ll never let go.”

You smirked, whispering back, “Because... I won’t.”

That earned you another deep thrust that made you whimper, and he grinned against your skin.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, nipping lightly just to hear your soft gasp. “Say things like that, and I’ll never let you off this couch.”

His words made you giggle even as your body shivered under him.

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you teased, rocking your hips up to meet his.

“Oh, I know it is,” he said, pulling back to look into your eyes.

His gaze was soft and burning all at once, like he was teasing but also worshipping you. His hand slid down your side, gripping your thigh to pull it higher around his waist.

“You’re greedy for me, baby. Can feel it.”

“Only for you,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his.

His expression softened instantly, his smirk melting into something tender.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he said, almost like a confession. His hips never stopped moving, dragging against you in that perfect rhythm, every thrust pulling another moan from your throat.

“Now... Shut up and kiss me,” you demanded softly, tugging at his hair. And he did—his mouth crashing against yours in a messy, hungry kiss that stole your breath.

“I love you,” he whispered suddenly, voice breaking with honesty as his forehead rested against yours. “God, I love you. Love the way you feel, love the way you sound… you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word slipping out without thought, your heart racing.

His dark eyes softened, but his smirk stayed as he slowed his thrust, deep and deliberate, making you cry out.

“Say it again,” he urged, his voice low and certain.

“Yours, Kook,” you whimpered, clutching his back so tight your nails dug into his skin.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, kissing you sweetly, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “You’re perfect for me… I could stay inside you forever.”

“Keep going,” you begged, trying to be playful through the shakiness in your voice.

“But maybe a little faster?”

He laughed against your lips, biting at your bottom one gently.

“Bossy doctor,” he teased, but he gave in, moving just a little faster, just enough to make your moans spill out louder, filling the quiet room.

“That’s it,” you gasped, your body trembling, your nails clawing at his shoulders. “Fuck, right there.”

“Love making you feel good,” he whispered, every word soaked with love as he kissed your jaw. “It’s my favorite thing in the world.”

The world seemed to fade, leaving just you and him—moans, soft laughter, whispered “I love yous” mingling in the air. His thrusts stayed steady, loving, playful even as the pleasure built higher and higher.

And when you finally came undone together, tangled in each other’s arms, it felt less like an ending and more like a promise.

When it ended, you were both breathless, tangled on the couch.

Jungkook pulled you against his chest, grabbing the blanket from the couch’s back and draping it over you both. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, and you nuzzled into him, exhausted but content.

As you shifted closer, you noticed the faint red marks your nails had left on his shoulders and chest, along with a scattering of hickeys blooming across his skin.

The sight made you giggle softly, a mix of pride and embarrassment warming your cheeks. Jungkook caught your gaze and glanced down at himself.

“Fuck, baby, look at this!” he exclaimed, pointing at a particularly dark mark on his chest.

His eyes widened comically, and he pouted in that way that always made your heart melt. “My hyungs are gonna tease me so badly. You’re turning me into a walking art project! How am I supposed to go to practice looking like I got attacked?”

You laughed, reaching up to brush a fingertip over one of the marks.

“Oops,” you said, mock-innocent, though you weren’t sorry at all. “Guess I got carried away.”

“Carried away?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re impossible, doc. I’m gonna have to wear a turtleneck in this heat, and Jimin-hyung will never let me live it down.”

“Tell him you’re just really loved,” you teased, pressing a soft kiss to one of the marks on his shoulder. He groaned dramatically, but his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.

“Really loved, huh?” he murmured, his pout softening into a tender smile as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Fine… I’ll take all the teasing if it means I get to keep you like this.”

You smiled, nuzzling deeper into his chest, the blanket cocooning you in a warm bubble where the world outside didn’t exist.

“Work day off means Boyfriend day on,” he murmured softly, his voice low and playful. “And today, my only job is making sure you rest, baby. Making sure you feel loved.”

You laughed softly, voice muffled against his skin.

“You’re way too good to me, Kook.”

“Only because you deserve it,” he replied, fingers brushing gently through your hair, tracing soothing circles that made your lids droop with comfort.

The rest of the day unfolded in quiet, domestic bliss.

Simple things—a shared breakfast, soft kisses, his hands never leaving you, made everything feel magical. He moved through your apartment like he belonged, tidying little things, laughing with you, stealing quick kisses whenever your eyes met.

That night, curled against him, his steady heartbeat pressing against your ear, you felt the kind of peace that didn’t come often because of your busy schedules.

Warm, safe, and completely loved.

You realized, with a smile that softened your tired face, that this was what love truly felt like—messy, chaotic, comforting, and entirely, utterly yours.

A/n: Lol, my single ass really need a boyfriend like him 😭 or is it because it's just my ovulation phase going on currently?

The WiFi in your apartment died for the last 3 days.

Seventy-two hours of nothing but the mocking blue “No Internet” circle spinning like it was personally judging your life choices. And the worst part? Your current drama had just dropped episodes 4 and 5.

The kind of episodes that end on a cliffhanger. You were spiritually hemorrhaging. You arrived at the office that morning looking like someone had personally kicked you out of your own apartment.

Seated at the lunch table, you dropped your head onto your folded arms with theatrical despair. “Do you guys understand the emotional devastation? The male lead literally whispered ‘Saranghae’ and then... bam... truck-kun. I’m in mourning. Actual mourning.”

Jimin, mid-bite of his kimbap, didn’t even look up. “You say that every time when episodes are gonna drop.”

“This is different,” you insisted, lifting your head just enough to glare.

“This is soul-destroying. This time the episodes are already dropped and it's been 3 days I haven't watch them. I am not even opening insta because of spoiler edits.”

Hoseok patted your shoulder like you were a sad puppy.

Namjoon, being the human equivalent of a walking Wikipedia, offered, “You could use the office Wi-Fi tonight. It’s gigabit. You’d be done in like… ten minutes.”

You sat up so fast your chair squeaked. “Genius. Evil genius. I love you.”

“Don’t get caught,” Jimin warned, finally looking amused.

“I’ll be undercover,” you promised, already mentally mapping your escape plan. “Like a ninja.”

That evening you stayed behind after the last person left.

The open-plan office slowly emptied until it was just the hum of the air conditioning and the faint glow of emergency exit signs. You dimmed your monitor brightness to absolutely no one, and crawled under your desk like a soldier in enemy territory.

The LAN port was, of course, in the most inconvenient corner possible. “Come on, you stupid little rectangle hole,” you muttered.

Click. Success.

You crawled back out, dusted off your skirt, stood up triumphantly.

...and screamed.

A man was standing three feet away.

Tall. Black turtleneck. Black slacks. Black hair falling slightly into even blacker eyes. Hands in pockets. Expression so blank it was almost weaponized.

Your soul left your body for a solid three seconds.

You yelped, slammed your laptop half-closed behind you, and pressed your back against the desk edge so hard you were probably going to have a bruise shaped like a drawer handle tomorrow.

He didn’t flinch... Didn’t blink...

Just tilted his head the tiniest fraction.

“What are you doing here this late?” His voice was low, raspy, the kind that made you feel like you’d been caught red-handed while robbing the bank.

You swallowed. “W-Work.”

A beat of silence... Thick Silence...

“…Very urgent work... Important Spreadsheets,” you added, because apparently your mouth had decided lying was now its full-time job.

His gaze flicked down to the laptop you were clutching like it contained state secrets, then slowly back up to your face.

One eyebrow lifted barely. But it was enough.

You tried for bravado. “Actually, what are you doing here? This is the marketing floor. You are here after hours. Without any ID or visitor badge. I could report you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Not a smile. More like his face had decided smiling was too much effort but it would humor you with a half-second preview.

He took one step forward.

You took one step back—and immediately hit the desk. There was nowhere to go.

Then he moved again. And again.

Until both his hands braced on the desk, one on each side of your hips. Not touching you. Not even close. But close enough that you could smell clean laundry and something faintly like cologne and quiet authority.

You were officially caged between a very expensive desk and a very dangerous-looking stranger.

He leaned in just enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Your heart was doing somersaults inside your ribcage.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” you managed, voice higher than usual.

He studied you for a long moment... long enough that you started cataloguing every micro-expression. The way his lashes were unfairly long. The tiny silver hoop in his left earlobe. The curve of his lips.

Then, very slowly, the smallest, most dangerous smirk you’d ever seen curled one side of his mouth.

“Clearly,” he said, voice velvet and gravel at the same time, “you haven’t seen me before. So you don't know me.”

You blinked. “Should I?”

He held your gaze for one more excruciating heartbeat. Then he straightened, pulled his hands off the desk, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Just… left.

You stared at his retreating back until he disappeared around the corner toward the executive elevator. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for a full minute.

“…Who the actual hell was that?” you whispered to the empty office.

Your laptop pinged softly.

Download progress: 14%.

You looked at the screen. Looked at the dark hallway where Tall, Dark, and Terrifying man had vanished. Looked back at the screen.

“…Worth it,” you decided, and sat down to wait for the remaining download like your life depended on it.

The next morning arrived like a betrayal.

You shuffled into the office ten minutes late... hair in a slightly chaotic half-bun, concealer doing heroic work under your eyes, and an Americano clutched in your hand.

Episodes 4 and 5 had finally downloaded at 10 p.m., and you’d stayed up until 2:00 watching them back-to-back while ugly-crying into a pillow.

The entire marketing floor was already gathered near the glass-walled conference room, buzzing with that special brand of corporate excitement reserved for surprise announcements.

You slid into the back row between Hoseok and a very confused intern who was still holding a stack of color-coded Post-its like they were a shield.

“What’s going on?” you whispered, leaning toward Hoseok.

He grinned like he knew something you didn’t. “Big Announcement. You didn't check the CEO’s mail?”

You took a long, fortifying sip of coffee. “If it’s another ‘synergy workshop’ I’m faking my own death.”

The double doors at the front opened.

Mr. Min—the current CEO, silver hair, kind eyes, stepped forward with the kind of proud-dad energy.

“Good morning, everyone,” he began, voice warm and grandfatherly. “I know we’ve all been wondering about the future of the company, especially after the merger talks died down. Well… I’m happy to finally introduce the person who will be taking over as CEO from today.”

A dramatic pause... Everyone leaned forward slightly.

“My son. Min Yoongi.”

The room exhaled in a collective “oooh.”

You took another casual sip of coffee, unbothered. Rich people had rich kids. Whatever. Probably some freshly graduate, with lots of attitude and in loafers with no socks.

Then the new voice cut through the room—low, raspy, unmistakable.

“Good morning.”

Your entire spinal column turned to ice. You froze mid-sip, lips still wrapped around the straw.

Very slowly... like turning your head might detonate something—you lifted your gaze.

There he was.

Black suit today. Crisp white shirt. Tie loosened around neck, top button undone just enough to be quietly devastating. Hair pushed back, exposing that unfairly perfect forehead.

Same silver hoop glinting in his left ear. Same dark, unreadable eyes scanning the room like he was cataloguing every single soul present. The man who’d caged you against your own desk last night like some k-drama.

Your soul didn’t just leave your body. It travelled to whole another universe.

Without conscious thought, your coffee mug rose, slowly, slowly, until it covered the bottom half of your face. You could still see over the rim—just barely—but mostly you were hiding.

Hiding very obviously... In front of thirty people...

Hoseok side-eyed you. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Shh,” you hissed through barely moving lips. “Act like I don't exist.”

Yoongi stepped forward beside his father.

The CEO beamed and launched into the usual proud-parent energy: top of his class at Seoul National, Wharton MBA, already restructured three subsidiaries in Europe, blah blah terrifying competence.

You barely heard any of it.

Because Yoongi was now walking the line of employees.

One by one.

He greeted people with the politeness: a nod, a quiet “nice to meet you,” a brief handshake if they offered. Voice so soft it almost disappeared into the carpet.

Expression calm. Professional. Untouchable.

Until he reached your row. He stopped directly in front of you.

Your mug was now practically glued to your nose. You could feel the condensation dripping onto your chin.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.

You peeked over the rim... barely one eyeball visible...

His gaze locked onto yours.

And then... God help you, he smirked... again.

It wasn’t big.

It was the tiniest upward curve of one corner of his mouth, but it carried the same energy as last night’s “interesting.” Like he’d caught you stealing company WiFi and was mildly entertained by your entire existence.

“We’ve met before,” he said.

Quiet... Casual... Like he was commenting on the weather.

The entire marketing team turned to look at you. Thirty pairs of eyes.

Hoseok’s jaw actually dropped.

You choked.

Not dramatically. Just a small, pathetic inhale of coffee that went down the wrong pipe. You coughed once... violently... mug sloshing, eyes watering.

“N-no we haven’t,” you wheezed, lowering the mug just enough to speak. Your voice cracked on the second syllable.

Yoongi’s smirk deepened by approximately 0.3 millimeters. Devastating.

“Really?” he murmured, tilting his head the exact same way he had last night under your desk. “Because I distinctly remember someone screaming when they stood up from under a desk. And then trying to hide a laptop screen like it contained national secrets.”

A ripple of confused laughter moved through the team.

You wanted to die.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to yeet yourself out the nearest window.

“I... I was working late,” you managed. “Very important… spreadsheet emergency.”

“Under the desk?” he asked, deadpan.

“I-I was searching for LAN Port...” you blurted.

Hoseok made a strangled noise that might have been laughter or sympathy or both.

Yoongi studied you for another long second. Then he simply nodded once, like you’d passed some invisible test only he understood.

“Looking forward to working with you,” he said. Voice velvet. Eyes glittering with something dangerously close to amusement.

He moved on.

Just like that.

He left you standing there with coffee dripping down your chin, face burning hotter than the surface of the sun, and thirty coworkers staring at you like you’d personally invented workplace drama.

Hoseok leaned in the second Yoongi was out of earshot. “Okay. Spill. What the actual hell was that?”

You stared straight ahead, still clutching your mug like a lifeline.

“I think,” you whispered, “I accidentally interrogated the new CEO last night. And now he knows my face. And my scream. And probably the name of my drama.”

Hoseok blinked. Then grinned so wide it threatened his ears.

“Bestie,” he said, patting your shoulder, “you’re so screwed.”

You looked down at your half-empty coffee cup.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I think I just downloaded way more trouble than two episodes were worth.”

Later that afternoon your phone buzzed once on your desk. A single message from the internal company chat, sender: Executive Office.

“CEO Min would like to see you in his office. Now.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor and kept falling. You stared at the screen like it had personally insulted your entire bloodline.

Beside you, Hoseok noticed the color drain from your face and leaned over. “What’s wrong?”

You turned the phone toward him so he could read it. Jimin and Namjoon both scooted their chairs closer like this was group therapy.

“I’m getting fired,” you whispered, voice cracking. “For downloading only two episodes.”

Jimin winced. “Told you to be careful.”

Namjoon rubbed his temples. “Just… go. Maybe he wants to congratulate you on your excellent taste in kdrama.”

You glared at him and stood up on shaky legs. “If I don’t come back, tell my mother I loved her.”

Jimin rolled his eyes at your dramatic self.

The walk to the executive floor felt like a death row march. The elevator dinged cheerfully.

You hated it.

Yoongi’s office door was already ajar. You knocked once... barely a tap—and pushed it open.

He was seated behind the massive glass-and-mahagony desk that probably cost more than your entire apartment. White shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, silver watch catching the late-afternoon light, expression so calm.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept reading something on his tablet.

You stood there like a guilty schoolchild sent to the principal.

Finally he lifted his gaze. Dark. Steady. Unreadable. “Close the door.”

You did. The click sounded final.

He didn’t speak for another long second. Then he reached for a single sheet of paper on his desk, slid it across the polished surface toward you.

You stepped forward, looked down.

LAN usage log. Your extension. Date: yesterday. Total downloaded: 48.7 GB.

You gasped so loud it echoed off the walls. “You checked?”

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “I check everything.”

Your mouth opened... Closed... Opened again... “That’s—that’s an invasion of privacy!”

“Is it?” His voice was soft, almost gentle. Terrifyingly gentle. “Company network. Company policy clearly states no personal streaming, torrenting, or large-file personal downloads exceeding 5 GB per month without prior approval.”

You felt your soul try to exit through your feet.

“I’ll delete everything,” you blurted. “Right now. I’ll format my laptop. I’ll—I’ll never do it again. Please don’t fire me. I need this job. I have rent. And WiFi bills. And electricity bills.”

He watched you spiral in perfect silence.

Then, very quietly... “What drama was it?”

You blinked. Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”

“The one worth risking your job,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was speaking to someone very sleep-deprived. “What’s the title?”

You hesitated.

Then looked at the door. Looked back at him. Looked at the usage log like it might spontaneously combust and save you.

Then, in the tiniest voice possible, “…Love in the Slow Lane.”

He didn’t react at first.

Just held your gaze.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted—barely. “That’s my favorite too.”

You stared at him with a mouth slightly opened. Your sleep-deprived brain refused to process. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke around.” He leaned forward slightly. “Episode three ended with Ji-hoon finding the letter in the rain and truck scene. Episode four opens with the flashback to university. Correct?”

You nodded mutely, too stunned to form words.

He tapped one finger once on the desk. “I haven’t watched four and five yet. Due to Work.”

Then he continued, casual as if he were discussing quarterly projections, “I won’t report the usage. Or fire you.”

Your heart restarted. “Really?”

“On one condition.”

You swallowed. “What is it?”

“New episodes drop every Friday night. You watch the rest with me. Here. After hours. No more solo downloads on company WiFi.”

You blinked again. Several times.

“You… want to watch Love in the Slow Lane… with me?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have time to download it myself. And apparently you’re already an expert at late-night viewing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, because you had zero filter. “You’re blackmailing me with company WiFi usage to be your drama buddy?”

His eyes glittered. “I prefer ‘mutually beneficial arrangement.’”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“…Fine,” you said at last. “But if you spoil anything while watching, I’m leaking your viewing history to the entire marketing floor.”

The tiniest huff of amusement escaped him. Almost a laugh.

“Deal.”

The very next evening you showed up at 8:45 p.m. with a suspicious paper bag that smelled like convenience-store kimbap and ramyeon. He was already there... lights dimmed, massive 85-inch monitor on, episode four paused at 00:02.

You hesitated in the doorway.

He glanced over. “You’re late.”

“W-Work...,” you replied.

“Sit.”

You sat. On the leather couch facing the screen.

He stayed behind the desk for approximately thirty seconds before giving up on the pretending and moving to sit beside you—close enough that your knees almost touched.

Episode four played.

You screamed at the truck scene... again.

He side-eyed you. “You’ve seen this.”

“I’m reliving the trauma for emotional support.”

He huffed... almost a laugh.

By episode five’s ending credits you were both yelling at the screen in unison about how unfair the coma plot was.

And just like that, a routine was born.

Every Friday after the last person left the floor, you slipped into his office like a thief. He’d already have the lights dimmed, the huge 85-inch monitor on the wall queued up, two cans of cold brew sitting on the side table like silent offerings.

He always pretended to be “finishing emails” when you arrived... papers spread out, glasses perched on his nose—but the second you sat on the leather sofa opposite his desk, he’d close the laptop without a word, join you and hit play.

You screamed at every plot twist. “NO! He did NOT just push her into the fountain again!”

“Shh,” he’d mutter, though his eyes never left the screen.

By the third week he’d started a running list on his phone: Pending Dramas to Binge. Nevertheless, Our Beloved Summer, Twenty-Five Twenty-One, Business Proposal, Crash Landing on You, Lovely Runner...

You glanced at it one night while the credits rolled. “I’ve already seen more than half of these.”

He didn’t even look up from pausing the next episode preview. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“You used 48.7 GB of company bandwidth in one night.” He finally met your eyes, deadpan. “Consider this as payback.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself—bright, startled, echoing in the quiet office.

He didn’t smile... Not really. But the way his gaze softened for half a second before he hit play again? That was more dangerous than any cliffhanger.

And somewhere between episode six of Love in the Slow Lane and the opening credits of Nevertheless, you both never realized that the real slow burn wasn’t on the screen.

It was sitting three feet away, pretending he didn’t care, while secretly and eagerly waiting every Friday night just for this.

The whispers started small.

Like the first crack in thin ice.

It was a quiet Friday evening a couple of weeks into your secret drama ritual. Most of the floor had already clocked out, but someone from Administration... Minji, had stayed behind to finish a quarterly audit.

She was walking past the executive wing with her arms full of folders when she saw it... the faint blue glow leaking under Yoongi’s office door at 10:17 p.m., and two silhouettes on the couch, and your loud laugh.

By Monday morning the rumour had churned out three different versions.

Version one: you were sleeping with the new CEO for a promotion. Version two: you were blackmailing him with something scandalous. Version three: you were somehow his secret fiancee from an arranged marriage setup.

None of them were true.

All of them were loud.

Hoseok, Jimin, and Namjoon cornered you in the break room during lunch. Hoseok slid the door shut behind him with dramatic flair. “Okay... The entire building is talking about you and CEO Min.”

You paused mid-bite of your convenience-store triangle kimbap. “Talking how?”

Jimin leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Talking like ‘she’s in his office every night until 2 a.m.’. Talking like ‘she must be giving him something extra-special to keep her job.”

Namjoon adjusted his glasses, looking pained. “There’s also a theory that you’re his secret fiancée from an arranged marriage nobody knew about. That one’s gaining more attention than other two versions.”

You snorted so hard soy sauce nearly came out your nose. “Every night till 2 a.m.? Fiancée? Seriously? We’re literally just watching dramas and yelling at the screen when the second lead does something stupid.”

Hoseok’s eyes widened. “You’re still doing the drama thing? With him? In his office?”

“Every Friday... after hours,” you confirmed cheerfully. “He brings fancy popcorn now. The kind with truffle oil. It’s elite.”

Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize how this looks, right? People are saying you’re trading favours. That your character is… questionable.”

You set your kimbap down.

Looked at all three of them... really looked. Then smiled, soft but steady.

“I really appreciate that you all are worried but... I don’t care about those rumours,” you said simply.

“I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not sleeping with him. I’m not blackmailing him. I’m not stealing company secrets. I’m watching a drama with someone who also likes the drama. That’s it. If people want to make up stories because they’re bored, that’s their Friday night. Mine’s definitely better than theirs.”

Hoseok blinked. Then slowly started grinning. “You’re actually insane... do you know that?... In the best way.”

Namjoon sighed, but there was fondness in it. “Just… be careful. Office politics can get ugly fast.”

You shrugged, picking your kimbap back up. “Let them talk. I’ve got episode twelve queued and truffle popcorn waiting.”

Later that week the gossip took a sharper turn.

It was a Thursday afternoon—the kind where the office felt half-asleep and the coffee machine was making more noise than actual productivity.

You and Jimin were leaning against the high counter in the break room, sharing a bag of shrimp crackers. Jimin was mid-story, about how his last night blind date was total disaster and reenacting the way his blind date had tried to impress him by doing aegyo.

That was when the door swung open.

Seung-ho—the senior accountant strode in like he owned the oxygen in the room. He glanced at the two of you, clocked the laughter, and his lip curled.

He didn’t even pretend to reach for the coffee pot.

Just stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, and muttered loud enough for both of you to hear, “Must be nice, huh? Giggling like schoolgirls while spreading your legs for the boss so you don’t have to do any real work.”

The words landed like ice water down your spine.

The laughter died in your throat.

You turned slowly. Jimin froze mid-chew, cracker halfway to his mouth.

You straightened, shoulders back, voice clear and sharp enough to cut glass. “Excuse me?”

Seung-ho blinked, clearly not expecting pushback. His smirk faltered for half a second before he doubled down. “You heard me.”

Jimin was already moving... stepping half in front of you like a human shield, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“Watch your mouth,” Jimin said, low and lethal. “You don’t talk to her like that. Ever. Stay in your damn lane, Seung-ho, before someone puts you in it permanently.”

Seung-ho scoffed, but there was a flicker of unease now. He looked between the two of you—Jimin radiating quiet fury, you staring him down without flinching. Then he turned and walked out.

The break room door clicked shut.

You exhaled shakily, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. “I was two seconds from throwing my coffee at his stupid face.”

Jimin turned to you, expression softening instantly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, though your voice wobbled just a little. “Just… gross. Really gross.”

Jimin pulled you into a quick side-hug. “He’s an asshole. You handled that like a queen.”

You managed a small laugh. “Thanks for the backup.”

“Always.”

And neither of you saw the way a certain figure had paused outside the door thirty seconds earlier, coffee cup halfway to his lips, expression going from neutral to thunderous in the span of one heartbeat.

Later that evening, after the worst of the workday had dragged itself to a close, you escaped to the rooftop terrace. The city lights were starting to flicker on below.

You sat on the low concrete ledge, knees drawn up, staring at nothing in particular.

Footsteps approached.

Hoseok appeared first, carrying two cans of iced coffee like peace offerings. Jimin was right behind him, still simmering. Namjoon brought your favorite snacks.

Hoseok plopped down beside you without preamble and pressed a cold can into your hand. “Emergency mood-lifter delivery. Drink. Then talk.”

You cracked it open. Took a sip. “I’m fine. Really. Just… needed air.”

Jimin sat on your other side, cross-legged. “You were more than fine earlier. I’m proud.”

Hoseok grinned. “Legendary. I wish I’d seen it live.”

Namjoon stayed standing—arms crossed, gaze thoughtful. After a minute he spoke, voice quiet but deliberate.

“Seung-ho’s gone.”

You looked up. “Gone?”

“Transferred. Effective immediately. Busan branch. They announced it in the afternoon all-hands email—‘structural realignment to strengthen regional operations.’ He was supposed to head the Q3 audit team here. Now he’s on a train tomorrow morning.”

You blinked. “Busan?.”

Namjoon nodded. “Yeah. Funny how fast these things move when someone crosses a line.”

Hoseok whistled low. “That’s not coincidence.”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “You think…?”

“I think,” Namjoon said carefully, “someone has very good ears. And very little patience for people who talk to Y/n like that.”

You stared at the city skyline, the cold can sweating against your palm. You didn’t say his name.

You didn’t have to because you knew.

Hoseok bumped your shoulder gently. “Hey. You didn’t deserve that crap. Not even a little. And whoever made sure Seung-ho’s transferred. They’re on your side.”

Jimin leaned closer. “We all are.”

You let out a long breath... half laugh, half relief... and shared a group hug with all three of them.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”

Downstairs, in an office with the lights still on and the monitor still glowing faintly, Min Yoongi sat alone.

He hadn’t moved since the break-room incident.

His phone sat face-down on the desk.

He hadn’t texted you yet.

But when your phone buzzed twenty minutes later... after you’d finally dragged yourself home and collapsed on the couch—it was one simple line:

Yoongi: You okay?

You stared at the message for a long time. Then typed back:

You: Yeah. Thanks to my friends. And… maybe someone else.

Three dots appeared... Disappeared... Appeared again...

Yoongi: Good.

Next Friday you didn’t go to the office at all.

Around 10 a.m., still cocooned in the world’s oldest, softest blanket, head pounding, throat scratchy, you fumbled for your phone and opened Yoongi’s chat.

You: Hey. Don’t think I ditched you because of the stupid office rumors. Not feeling great today. Calling in sick.

The reply pinged back in under two minutes.

Yoongi: Okay. Rest.

Two words. Classic Yoongi. No fuss, no emojis, no dramatic concern. Just… rest.

You stared at the screen for a long moment, the corner of your mouth lifting in a weak, watery smile. Then you flipped the phone face-down on the cushion, burrowed deeper into the blanket mountain, and tried to sleep.

The rest of the day passed in a hazy blur of half-dozing, coughing, sneezing, and forcing down lukewarm porridge. By evening the headache had dulled to a low throb, but your energy was still at rock bottom.

Around 9 p.m. the doorbell rang.

You groaned, debating whether to ignore it.

Probably Hoseok with emergency soup or Namjoon showing up with herbal tea and unsolicited medical advice but they always informed before actually visiting. You dragged yourself upright, blanket still draped around your shoulders, and shuffled to the peephole.

Your heart did a clumsy somersault.

Min Yoongi stood in the hallway outside your door.

Black hoodie, hood up. Black baseball cap pulled low enough to shadow most of his face. Hands buried in his pockets. Looking exactly like a man who had driven across half the city on a Friday night just to see you.

You opened the door slowly.

He lifted his gaze.

His eyes flicked over you... puffy eyes, messy hair, oversized hoodie that used to belong to your brother.

“You look like death,” he said.

Flat. Concerned in that grumpy way only he could manage.

“Thanks,” you croaked. “You didn’t have to come all way here.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I was already in the car.”

You blinked and stepped aside. “Come in before the neighbors start their own rumor party.”

He stepped inside.

Took off his shoes without being asked and looked around your tiny one-room apartment.

You closed the door and leaned against it. “My WiFi’s fixed now. If you want… we could watch here? Episode twelve’s already downloaded.”

He glanced at your laptop on the coffee table. Then back at you. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

He gave you The Sigh... the long, theatrical sigh and walked straight to your couch like he’d sat there a hundred times before.

He dropped down and pulled the cap off and tossed it onto the armrest. Ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it messier than before.

You hesitated for half a second, then shuffled over and sat beside him. A minute of comfortable silence passed. The fairy lights cast tiny golden flecks across both your faces.

Then, quietly you asked... “Did you do that?”

He didn’t look up. Already had your laptop open on his thighs, fingers moving over the trackpad.

“Do what?”

“You know exactly what I’m asking.”

He paused—cursor hovering over the play button.

Then clicked anyway.

The familiar opening credits rolled across the screen: soft piano, golden-hour sunlight filtering through cherry blossoms, the OST that always made your chest ache in the best way.

“You ate something,” he said instead.

You waited.

He kept his eyes glued to the screen.

“…Don’t change the topic,” you muttered. “I already ate. Like three spoonfuls of porridge.”

He didn’t reply right away.

You turned to him slowly.

He still wouldn’t meet your eyes. Just watched the drama unfold like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Yoongi…” You caught yourself mid-name, cleared your scratchy throat. “I mean—Mr. Min. About the transfer?”

He exhaled through his nose. “No.”

Then, barely a whisper—like he was admitting it to himself more than to you, “…Maybe.”

You felt something warm bloom in your chest. Something quieter. Softer. You leaned back against the couch. Let your shoulder brush his—just barely.

He didn’t move away.

Halfway through the episode you murmured, “Thank you.”

He grunted.

But when the male lead finally confessed under the fireworks... he didn’t complain when you grabbed his sleeve and squealed.

And when the credits rolled, he didn’t get up to leave.

Just sat there in the dim glow of your fairy lights, hoodie sleeve still caught in your fingers, watching you while you watched your laptop screen.

After a long moment he spoke—voice low, almost thoughtful. “I’m thinking it’s better to watch them at your place or mine rather than the office.”

You tilted your head, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He glanced around your small, lived-in space—posters, lights, dying plant, you and something in his expression softened another fraction. “Less eyes. Less rumors. Next week… my place.”

You grinned—tired, sniffly, cheeks still fever-flushed, but unmistakably bright.

“Deal.” You poked his arm weakly. “But you better have my favourite snacks. The spicy shrimp chips. And those chocolate mochi things.”

He huffed—almost a laugh. “High-maintenance.”

“Extremely,” you agreed cheerfully.

He finally moved then... stood, stretched, pulled his cap back on. But before he headed for the door he paused, looked down at you still curled under the blanket. “Take medicine. Drink water. Sleep.”

You mock-saluted with the blanket edge. “Yes, sir.”

He shook his head once... fond expression, and let himself out.

The door clicked shut softly.

You stared at it for a long minute, sleeve still warm where his arm had been. Then you pulled the blanket over your head and smiled into the dark.

The following Saturday evening found you standing outside a sleek high-rise in Gangnam, staring up at the glass-and-steel monolith. Yoongi had texted you the address at exactly 6:47 p.m... no emojis, no directions, just a pin drop and one line: Come up. 32nd floor.

You’d spent the entire subway ride second-guessing your outfit oversized sweater, jeans, sneakers, and now the private elevator was shooting you upward so fast your stomach flipped.

The doors opened directly into his penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights glittering across the Han River. Minimalist furniture in shades of charcoal and cream. And the faint, mouth-watering smell of something simmering on the stove.

Yoongi appeared from the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark apron tied around his waist like he’d been born wearing it. He looked… domestic. Dangerously domestic...

“You’re early,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“Traffic was light,” you lied.

You’d actually arrived twenty minutes ago and spent them pacing the lobby like a nervous puppy, hesitating whether you should actually visit him or not. “Smells good. Did you order in?”

He gave you a look that said he was mildly offended on behalf of whatever was bubbling in that pot. “I cooked.”

You blinked. “You… cook?”

“Occasionally.” He asked you to wait in living room and turned back toward the kitchen island, where two bowls waited beside a steaming rice cooker.

You were already curled up on the couch when he emerged from the kitchen carrying two bowls. He set the bowls on the low coffee table without looking at you, ears just the tiniest bit pink under the soft lighting. “Enjoy.”

He dropped onto the couch beside you—closer than usual. His thigh pressed lightly against yours. Neither of you moved to create distance.

You poked his arm with your chopsticks before taking a bite. “Okay, this is actually amazing. Like, restaurant-level. You are actually a good cook.”

He grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

What you didn’t know... was that he’d called his father at 6 p.m. that evening, voice low and awkward in the penthouse kitchen. “Dad… what was that dish you made the first time you wanted to impress Mom? The one she still talks about?”

His father had laughed so hard Yoongi had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Min Yoongi, are you finally trying to cook for a girl? The same girl who hid behind a coffee mug during your introduction? I knew it the way you looked at her that day.”

Yoongi had nearly hung up. “Just tell me the recipe.”

Another booming laugh. “Japchae. And tell her I said hello. I like her already. She makes you less grumpy.”

Yoongi had ended the call with a muttered “I’m hanging up now,” but the pink on his ears had stayed for the entire cooking process.

His dad knew.

His dad was already planning family dinners in his head.

And you? You were happily twirling noodles around your chopsticks, completely oblivious.

The episode played on. Your legs stayed pressed together.

Halfway through the episode... right when the second lead was doing his usual noble, suffering, silent-pining routine, you threw your hands up dramatically, nearly knocking over your bowl.

“If they don’t let the second lead confess soon, I’m filing an actual petition. This is emotional attack.”

Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh into his spoon. “Dramatic.”

“It’s not dramatic, it’s justice.” You turned to him, cheeks flushed from the spicy stew and the low lighting. “Confessing isn’t that hard. Just say the words. ‘I like you.’ Boom... Done... World keeps spinning.”

He set his bowl down carefully on the table and turned his body slightly toward you. The movement was slow, deliberate.

“Confessing is overrated,” he said, voice quieter than the OST still playing softly in the background.

You blinked and tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked at you then... really looked. Not the quick scans he usually did. Not the amused side-glances. Full, steady eye contact that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

Very slowly, like he was choosing each word with precision, “Because some people are terrible at it.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it.

The drama kept playing... dialogue, music, tension, but it all faded to background noise. You searched his face for a joke, for sarcasm, for anything that would let you laugh this off and keep pretending it was just drama-club banter.

There was none.

Just Yoongi—quiet, unreadable, watching you like he was waiting for something.

You swallowed. “So… what do terrible confessors do instead?”

He didn’t answer right away and just held your gaze a beat longer. Then, softer than you’d ever heard him, “They cook while waiting for you. They transfer assholes who insults you. They show up at your apartment when you say you’re sick. They let you scream at plot twists and steal their office wifi.”

Your breath caught.

You opened your mouth... Closed it... Tried again. “That’s… That's a lot of effort for someone terrible at confessing.”

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe they’re just waiting for the right moment.”

The episode ended. Credits rolled. Neither of you moved to pause or skip or do anything normal.

You cleared your throat, suddenly too aware of how close everything felt. “I… I-I should probably head home. It’s late.”

You stood up too quickly. The blanket tangled around your ankle.

Your foot caught on the edge of the coffee table and you pitched forward... His hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist, steadying you in one smooth motion.

You froze.

He froze.

You were standing inches apart now.

His grip was gentle but firm, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse was hammering like a traitor. Neither of you moved and for once his expression wasn’t guarded or smirking or pretending to be annoyed. It was just… open.

His voice dropped quieter than you’d ever heard it. “You still owe the company forty-eight gigabytes of internet usage.”

You let out a shaky laugh that came out more like a whisper. “How do I repay it?”

His gaze flicked down... just for a heartbeat... to your lips. Then back up to your eyes.

It was slow... Deliberate...

A smirk curved one corner of his mouth, the same dangerous little twitch that had started everything under your desk weeks ago. “I’ll think of something.”

The words hung between you like a promise and a question all at once. His fingers stayed circled around your wrist.

Your breath caught. You didn’t pull away.

He didn’t let go.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought finally formed, bright and undeniable, Oh no... Feelings...

The subway station was only a five-minute walk, but every step felt heavy. You kept replaying the last ten minutes in your head on a loop that refused to pause.

His thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. The way his gaze had dropped—just once, just for a heartbeat, to your lips. That slow, deliberate smirk. “I’ll think of something.”

You swiped your card at the gate, descended the escalator, and found a spot on the platform. The train arrived with a soft whoosh of air. You slipped inside, found an empty seat near the window, and pressed your forehead against the cool glass lurched forward.

The city blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, but you weren’t really seeing it.

He hadn’t said “I like you.” Not once... Not directly...

And yet every single thing he had said felt heavier than any three-word confession could have been.

“They cook while waiting for you.” “They transfer assholes who insults you.” “They show up at your apartment when you say you’re sick.” “They let you scream at plot twists and steal their office wifi.”

You closed your eyes, cheeks warming even in the air-conditioner. He’d listed it all so casually. Like those weren’t the exact moments you’d replayed in your own head.

He’d looked at you the entire time without flinching or looking away.

And when his gaze had flicked to your lips—God. It hadn’t been accidental. It had been intentional. Slow. Hungry in the quietest way. Like he was already imagining what came after the “something” he’d promised to think of.

Your heart gave another stupid, traitorous thud.

What were you supposed to do with that?

Pretend it hadn’t happened? Or... worse... actually hope he meant every word?

The train slowed for your stop.

You stood, gripping the overhead rail a little too tightly. The doors opened. Cool night air rushed in.

You stepped onto the platform, the crowd parting around you like water, and realized you were smiling. Small. Secret. The kind of smile that hurt a little because it was so new.

He hadn’t confessed. Not out loud. Not yet. But he’d spent weeks confessing in every other language he knew how to speak.

And you... bright, chaotic, drama-obsessed you... were finally starting to understand every single one. You pulled your phone out as you climbed the stairs to street level.

No new messages except “Text me when you reach home.”

You didn’t expect any.

But when you reached your apartment door and slipped inside, kicking off your sneakers, you let yourself whisper—just once, to the empty room, “Maybe I’m terrible at it too.”

Then you smiled again, bigger this time, and went to bed with the memory of his thumb on your pulse still tingling under your skin.

It happened so gradually that neither of you noticed until it was already too late. The “secret drama club” turned into something else entirely.

At first it was just occasional dinner after work.

Yoongi would text you a single line at 7:45 p.m. after office almost emptying... “Lobby. 10 minutes.”, and you’d find him waiting by the side entrance, hands in his coat pockets, pretending he hadn’t been checking his watch every thirty seconds.

He’d take you to the tiny samgyeopsal place three blocks away. You’d spend the entire meal teasing him about how he never talked much while he grumbled that you talked enough for both of you.

Then came the late-night drama marathons.

Sometimes at his penthouse, sometimes at yours.

You’d show up with your favorite spicy shrimp chips and a ridiculous amount of chocolate mochi, declaring each new episode. He’d pretend to be annoyed when you paused every five minutes to rant, but he never once told you to shut up.

Instead he’d just lean back, arm stretched along the couch behind you, and quietly say things like “That plot twist was predictable from episode three” while his fingers brushed your shoulder every time you laughed too hard.

It was a Thursday. The office was empty except for the hum of the air conditioning and the glow of your monitor. You were finishing a client presentation deck, eyes burning, when the lights in the hallway flickered on.

Yoongi appeared in your doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, looking like he’d been waiting for you to give up.

“You’re still here,” he said.

You rubbed your eyes. “Deadline. You?”

“Same.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you for a beat. “When are you leaving?”

You glanced at the clock... 10:42 p.m., and sighed. “Just a few more minutes. Then I’m heading to the subway.”

He nodded once, expression unchanging. “Pack up. I’ll walk you out.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to. You’re staying till late, right? You were saying earlier you had some work.”

“I’ll stay a few more hours after,” he said simply. “Doesn’t mean I’m letting you walk alone this late.”

You didn’t argue.

There was something quietly final in his tone that made your chest feel warm despite the exhaustion. You saved the file, shut your laptop, grabbed your bag, and followed him to the elevators.

The building was silent except for the soft ding of each floor passing. Outside, the night air was crisp, streetlights were casting long shadows.

Halfway to the subway entrance, you slowed.

He slowed with you.

You reached out without thinking, grabbed the sleeve of his coat, fingers curling into the fabric.

“Yoongi.” You didn't correct yourself this time.

He stopped and looked down at your hand, then up at your face.

He made a soft questioning hum in his throat.

You swallowed. Heart suddenly loud in your ears. “Are we… dating?”

He sighed like the question personally offended him.

“You want an official stamp letter?” he asked, deadpan. “Company seal and everything?”

You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. “…That’s not an answer.”

He stopped walking then.

He turned to face you fully under the yellow glow of a streetlamp. The city noise faded into background static. For once he didn’t look away, didn’t hide behind that trademark Min Yoongi poker face.

Just looked at you... steady, quiet, a little fond, a little exasperated.

“Is this not obvious?” he said softly.

Your brain short-circuited... Completely...

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Felt your cheeks heat despite the cool night air. The subway entrance was twenty steps away, but it might as well have been on another planet.

All you could focus on was his sleeve still caught in your fingers, the way his eyes hadn’t left yours, the quiet way he was waiting—not pushing, not teasing, just… waiting.

Your cheeks burned. Your grip on his sleeve tightened.

“I… oh,” was all you managed.

Yoongi’s smile finally broke free into a soft chuckle... small, dangerous, devastating. “Yeah. Oh.”

He reached up, brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done, then started walking again, gently tugging you along. “Come on. You’re going to miss the last train if you keep malfunctioning.”

You fell into step beside him, heart still racing, sleeve still in your grasp. You didn’t let go until you reached the platform.

“So… we’re dating,” you said, testing the words out loud.

“Congratulations,” he deadpanned. “You figured it out.”

You laughed—bright, unstoppable. “Does this mean I get to call you my boyfriend now?”

He groaned, but his fingers found yours and laced through them without hesitation. And when the train doors opened, he didn’t just nod this time. He leaned down... slow, deliberate... and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your forehead.

“Text me when you get home,” he said against your hair. Then he stepped back.

You stared at him, dazed, as the doors closed between you. The train pulled away. You touched your forehead, fingers trembling just a little.

And somewhere between Gangnam and your stop, you realized, Yeah... This was definitely dating.

The next morning you floated into the office like someone had replaced the floor with clouds.

Your steps were lighter, your smile wider. You even hummed the Drama OST under your breath while waiting for the elevator—something you never did in public.

When the doors opened on your floor, you practically skipped to your desk, dropping your bag with a happy little sigh and immediately opening your laptop with a dreamy grin.

Hoseok noticed first.

He froze mid-sip of his iced americano, eyes narrowing like a detective who’d just spotted a suspect. Jimin, two desks away, tilted his head and whispered, “Is she… glowing?”

Namjoon, ever the observant one, adjusted his glasses and muttered, “She’s daydreaming already and it’s only 8:45 a.m.”

The three of them exchanging the exact same we need to talk look without saying a single word.

For the next hour they watched you like hawks.

You stared at your screen for a solid thirty minutes without typing, chin in hand, replaying the way Yoongi’s thumb had brushed your wrist and how he’d said “Is this not obvious?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

A tiny, ridiculous smile kept tugging at your lips.

Hoseok leaned over the partition. “Okay, spill. You look like you won the lottery and got free lifetime ramyeon.”

You blinked, snapping out of it. “What? I’m just… happy. Productivity vibes. New day, new me.”

Jimin appeared on your other side, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. “New day, new you? You’ve been smiling at your keyboard like it just proposed to you. Twice.”

Namjoon slid into the empty chair beside your desk, pretending to check a file but clearly not. “You also checked your phone thrice and sighed dreamily in last 5 minutes. That’s not normal. Even for you.”

You tried to deflect, laughing a little too brightly. “Guys, I just had a really good sleep! And the drama last night was peak. Male lead almost confessed... almost. My heart is full.”

Hoseok wasn’t buying it.

He spun your chair so you faced all three of them. “Nope. This is different. We know you.”

Jimin poked your arm. “Come on, bestie. We’re your emotional support trio. Who do we need to threaten? Or congratulate? Or both?”

You felt your cheeks heat. You tried one last dodge. “It’s nothing. Really. Just… the usual.”

Namjoon gave you the disappointed look. “You’re blushing. You never blush like this even when you talk about drama.”

You bit your lip, trying to play coy. “Okay, fine. Let’s just say… the secret drama club got an upgrade. A very official upgrade.”

Silence... Then three simultaneous reactions exploded.

Hoseok’s mouth dropped open. “No.”

Namjoon actually stood up. “No way.”

Jimin grabbed your shoulders, shaking you gently like he was checking if you were real. “Girl. The CEO? I knew it! I knew the second he transferred Seung-ho that something was up! But dating?! You’re dating the boss?!”

Namjoon was still processing, glasses slightly askew.

You leaned back, cheeks still pink, sunshine brighter than ever. “You guys are the worst and the best. Just… be normal.”

Jimin was already vibrating. “We need details. Every single detail. Does he smile? Like an actual smile? Does he get soft when you tease him? I need to know if our grumpy CEO is whipped.”

Namjoon just shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Just… be careful, yeah? But also... congratulations.”

You leaned back in your chair, still glowing, still bubbling, and grinned at your three best friends.

“He’s still grumpy,” you said softly. “But he’s my grumpy now.”

Hoseok fake-gagged. Jimin squealed. Namjoon just sighed like a proud dad.

It been few weeks and the new intern arrived like a burst of golden retriever energy wrapped in a pressed white shirt and wide-eyed enthusiasm.

Jungkook was twenty-three, fresh out of university, ridiculously polite, and apparently incapable of going five minutes without smiling.

Within his first day he’d already helped three people carry boxes, complimented the office coffee machine.

And today somehow he ended up at your desk asking for help with the photocopier settings.

“Noona, want to grab lunch?” he asked, leaning against your partition with both hands in his pockets, head tilted like a curious puppy.

“There’s this new place around the corner that does really good bibimbap. My treat? As thanks for saving me from the printer apocalypse earlier.”

You laughed... easy, automatic, the same laugh you gave everyone who made you smile. “You’re buying already? Careful, I’ll get used to it.”

Jungkook grinned wider. “That’s the plan.”

From the two floor above, Yoongi watched the entire exchange, standing in hallway just outside his cabin.

He stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but the way his jaw tightened when you laughed... at whatever Jungkook had just said was unmistakable.

He gestured animatedly, probably telling some story about his university days, and you nodded along, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Yoongi’s fingers tightened once against his bicep. When Jungkook walked away, then he also turned away, walked back to his desk, and picked up his phone.

Your phone buzzed two minutes later.

Yoongi: CEO wants to see you. Now.

You groaned loud enough that Hoseok peeked over from the next desk. “What now? Did you download another forty-eight gigabytes from your boyfriend's wi-fi?”

“Worse,” you muttered, standing up. “It's not the boyfriend who summons. It's the boss summons.”

You took the elevator up to the executive floor.

His office door was ajar. You knocked once, pushed it open.

Yoongi was seated on the wide black couch, legs crossed at the ankle, laptop balanced on his thighs as he typed with focused intensity. The room was dimmer than usual... blinds fully-closed. He didn’t look up when you entered.

“Yes, boss?” you asked, keeping your tone light and professional in case anyone was lingering in the hallway.

He kept typing for another few seconds—long enough to make you shift your weight, then closed the laptop with a quiet snap and set it aside on the cushion next to him.

Only then did he lift his gaze, dark eyes locking onto yours. “You’re close with the intern.”

You blinked. “...What?”

He leaned back against the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting casually on his thigh. “You laughed at his joke.”

You stared at him, mouth parting slightly. The pieces clicked together so fast your brain almost made an audible sound. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m observant,” he corrected, voice low and even.

You crossed your arms. A slow smile started tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You’re jealous.”

He exhaled through his nose... the classic Yoongi sigh of reluctant surrender. “...Whatever.”

Your heart did a tiny, traitorous flip. The grumpy CEO of the entire company was lounging on his own office couch admitting that he was jealous over an intern’s lunch invitation.

It was ridiculous. It was adorable.

You crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until you were standing right in front of him. He watched every step, expression still guarded but eyes softer now, tracking you like he couldn’t look away.

You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently with one hand, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the other cheek.

His eyes widened... comically, for half a second. The faint pout that had been forming on his lips froze, then deepened into something even more unfairly cute.

You pulled back, grinning. “There. Feel better?”

You started to straighten.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not hard, just firm enough to stop you mid-step.

Before you could react, he tugged.

You stumbled forward with a small yelp.

He guided you down effortlessly, pulling you onto his lap until you were straddling him on the wide couch, knees sinking into the leather on either side of his hips, hands braced on his shoulders.

“Yoongi—”

He didn’t let you finish.

One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other curled possessively around your waist, and he kissed you.

Not the soft forehead pecks or the quick cheek brushes of the past few weeks.

This was different.

This was hungry.

His lips moved against yours with quiet, deliberate intensity—like he’d been holding this back for longer than he’d ever admit. You gasped softly into his mouth and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tilting his head just enough to fit perfectly.

Your fingers found his hair, threading through the dark strands, tugging lightly. He made a low sound in the back of his throat... half growl, half sigh, that sent heat racing down your spine.

The kiss turned heated fast.

His hands slid under your blouse, palms warm and broad against the bare skin of your lower back, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his. You rocked forward instinctively, hips pressing down, and he groaned—quiet, controlled, but unmistakable.

The sound vibrated straight through you.

One hand left your back to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he kissed you slower now, deeper, savoring every slide of tongue, every small sound you made.

The couch leather creaked softly beneath you both.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips hovering over his, swollen and slick.

“Still jealous?” you whispered, voice wrecked, teasing.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he dragged his teeth lightly over your bottom lip, tugging before releasing it with a soft pop. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no real bite in it—only heat.

You grinned against his mouth. “Make me.”

His eyes darkened instantly. “Careful what you ask for.”

Before you could fire back, he kissed you again—harder this time, possessive, one hand sliding up your spine under the blouse until his fingers splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you exactly where he wanted.

You whimpered into his mouth when he nipped at your tongue, then soothed it with a slow, filthy lick. Your hips rolled down again—deliberate this time.

He hissed through his teeth, fingers digging into your waist.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, the rare curse slipping out like he couldn’t help it. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You pulled his hair a little harder, tilting his head back so you could kiss along the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re so dramatic.”

He let his head fall back against the couch for a second, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Then his hands slid lower, gripping your hips, guiding you into another slow grind that made both of you gasp.

“Not dramatic,” he rasped. “Territorial.”

You nipped at the spot just under his ear... the one that always made him shiver. “Say it properly.”

He turned his face, catching your lips again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. “You’re mine,” he said between kisses, voice gravel-rough. “Not his noona. Not anyone’s. Mine.”

You moaned softly, fingers tightening in his hair. “Then prove it.”

His control snapped—just a little.

In one smooth motion he flipped you both so your back hit the couch cushions, him hovering over you, one knee braced between your thighs. The new angle pressed him right where you wanted, hard and insistent through his slacks.

You arched up instinctively, chasing friction, and he dropped his forehead to yours with a strangled sound.

“Tease,” he accused, voice wrecked.

“Says the man who dragged me onto his lap in the middle of the workday.”

He leaned down slowly, eyes locked on yours, dark and intent.

His fingers found the top button of your blouse. One by one he worked them open watching your face the entire time. The fabric parted inch by inch, revealing skin, lace, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

When the last button gave way, he didn’t pull the blouse completely off; he simply pushed the sides apart, letting the material slide off your shoulders just enough to pool loosely around your elbows, trapping your arms in the softest, most teasing restraint.

Only then did his mouth find your neck.

Open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing, sucking lightly enough to leave faint marks you’d have to hide tomorrow. You tilted your head back, giving him more room, fingers digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

“Yoongi…” His name came out like a plea.

He hummed against your skin, pleased, the vibration traveling straight down your spine. “Say it again.”

“Yoongi,” you breathed, louder this time, hips chasing up in a slow, deliberate grind. “Please.”

He groaned, low and filthy, and kissed you once more... desperate now, all pretense gone. Hands everywhere. Hips rocking together in a rhythm that had the couch creaking louder, leather protesting under the movement.

When you finally broke apart again, both of you were panting, foreheads pressed together, hair mussed, clothes askew—your blouse hanging open and draped around your elbows, his shirt half-untucked, tie completely forgotten somewhere on the floor.

He looked down at you... eyes blown dark, lips red and wet, expression wrecked and possessive and so unbearably soft at the edges.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, lips brushing his as you spoke. “Jealous over a freshly graduate intern.”

He huffed a laugh against your mouth... short, breathless, the sound vibrating through your chest. “He called you noona.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His hair was mussed, lips red and wet, eyes dark and a little dazed. Still grumpy, but the possessiveness in his gaze was unmistakable.

“You’re mine,” he said quietly. Not a question... Not a demand...

Just a fact he was stating.

Your heart stuttered.

You leaned in again, pressing one more soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I am.”

He kissed you once more... slow this time, almost gentle... then rested his forehead against yours, hands still firm on your waist.

“Stay for lunch,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Here... No interns.”

You laughed softly. “Deal. But only if you admit you were jealous.”

He sighed again—long, dramatic. “...Maybe.”

You grinned, pressing one last teasing kiss to his pout.

The conference room was dead silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional nervous cough from the marketing team.

The quarterly strategy presentation was in full swing.

Yoongi sat at the head of the long table, arms crossed, expression carved from stone... pure intimidating CEO mode. His dark eyes scanned every slide like he was personally auditing the company’s soul.

The team was sweating. Literally sweating...

Someone’s tie looked two sizes too tight, and the intern Jungkook kept wiping his palms on his pants under the table. You were midway through your section, laser pointer steady, voice professional, when your phone buzzed once against your thigh.

You glanced down under the table.

Notification: Episode 25 of Love in the Slow Lane – FINALE RELEASED!

Your automatic sunshine smile broke through before you could stop it. Without thinking... because your brain apparently short-circuited at the words “finale released”—you unlocked your phone under the table and fired off a quick text to the only person who would understand the urgency.

You: Final episode dropped... 🥰🤩

You hit send and slipped the phone back into your lap, heart already racing with excitement.

Two seconds later, your laptop—currently screen-sharing to the projector—lit up with the incoming message notification in massive, crystal-clear letters across the entire wall.

Yoongi: DON’T YOU DARE WATCH WITHOUT ME.

The chat bubble hovered there for everyone to see. Bold. Unmissable. Phone mirroring had betrayed you in the most spectacular way possible.

The room froze.

Marketing team manager Mr. Park slowly turned his head toward you like a horror-movie ghost. Then toward Yoongi. Then back to you. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Namjoon, Jimin, and Hoseok, who had been sitting in the back row pretending to take notes... were visibly fighting for their lives. Namjoon had both hands clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Jimin was biting his lip so hard it was turning white, eyes watering with suppressed laughter. Hoseok had pressed his forehead to the table and was making tiny wheezing noises into his sleeve.

Jungkook, the poor innocent intern, stared at the projector with wide bunny eyes, mouth forming a perfect O. “Wait… what?”

A stunned whisper floated from the left side of the table.

“…without him?”

Another, louder: “Episode?”

Then Jungkook... bless his pure innocent heart... whispered in absolute shock, “They… watch dramas together??”

The entire room turned into a sea of 👁️👄👁️ faces. Someone dropped their pen. Another person’s coffee cup tilted dangerously.

Yoongi didn’t even blink.

He simply leaned back in his chair, voice calm and terrifyingly composed. “Miss Y/N, you may continue with the presentation.”

You felt your soul leave your body, hover near the ceiling for a second, then slam back in.

Your face was on fire.

You cleared your throat, somehow managed to point at the next slide with a trembling laser, and continued like the professional you were pretending to be. “A-as I was saying… the proposed budget allocation for Q3 campaigns…”

The rest of the meeting dragged on in awkward, electric silence.

Namjoon had to fake a coughing fit to hide his laughter.

Jimin kept muttering “oh my god when this meeting will end” under his breath.

Hoseok was now hiding behind his notebook, shoulders still shaking.

Jungkook looked like he’d just discovered his favorite noona was secretly living in a K-drama.

When the final slide clicked off and the lights came back up, Yoongi stood slowly, buttoning his suit jacket with the same calm precision he used for everything else.

Before anyone could bolt or start whispering, he spoke—casual, low, like he was announcing the weather.

“Before any of you decide to spread rumors in the group chat, let me make this clear.” He glanced once around the room, then settled his gaze on you. “She is my girlfriend.”

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the sound of your heart thumping so louder.

Yoongi continued, completely unbothered. “We’ve been together for a while now.” A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Any questions?”

No one dared.

Jungkook’s hand shot up instinctively, then immediately dropped like he’d touched a hot stove.

Namjoon finally lost the battle and let out a strangled laugh-snort into his fist. Jimin wheezed, “I NEED AIR!” while Hoseok just clapped once, slow and proud, muttering, “Finally.”

Yoongi looked at you across the table, eyes soft in that secret way only you could read. “Meeting adjourned.”

You stood there, blouse still perfectly professional, cheeks burning, heart doing cartwheels. The entire marketing floor was about to explode with gossip.

And you?

You were officially, publicly, undeniably the CEO’s girlfriend.

Destiny really had chosen violence today.

The building had gone completely quiet by the time you slipped into Yoongi’s office. The last fluorescent light in the hallway flickered off behind you as the door clicked shut.

He was already on the couch, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just detonated your secret life in front of whole marketing department.

You crossed your arms and launched in immediately.

“Why are you so harsh on the marketing team? My manager was literally shaking before the meeting even started. You stared at him like he personally invented budget overruns.”

Yoongi didn’t reply.

Instead he reached out, fingers curling around your wrist, and tugged you forward until you stood between his knees. Before you could pull away, he stood up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss along your jaw.

You tried to keep your scolding tone. “And don’t think you can distract me. Announcing we’re dating in the middle of a quarterly strategy meeting? Really? Everyone's eyes were this big...”

You held up two fingers an inch apart “...and Namjoon nearly choked on air trying not to laugh. The whole room went silent. Like funeral silent.”

His lips moved lower, trailing hot kisses down the side of your neck, sucking gently at the spot that always made your breath hitch.

You kept going, voice faltering only slightly. “You can’t just... mhmm—drop ‘she’s my girlfriend’ like it’s the weather forecast. People are going to talk. HR is going to talk. I was trying to act normal and you...”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then your cheek... soft, teasing pecks that melted the edges of your fake anger.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you down on the couch with him until you were straddling his lap, skirt riding up your thighs.

You kept going, even as your voice started to breath. “And don’t think I missed how you looked at me the whole meeting like you were already planning this. Ughhh... You’re impossible. I came here to be mad at you, not—”

Yoongi hummed against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight down your spine. “Keep complaining,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “I like it when you’re feisty.”

You tried. You really did. “The finale dropped and now everyone knows we watch dramas together and... wait, what about the finale? We were supposed to watch it tonight—”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark and hungry.

“Fuck the finale,” he said, voice low and rough. “We can watch it tomorrow.”

Then he kissed you properly... deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours like he was starving for it.

Your complaints dissolved into a soft moan as his hands roamed up your sides, fingers deftly working the buttons of your blouse open one by one.

He parted it slowly, pushing the sides apart to reveal your bra, then reached behind you to unhook it with a single practiced flick. The lace fell away and he palmed your breasts immediately, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch.

“Yoongi... wait... we’re still in the office—”

“Empty building,” he murmured against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Door's locked... No one’s coming back.”

You rocked down against the hard length straining through his slacks, already wet and aching. “You’re impossible. I came here to yell at you.”

He chuckled low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. “Yell louder then.” His fingers slipped under your skirt, pushing your panties aside, stroking through your slick folds. “Or moan my name. Either works.”

You gasped when he circled your clit, slow and teasing. “This isn’t fair.”

“Never said I play fair.”

You arched into him with a whimper. “Yoongi—”

He hummed approval against your mouth, pinching lightly, rolling the peaks between his fingers until you were squirming in his lap.

“Love when you say my name like that,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. “Keep going.”

His mouth left yours to trail down your throat, open-mouthed kisses turning into bites and sucks that would leave faint purple marks by morning.

When he reached your breasts he didn’t hesitate—lips closing around one nipple, tongue flicking, then sucking hard enough to make you cry out.

His hand worked the other, pinching and tugging in rhythm with his mouth until you were panting, fingers tangled in his hair, hips grinding down desperately. “Yoongi... please—”

He switched sides, giving the other nipple the same filthy attention, teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly. “So sensitive,” he rasped against your skin. “Already dripping for me and I have just started.”

You whined, tugging his hair harder. “Then touch me properly.”

He lifted you just enough to shove your skirt up to your waist, fingers hooking into your panties and dragging them down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull.

You kicked them off somewhere behind the couch, the soft fabric whispering against the floor.

His hand slid between your legs immediately... two fingers stroking through your slick folds, parting you gently before circling your clit once, twice, slow and teasing.

You gasped, head falling back against the couch cushion. “Fuck... Fuck... yes—”

He watched your face intently, eyes dark and focused. “Already this soaked,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Just from me calling you mine in front of the whole room?”

You nodded frantically, hips twitching toward his hand. “Yes—God, yes... couldn’t stop thinking about it—”

“About what?” He pushed both fingers inside you in one smooth glide, curling them upward right away, pressing against that spot that made your breath hitch. “Tell me.”

You moaned, thighs trembling. “About… about how you looked at me. Like you wanted to drag me out of there right then. Claim me.”

He groaned at your words, pumping slowly at first, long, deep strokes—then faster, thumb finding your clit again and rubbing tight, relentless circles.

“I did,” he rasped. “Still do. Every time someone looks at you too long I want to remind them who you belong to.”

“Yoongi...” Your voice cracked on his name as he curled harder, scissoring his fingers slightly to stretch you. “...Fuck—right there... don’t stop—”

“Like this?” He angled his wrist, pressing deeper, thumb never leaving your clit. “Or harder?”

“Harder... please—fuck, just like that...”

He added a third finger without warning, the stretch burning sweetly, filling you completely. You cried out, back arching off the couch, walls clenching around him.

“Too much?” he asked, voice suddenly softer, though his fingers didn’t slow.

“No... no... perfect,” you panted, hips rocking desperately to meet every thrust. “Feels so good... don’t you dare stop—”

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “You’re dripping down my hand, baby. Making such a mess. All because I said you’re mine?”

“Yes... yes—yours... only yours—” You were babbling now, words tumbling out between moans. “Keep going... please... gonna come—”

Your thighs shook violently, walls fluttering wildly around him. “Yoongi... close—fuck... I’m...”

Then he pulled out suddenly, ignoring your frustrated whine.

“Not yet,” he said, voice wrecked and gravelly from restraint. “Want to taste you first.”

He flipped you onto your back on the couch in one smooth, practiced motion, spreading your thighs wide with firm hands. Before you could even catch your breath, his mouth was on you—tongue flat and broad, dragging a long, slow stripe up your center from entrance to clit.

The first contact made your hips jerk off the leather. “Fuck... Yoongi..”

He hummed in approval against your folds, the low vibration traveling straight through your core. “You are so wet for me,” he murmured, lips brushing your clit as he spoke. “Taste so fucking good.”

You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth—gentle at first, then harder, flicking the tip of his tongue in tight, rapid circles.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling and tugging hard enough to make him groan into you.

“Like that?” he rasped between licks, pulling back just enough for you to feel the words against your swollen flesh. “Tell me.”

“Yes—Go deep, yes... don’t stop... ”

He plunged his tongue inside you then, fucking you with it in slow, deep strokes while his thumbs spread you open wider, exposing every sensitive inch. You bucked against his face, thighs trembling.

“Yoongi... oh my God... right there—”

He growled low, the sound rumbling through you like thunder. “That’s it. Ride my tongue, baby. Use me.”

You did... hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth, chasing the pressure of his tongue curling inside you. He pulled back for a second, lips glistening, eyes dark and blown as he looked up at you.

“Look at you,” he said hoarsely, voice thick with want. “Falling apart just from my mouth. So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.”

“Yoongi... please—” Your voice cracked, hips canting up toward him. “I need—more... ”

He didn’t make you beg twice.

He dove back in, lips sealing around your clit again, sucking hard while two fingers slid inside you—curling immediately against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

He pumped them in time with the flick of his tongue, relentless, filthy wet sounds filling the quiet office.

“Gonna come for me?” he asked, words muffled against your pussy. “Want to feel you come on my tongue. Want to taste it.”

“Y-Yes—fuck... yes...”

He sucked harder, fingers curling faster, thumb pressing firm circles just above where his mouth worked. The coil in your belly snapped without warning.

You came hard and fast, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the couch, a broken, loud moan of his name tearing from your throat as you pulsed around his fingers and tongue.

He didn’t stop... kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, drawing out every aftershock until you were whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.

When he finally pulled back, lips and chin shiny, he crawled up your body, pressing soft, wet kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, finally to your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he murmured against your lips, kissing you deep so you could taste the evidence of your release on his tongue.

You moaned into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck, boneless and wrecked.

“Still mad at me?” he whispered, smirking against your lips.

You laughed breathlessly, fingers tangled in his hair around nape. “Shut up and fuck me already.”

He chuckled low, already reaching for his belt. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rose up just enough to shove his pants and boxers down his thighs, cock springing free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. He lined up carefully, eyes never leaving yours, and pushed inside in one slow, deep stroke.

Both of you groaned at the stretch, low and long.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice softer now, almost reverent. “So tight… always feel so fucking perfect around me.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, pulling him deeper until there was no space left between you. Your hands slid up his arms, fingers curling around his biceps.

“Yoongi…” you breathed, voice trembling with how full you felt. “Slow… please. Just like this.”

He stilled for a heartbeat, forehead dropping to rest against yours, breathing you in. Then he began to move... long, measured rolls of his hips, dragging out every inch on the withdrawal before sliding back in just as deep.

The couch creaked softly beneath you, a gentle rhythm now instead of frantic.

“Like this?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Just feel me?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Yeah… just like that. Don’t stop.”

One of his hands cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. The other slipped between your bodies, fingertips finding your clit and circling with the lightest pressure—enough to keep the pleasure building slow and steady, never rushing.

“Look at me,” he whispered when your lashes started to flutter shut again. His voice was rough with emotion, not command. “Want to see you. Every second.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, unguarded gaze. There was no smirk, no teasing glint... just raw adoration and something achingly tender.

“Yoongi…” Your voice cracked on his name. “I love you.”

The words slipped out unplanned, quiet and certain.

He froze for half a breath, then exhaled shakily against your mouth. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you repeated, softer, fingers tightening in his hair. “So much.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, swallowing the tiny sound you made as he rolled his hips in that same gentle rhythm. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was wrecked.

“Love you too,” he said against your lips, the confession almost a groan. “Fuck… love you so much it hurts sometimes.”

Your walls fluttered around him at the words.

He felt it... groaned low in his throat—and kept moving, steady, unhurried, letting the pleasure build like a tide.

“You’re close again,” he murmured, thumb still circling your clit with feather-light touches. “Can feel you squeezing me… so sweet.”

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how good it felt, how full, how loved. “Yoongi... please—”

“Come with me,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Want to feel you come around me while I’m inside you. Just us.”

The words, the gentle grind of his hips, the soft circles of his thumb—it all crested at once.

You came with a soft, broken cry of his name, clenching tight around him, trembling from head to toe. Tears slipped down your temples as the pleasure rolled through you in long, warm waves.

He followed right after—burying himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, a low, wrecked groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you.

For a long minute you just breathed... sweaty, tangled, hearts hammering against each other.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he shifted carefully, rolling so you were draped across his chest, still connected, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

“Stay like this,” he whispered into your hair, voice thick. “Just a little longer.”

You pressed a trembling kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Always.”

He exhaled shakily, one hand stroking slow circles on your bare back.

“Love you,” he said again, quieter this time, like the words were still new and precious.

You smiled against his skin, eyes closing. “Love you more.”

As the moment settled down, you finally laughed weakly, fingers carding through his damp hair. “So… we’re really doing this? Full public dating era?”

He pressed a lazy kiss to your temple. “Told you. You’re mine.”

You tilted his chin up, meeting his eyes. “And you’re mine. No more glaring at interns. Or announcing things in meetings without warning me.”

He smirked. “No promises.”

You swatted his shoulder lightly. “Yoongi.”

“Fine,” he conceded, kissing your palm. “I’ll warn you next time. Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile wouldn’t leave your face. “And the finale?”

“Tomorrow,” he promised, already nuzzling back into your neck. “Your place. Snacks. No interruptions. Then I’ll love you on your couch too.”

You laughed, bright and helpless. “Deal.”

He hummed contentedly, arms tightening around you. “Stay with me at my penthouse tonight,” he murmured against your skin.

And as the city lights glittered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, you let yourself melt completely into the man who had turned your entire life into the best kind of k-drama.

A/n: Guys, can somebody let me know why Yoongi is bias wrecking me so bad currently? Also Thanks to him, I am still sobbing while listening to Like Animals, especially the lyrics of his verse😭😭😭

KIM NAMJOON

He’s in the armchair with a book in hand, glasses perched on his nose. You curl up in his lap, opening your own copy of the book he suggested few days ago.

“I just started it!” you ramble, excitement bubbling as you tell him your first impressions.

He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even look up from his page, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

His free hand drifts lazily up your thigh, fingertips tracing idle circles that get higher and higher the more you gush.

He listens quietly, a soft smile tugging his lips, until you pause.

“I’m not boring you, right?” He chuckles when you ask.

Finally, he shuts his book with a soft thud and presses a slow kiss against your temple.

“Darling, do you realize how sexy it is when you get so passionate about things? Keep talking.” His hand rubs your inner thigh absently, making you gasp.

He smirks, nipping at your ear.

You smack his chest. “Stop distracting me!”

“But you’re the one distracting me,” he counters, smirking.

“Now I have to decide which I like better—your mind or the way you squirm in my lap when I touch you here.”

KIM SEOKJIN

He’s cutting fresh fruit, sitting at dining table in kitchen, lips pursed in concentration like the perfectionist he is.

You wander in, plop onto his lap at the dining table, and start yapping about a recipe you saw online—“So, it was something with cream, cheese, and way too many steps.”

“Baby, you’re literally describing a heart attack on a plate,” he chuckles, holding a slice of strawberry to your lips.

“Open. Don’t talk too much while eating, or you’ll choke.”

You pout dramatically but take the bite, letting the juice drip down your lips just to be bratty. He groans, thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth.

“God, you’re messy.”

He mutters, licking the juice off his thumb slowly, deliberately. “God, do you enjoy making me lose my mind?”

“Maybe,” you smirk, shifting in his lap intentionally. “Feed me more.”

He exhales sharply when your weight grinds down against him. The fruit bowl nearly tips as he steadies it with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard.

“Princess, if you keep squirming like that, dessert won’t be fruit anymore.”

MIN YOONGI

Yoongi is sprawled lazily on the couch, hoodie swallowing him whole, hair messy from hours of working on music in his studio.

You crawl onto his lap, straddling him without a second thought, your voice bubbling with excitement as you start talking about the new songs you found online.

“They seriously were inspired from your style—like the beats—”

“Mm,” he hums, head tilting back against the cushion, one eye lazily following your lips.

His hands settle heavy and warm on your hips, thumbs stroking the curve of your waist. “You’re cute when you get all nerdy like this.”

“Am I talking too much?” you ask shyly, chewing on your lip.

He opens one eye, smirking. “No. I like it. Go on.”

You flush as his hand drifts under your shirt, thumb rubbing lazy circles into your skin.

“You really listening, though?” you tease, shifting just slightly on his lap—innocent, but not really.

Yoongi’s breath hitches, smirk deepening.

“Every word. But if you keep grinding down like that, princess, I’m not gonna remember a single song you mentioned.”

JUNG HOSEOK

He’s fresh from practice, shirt clinging to his chest, skin still warm and damp when he flops onto the nearby couch. You don’t give him a second to breathe before straddling his lap, all smiles and sparkly eyes.

“Wait, wait—do it again! I also wanna learn that step,” you giggle, hands flying as you mimic the dance steps he’d just shown, bouncing on him without realizing how hard.

His breath catches, hands gripping your thighs.

“Baby… you do know you’re grinding on me right now, right?” His grin is sinful, sweat-slick hair falling into his eyes.

“I’m not!” you protest, still moving, still wiggling excitedly. “I’m just—enthusiastic!”

“Enthusiastic?” He laughs low, voice rough, his hips subtly pushing up against you. “Enthusiastic is gonna kill me. Keep bouncing like that and I’ll show you moves you’ve never seen.”

You smirk, leaning down close to his ear. “Maybe I like killing you a little.”

He groans, head tipping back as his hands slide up to your hips, holding you still.

“Don’t play with me. Keep bouncing like that and I’ll bend you over the mirror right now—sweaty, messy, and begging for me to ruin you.”

PARK JIMIN

Jimin is sprawled over the couch with one arm around you, peacefully. But the second you decide to straddle his lap, his peace is ruined.

“Babe, this character literally reminded me of you—so dramatic but so charming,” you tease, hands waving around, voice excited, buzzing about a show you binge-watched.

He laughs, tucking your hair behind your ear, as his other hand grips your thigh. “So you like the dramatic types, huh?”

“Only when they’re cute,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss his jaw deliberately slow, letting your lips linger.

His fingers tighten at your waist.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” His eyes flick down to where you’re seated over him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re squirming way too much for me to focus on anything happening on that screen.”

“Who said I wanted you to watch the movie?” you smirk and whisper against his ear, deliberately rolling your hips once.

“Fuck, you’re evil.” He groans as his hand slides down to grip your ass, squeezing. His head tips back against the couch, breath catching.

“Princess, if you keep teasing me like that, I’m gonna ruin you right here—blankets, popcorn, all of it.”

KIM TAEHYUNG

He’s lounging with your designs spread out on the coffee table, genuinely interested as you point out details of your upcoming launch.

You climb into his lap to show him sketches on your tablet, rambling about colours and textures, while he hums like he’s listening—except his fingertips keep brushing higher and higher on your thigh.

“Mm,” he drawls, leaning in so close his breath fans your ear. “You’re brilliant, baby. But you know what would make your designs better?”

“What?” you ask, already aware of the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“If I modelled for you.” He pauses, before adding with a wicked grin, “Naked.”

You gasp, smacking his chest with the tablet. “Tae!”

“What?” he laughs, unbothered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “It’s artistic.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, cheeks hot.

“But you love it,” he sings teasingly, catching your chin to tilt it up for a kiss. “You love when I drive you crazy.”

His hand slides higher, cupping under your skirt this time, thumb dragging slow circles on your inner thigh.

When you open your mouth to protest, he smirks.

“Or, maybe you could sketch me—hard and aching for you—while you sit here squirming in my lap.”

JEON JUNGKOOK

Jungkook’s halfway through a heated match, headset on, trash-talking strangers online, when you slide onto his lap uninvited.

You start gushing about how you became MVP earlier using the tricks he taught you.

“See? I’m learning!” you beam, bouncing a little.

He freezes mid-match, arms tightening around you. “Babe—fuck—do you realize what you’re doing to me right now?”

His voice is low, warning, but his teammates in his ear are still screaming directions.

“I’m just proud!” You tilt your head innocently, grinding the tiniest bit against him. “Don’t you want me to celebrate my win?”

The joystick slips in his sweaty palms, his character dying onscreen. He slams the controller onto the desk, jaw tight, arms banding around you.

“You’re evil. Wriggling in my lap while I’m mid-game? You like distracting me that much, huh?”

“Maybe, yes.” Your lips brush his ear.

He groans, hips bucking up involuntarily.

His hands grip your ass hard, dragging you closer until you can feel just how hard he’s getting. “One more grind like that and I’m shutting everything off.”

Smirking, you rock against him deliberately, slow and taunting. “What if I want that only, gamer boy?”

The way he rips his headset off? Deadly.

“You wanted real MVP gameplay? Then you’re about to get wrecked in the filthiest bonus round of your life.”

A/n: First attempt at writing a drabble - short but little spicy. Hope you all like it. 💜

The apartment was wrapped in a heavy, suffocating quiet that night, the kind that followed a fight neither of you had truly meant to let spiral so far.

The argument had ended badly.

You had stormed off to the guest room, clutching your pride like a shield, even though deep down you were already hoping he would come after you.

You were in nothing but Taehyung’s oversized black t-shirt that fell loosely to mid-thigh and a pair of simple black panties underneath. The fabric still carried his warm, familiar scent.

You crawled under the thin blanket, your bare legs brushing against the cool sheets, and tried to force yourself to sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

The bed felt too big, too empty, too wrong.

Usually, Taehyung would already be there, beside you, stealing most of the blanket with one lazy tug, throwing a heavy arm over your waist to pull you close, pressing his face into the crook of your neck so you could feel his warm breath and the soft tickle of his hair.

He’d mumble half-asleep nonsense—random lyrics, complaints about the day, or silly “I love you”s that made no sense but still made your heart flutter.

Tonight, there was only silence.

Cold, stubborn silence.

You turned onto your side, hugging the pillow tightly to your chest, and whispered into it, voice barely audible in the dark room. “Idiot… I hate fighting with him. Why did we even say those things? He’s such a stubborn fool… and I’m worse.”

You sighed deeply, eyes stinging with unshed tears you refused to let fall. Your heart ached with missing him already, the fight feeling smaller and smaller with every passing minute.

The apartment felt too still without his presence, without the low hum of his breathing or the way he always found some way to touch you even in sleep.

Meanwhile, in the shared bedroom, Taehyung laid alone on his side of the large bed you usually shared. The room felt hollow without you in it.

He ran his long fingers slowly over your pillow, tracing the space where your head had rested that morning. The faint scent of your shampoo still lingered there, and it made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

He replayed the argument in his head over and over, jaw clenched.

The harsh words, the raised voices, the way your eyes had flashed with hurt before you turned away.

He hadn’t meant any of it. Not really.

He never did when things got heated like that. But his stupid pride had kept him rooted here, lying in bed in the dark like an idiot instead of going to you immediately.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rough. “Why do we always do this? I hate seeing her upset. I hate it more when I’m the reason. Why tf did I even tell her about giving space?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.

The silence in the room pressed in on him, making the emptiness even louder. He missed the way you’d curl into his side without thinking, the soft laugh you’d give when he teased you, the way your fingers would find his under the covers.

One hour. That was all he could last.

“I should’ve just said sorry right away,” he whispered to the empty room, standing up slowly. His heart was already pulling him toward the guest room.

“She’s probably lying there pretending she’s fine… but I know her. She’s missing me too. God, I’m such an idiot for letting her sleep alone.”

Taehyung ran his fingers through his messy hair, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips despite everything. He knew he couldn’t stay away any longer.

The need to hold you, to fix this, to feel you close again... it was stronger than any stubbornness left in him.

He walked quietly down the hallway, bare feet silent on the cool floor, until he reached the guest room door.

His hand hovered for a moment, then he gave a soft, hesitant knock.

The soft knock at the guest room door came just after 1 a.m., cutting through the heavy silence like a gentle reminder that the night wasn’t meant to end in separate beds.

You already knew it was him before you even lifted your head from the pillow. Your heart gave a small, traitorous flutter despite the lingering hurt from the fight.

You sat up slowly, the oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder as you called out, voice still heavy with pretended annoyance, “Come in.”

Taehyung pushed the door open and stood there in the low light spilling from the hallway. His hair was adorably messy, dark strands falling over his forehead in that effortlessly charming way.

His eyes looked tired, a little red-rimmed from the long evening, but they carried that familiar warmth when they landed on you—the kind that always made your resolve waver.

He was wearing only a simple black tank top and grey sweatpants, looking every bit as exhausted and soft as you felt.

He leaned against the doorframe for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, then said in a voice softer than usual, almost hesitant, “I came to take something of mine in here.”

Your heart sank instantly.

Of course. He hadn’t come for you.

He was just here for some forgotten item... his laptop charger maybe, or a book, whatever. The disappointment hit harder than you expected after already missing him so much.

You forced a small scoff, crossing your arms over your chest and trying to sound irritated. “Then take it and let me sleep peacefully, Kim Taehyung. I don’t have time for this right now.”

He didn’t move at first.

Instead, he stepped fully into the room, his gaze drifting over you—bare legs tangled in the blanket, his oversized t-shirt draped loosely over your body, the way your hair must have looked messy from tossing and turning.

Something in his expression shifted, a quiet pause as if he was drinking you in after the minutes apart. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he stayed silent for a beat longer than necessary.

Then, without another word, he crossed the room in two long strides.

Before you could even protest properly, his strong arms slid under you. With effortless strength, he lifted you clean off the bed and tossed you over his broad shoulder like you weighed nothing.

A surprised gasp escaped your lips as the world tilted.

Your stomach pressed against his shoulder, one of his hands steadying you firmly on your lower back while the other rested high on the back of your thigh.

The oversized t-shirt rode up dangerously as he adjusted his grip, cool air brushing your bare skin and the edge of your panties.

“Kim Taehyung!” you exclaimed, half-laughing, half-protesting as you dangled there, your hands instinctively gripping the back of his tank top for balance. “Put me down right now! What do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, as he turned toward the door, he murmured softly against your waist, his warm breath fanning over the strip of bare skin where the t-shirt had ridden up. “Found it.”

The words were low, almost a whisper, laced with that deep, velvety voice that always sent shivers down your spine.

Then he pressed a soft, lingering peck right on your exposed waist... gentle, warm lips against your skin that made you shiver visibly, a small involuntary sound slipping from your throat.

You smiled hard despite yourself, biting your lip to keep from grinning like an idiot while you were still supposed to be annoyed. Your heart was racing now, the earlier disappointment melting away under his touch.

“Taehyung, I’m serious,” you said dramatically, though your voice had already softened with affection as he started walking out of the guest room, carrying you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Put me down! This is ridiculous. I was trying to sleep peacefully, you know.”

“No,” he replied instantly, the single word firm and certain, carrying no room for argument.

There was a hint of a smirk in his tone, that playful dominance he sometimes slipped into when he wanted to remind you exactly where you belonged.

You let out a dramatic huff, kicking your legs lightly in protest even as your hands clutched his back tighter. “You can’t just come in here and kidnap me like this! What if I wanted to stay in the guest room tonight? What happened to your "giving each other space rule" after a fight?”

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your body as he carried you down the short hallway.

His hand on your thigh squeezed gently, warm and possessive, thumb brushing slow circles against your bare skin. “Space? After you stole my favorite t-shirt and left me alone in our bed? Not happening, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up. “I didn’t steal it. You left it on the chair. And you were the one being stubborn earlier, not me!”

“Stubborn? Me?” Taehyung’s voice was teasing now, warm and intimate as he nudged open the door to your shared bedroom with his foot.

“I know I am idiot for talking about space but you really ran off to the guest room instead of talking it out. I was sitting there missing you like crazy, replaying everything we said. I hated every second without you.”

Your protests quieted a little at his honest admission, your cheek resting against his back as he walked. “Well… I hated it too,” you admitted softly, voice muffled.

“The bed felt wrong without you stealing the blanket and mumbling nonsense in my ear.”

He hummed in agreement, finally stepping fully into the familiar bedroom. “Exactly. So no more sleeping anywhere else. You belong right here… with me.”

You smiled again, heart swelling even as you kept up the playful act. “You’re impossible, Kim Taehyung. Always thinking you can just throw me over your shoulder and fix everything.”

He gave your thigh another gentle squeeze, voice dropping lower with quiet affection. “It worked, didn’t it? Now stop complaining and let me take care of my wife.”

The shared bedroom door clicked shut softly behind you both as he carried you inside, the warmth of his body and the certainty in his hold making the earlier fight feel like a distant memory already.

He moved toward the large bed without hesitation, his strong arms still holding you securely over his shoulder until he reached the edge.

Taehyung lowered you down and sat first on the mattress, then guided you into his lap so you were straddling him comfortably.

Your bare thighs settled on either side of his hips, the oversized t-shirt riding up slightly as you faced him. His hands rested lightly on your waist at first, thumbs brushing slow, soothing circles over the fabric and the warm skin beneath.

His voice dropped softer now, all teasing gone, replaced by something deeper and more serious. The tiredness in his eyes had softened into something vulnerable.

“Say it,” he murmured, gaze locked on yours.

You blinked, heart fluttering at the sudden shift in tone.

Your hands rested on his shoulders for balance as you tilted your head slightly. “Say what?”

Taehyung’s thumb traced a slow path along your waist, slipping just under the hem of his oversized t-shirt to caress bare skin. His touch was warm, almost reverent. “That you’re not sleeping anywhere else without me again.”

It wasn’t control in his voice.

It was fear... quiet, raw fear of another night like this one.

He had missed you so much, and in that moment you realized how deeply the hours apart had affected him too. Your annoyance melted away completely. Your tone softened immediately, voice turning into a tender whisper as you looked into his warm, tired eyes.

“I won’t,” you breathed, the words slipping out like a promise. “I won’t sleep anywhere else without you, Tae. Never again.”

He exhaled slowly, a long, relieved breath as if he had been holding it in since the moment the argument ended. The tension in his shoulders eased visibly.

Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours, eyes closing for a moment as he breathed you in.

Neither of you actually said “sorry” first.

The words weren’t needed...

Instead, your fingers slowly intertwined with his, lacing together tightly on one side while your other hand rested against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

Your noses brushed softly, warm breaths mingling in the small space between you.

The kisses that followed were not rushed or hungry. They were slow, comforting, like coming home after being lost.

Taehyung tilted his head just enough to capture your lips in the gentlest press, lingering there as if memorizing the feeling. You kissed him back with the same quiet tenderness, eyes fluttering shut.

He pulled back just a fraction, murmuring against your mouth between kisses, voice low and thick with emotion, “I don’t like the bed without you… It feels too cold. Too empty. I kept reaching for you and you weren’t there.”

You answered softly, your lips brushing his with every word, “I don’t like anywhere without you. The guest room felt wrong. The silence… I hated it. I kept wishing you’d come steal the blanket and mumble those silly things in my ear like you always do.”

Taehyung smiled then, finally... a small, genuine smile that reached his eyes and made the corners crinkle in that beautiful way you loved.

He squeezed your intertwined fingers gently, his free hand sliding up your back under the t-shirt to hold you closer.

“Oh God, sweetheart… we’re both idiots, aren’t we?” he whispered, pressing another slow kiss to your lips, then to the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw.

“Fighting over nothing and then suffering in separate rooms like this. I replayed everything I said a hundred times. I didn’t mean any of it. Not one word.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh against his lips, your nose brushing his again as you leaned in for another unhurried kiss.

“I know. I didn’t mean it either. I was just hurt and stubborn… but I missed you so much it hurt more than the argument. Your arm around me, your face in my neck... I need all of it.”

He hummed in agreement, the sound vibrating warmly between you as he kissed you once more, deeper this time but still slow and full of comfort. “Then stay right here. Always. In this bed, in my lap, in my arms. Promise me again.”

“I promise,” you whispered, your fingers tightening in his.

Taehyung’s forehead rested against yours again for a moment, his smile lingering as he murmured, “Good. Because I don’t think I can sleep without hearing your breathing next to me. Or feeling your legs tangled with mine. Or stealing that stupid blanket just so you’ll complain and cuddle closer.”

You giggled softly, the sound light and healing in the quiet room, and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Then stop being stubborn next time and just come get me sooner before your space rule come between us. I was lying there whispering into the pillow like a lovesick fool.”

He chuckled lowly, the vibration traveling through his chest into yours. “Deal. But only if you stop pretending you’re fine without me. I saw that little smile when I kissed your waist earlier. You liked being carried back.”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted with a shy smile, your lips finding his again in another warm, lingering kiss. “But mostly I just like being here. With you.”

The two of you stayed like that for long moments... foreheads touching, fingers intertwined, exchanging slow, comforting kisses and quiet words that slowly stitched the night back together.

No grand apologies yet, just the simple truth of missing each other and the quiet joy of being back where you both belonged.

The soft kisses slowly turned heavier, breaths mingling hotter between you. Taehyung’s hand at your waist began its deliberate descent, sliding lower with agonizing slowness, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip as if testing how much you could take.

At the same time, he gently but firmly gathered both of your wrists in one large hand and guided them behind your back, holding them there securely.

Not trapping you painfully, just anchoring you close, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Stay still like this for me, baby,” he murmured, voice dropping into that deep, velvet tone that always made your stomach flip. “Let your husband play with what’s his.”

His free hand slipped under the oversized t-shirt from behind, fingers tracing the edge of your panties before sliding between your butt cheeks.

He pressed the thin fabric firmly against your clothed pussy and began slow, teasing strokes, rubbing up and down, circling your clit through the material with maddening patience.

You gasped softly, hips twitching in his lap.

Taehyung smirked against your neck. “Already squirming? I’ve barely touched you. Look at that… your panties are getting wet so fast. Did you miss me that badly, jagiya?”

“Taehyung…” you breathed, trying to sound annoyed but failing as another slow rub made your thighs clench.

He chuckled lowly, the sound rich and teasing. “What? Can’t even talk properly already? Poor baby. All that big talk about sleeping alone, and now you’re soaking through your panties because I’m holding your hands behind your back. So cute.”

His fingers continued their relentless teasing, pressing the damp fabric between your folds, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit, then sliding back to tease your entrance.

He could clearly feel the wet spot growing under his touch, and it only made him more playful. “Feel that? You’re dripping, sweetheart. Making such a mess on my fingers through these tiny panties.”

You whimpered, trying to move your hips for more friction, but with your hands locked behind your back you could only grind helplessly.

Taehyung clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “So desperate already. Look at you trying to ride my hand like a needy wife. You want it so bad, don’t you? But you’re not getting these panties off yet. I want to feel you ruin them first.”

He shifted his thigh higher between your legs, pressing the firm muscle right against your core. “Go on then. Ride my thigh like a good girl. Show me how much you missed your husband’s touch. And don’t you dare stop until I say so.”

With your hands still held firmly behind your back, you had no choice but to roll your hips, grinding down desperately against his thick thigh while his fingers kept rubbing your clothed pussy in firm, teasing strokes.

“That’s it… fuck, you look so pretty like this,” he groaned, voice husky with arousal.

“Straddling me in nothing but my t-shirt, hands behind your back, humping my thigh because you’re too turned on to think straight. Bet you were so lonely in that cold guest bed, weren’t you? No one to play with this pretty pussy.”

“Taehyung—ah—please…” you moaned, cheeks burning as the wet spot on your panties grew even more obvious.

“Please what?” he teased, leaning in to bite gently at your earlobe. “Please stop teasing? Or please make you come in your panties like the desperate wife you are? Say it. Tell me how wet your husband is making you.”

“You’re so mean…” you gasped, still rocking desperately against his thigh, the friction combined with his rubbing fingers pushing you higher.

He laughed softly, dark and amused.

“Mean? Baby, I’m being nice. I could edge you all night after that little fight. But I want to feel you soak these panties first. Come on, grind harder. Let me feel how soaked you’re getting for me.”

His fingers pressed more firmly now, rubbing fast little circles directly over your clit through the drenched fabric while you rode his thigh with increasing desperation.

After several long, torturous minutes, Taehyung finally tugged the oversized t-shirt up and off your body in one swift motion, leaving you completely bare except for your soaked black panties.

Cool air kissed your skin, nipples tightening instantly under his heated gaze.

Without wasting a second, he leaned forward and attached his mouth to your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “So fucking beautiful,” he growled against your skin. “All mine. Look at these pretty tits… been waiting to taste them all night.”

His lips trailed lower, capturing one nipple in his mouth. He sucked greedily, tongue flicking and swirling while his fingers never stopped rubbing your clothed pussy, faster now, more insistent.

You cried out softly, back arching as pleasure spiked.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured around your nipple, switching to the other one and sucking even harder.

“Moan louder for me, baby. Let me hear how much you love when I play with you like this. Your panties are completely ruined, baby. Soaked all the way through because your husband wouldn’t let you sleep alone.”

His fingers rubbed relentlessly, focusing on your swollen clit while he continued sucking and licking your nipples, alternating between them with wet, obscene sounds.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he taunted, voice thick.

“I can feel you throbbing against my fingers. Go on then. Come for me right inside these pretty little panties. Soak them completely. Show me how badly you needed this after our stupid fight.”

The intense combination of his dirty words, his mouth on your breasts, and the relentless rubbing finally pushed you over the edge.

Your body tensed hard in his lap, a broken moan tearing from your throat as you came intensely inside your panties.

Waves of pleasure crashed through you while Taehyung kept rubbing you through it, drawing out every shudder and whimper until you were trembling and gasping against him, completely spent.

Only then did he finally release your hands from behind your back, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple, though his voice still carried that teasing edge.

“Good girl… coming so nicely for me in your panties like that,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “But we’re nowhere near done tonight, jagiya. Not even close.”

The aftershocks of your first orgasm were still rippling through your body. His arms immediately wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest in a warm, protective embrace while he kissed your temple with surprising gentleness.

You were still straddling his lap, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and completely bare except for your soaked black panties.

That was when you felt it... the unmistakable hardness of his cock pressing up against you through the thin fabric of his grey sweatpants. He was rock hard, throbbing beneath you, and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs.

Your hands, now free, didn’t waste any time.

With slightly shaky fingers, you tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down just enough to free his length. His cock sprang out, heavy and hot, resting against your inner thigh.

You didn’t bother trying to get completely naked... neither did he.

The urgency was too sweet, too needy.

Taehyung let out a low, amused chuckle as he watched you, his hands settling on your hips.

“Look at you,” he teased, voice deep and husky, eyes dark with desire. “So eager now. Just came in your panties like a good girl and you’re already trying to pull my cock out. Missed me that much, baby?”

You bit your lip, smiling shyly even as your fingers wrapped around his thick length, giving him a slow stroke. “Shut up… You’re the one who’s been hard this entire time while teasing me. It’s only fair.”

He groaned softly at your touch, hips twitching up into your hand. “Fair? Baby, I’ve been hard since the moment I threw you over my shoulder. Carrying my pretty wife half-naked like that… how was I supposed to stay soft?”

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you shifted higher on his lap, reached down with one hand, and pushed the crotch of your soaked panties to the side. The cool air hit your wet, sensitive folds for only a second before you lined him up and slowly sank down onto his cock.

A shared moan filled the room as you took him in inch by inch your walls stretching around his thickness.

He was so hard, so warm, filling you perfectly.

You didn’t stop until you were fully seated in his lap, your ass resting against his thighs, his entire length buried deep inside you.

“Fuck… still so tight,” Taehyung breathed out, his hands gripping your hips tighter. “You’re dripping all over me already. That little orgasm in your panties wasn’t enough, huh?”

You let out a soft whimper, forehead falling against his as you adjusted to the fullness. “It wasn’t… I need you. All of you.”

He smiled against your lips, that playful glint returning to his eyes even as his voice turned teasing. “Then ride me, baby. Show your husband how much you missed him. Use me.”

You started moving — slow at first, rolling your hips in deep, languid circles. The wet sounds of your soaked pussy sliding up and down his cock filled the quiet bedroom.

Taehyung’s hands stayed on your waist, guiding you but letting you set the pace.

“That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Look at you riding me with your panties still on. So desperate you couldn’t even take them off properly. My needy little wife.”

You moaned louder, picking up the pace, bouncing on his lap with more urgency. Every time you sank down, his cock hit that perfect spot inside you, making your toes curl.

“Taehyung… ah— you feel so good,” you gasped, hands clutching his shoulders for balance. “So deep like this…”

He chuckled breathlessly, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple. “Yeah? You like feeling every inch of me while you’re still wearing those cute soaked panties? So filthy… but so fucking hot.”

You rode him harder, the wet slap of skin meeting skin growing louder. Your second orgasm was already building fast... the earlier teasing, the way he had made you come in your panties, and now the full feeling of him inside you pushing you right to the edge.

“I’m— I’m close again,” you whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

Taehyung groaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he started thrusting up to meet your movements. “Already? Come on then. Come on my cock. Let me feel you squeeze me.”

His words sent you over.

Your second orgasm crashed through you harder than the first, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his thick length as you cried out his name.

Your body trembled in his lap, thighs shaking as you kept riding him through the high, soaking his cock and the base of his sweatpants even more.

Taehyung kissed your neck, murmuring praises between soft bites. “Good girl… that’s my girl. Coming so pretty for me. But you’re not done yet, are you?”

You were still panting, still clenching around him, when he gave you that wicked little smile.

“Not even close,” you whispered, voice hoarse but determined.

You started moving again... slower this time, but deeper, grinding down on him with every roll of your hips.

Taehyung’s head fell back slightly, a low moan escaping him. “Fuck, baby… keep going. Ride me until you come a third time. I want to feel you fall apart again while I’m buried inside you.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his as you rode him with renewed need, the playful teasing mixing with raw desire.

“Only if you keep talking like that,” you breathed against his lips, a teasing smile of your own forming. “Tell me how much you missed this tight pussy while we were fighting.”

He laughed softly, the sound turning into a groan as you clenched around him deliberately. “I missed it so fucking much. Missed my wife. Missed hearing you moan my name. Missed feeling you soak my cock just like this…”

The conversation continued... breathless, teasing, full of love and lust as you rode him steadily toward your third orgasm, the night stretching warmly around the two of you, every fight long forgotten in the heat of being together again.

You were riding Taehyung with desperate, rolling movements, your soaked panties still pushed to the side, his thick cock buried to the hilt inside you with every downward slide.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.

Taehyung’s breathing had turned ragged, his fingers digging into your hips with bruising force. His dark eyes were locked on your face, watching every flutter of your lashes and every parted moan that left your lips.

“Fuck, baby… you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groaned, voice strained with restraint. “I can feel you getting close again. That greedy little pussy is fluttering around me like it doesn’t want to let go.”

You whimpered, grinding down harder, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room. “Taehyung… I’m so close. Don’t stop... please—”

He suddenly sat up straighter, one arm wrapping securely around your waist. In one smooth, powerful motion, he flipped you onto your back without ever pulling out.

You gasped as your back hit the soft mattress, his body immediately covering yours, his cock still buried deep inside you, pulsing hotly against your walls.

“Can't wait any longer,” he murmured hotly against your neck, pressing a quick, open-mouthed kiss there. “Need to fuck you properly now.”

Your legs instinctively tried to wrap around him, but he had other plans. He grabbed both of your thighs and pushed them up, hooking them over his broad shoulders.

The new angle made him sink even deeper, the head of his cock pressing right against that sensitive spot inside you with every shallow thrust.

It was impossible to take your panties off without pulling out, so Taehyung didn’t even try. Instead, with a low, teasing growl, he hooked two fingers into the delicate, already ruined fabric at your hip and tore it apart in one sharp tug.

The sound of ripping lace filled the room.

You let out a surprised moan, eyes widening. “Taehyung! You just— you ripped them!”

He grinned down at you, that playful, cocky smirk you both loved and hated, as he tossed the ruined scrap of fabric aside.

“They were in the way. And they were already ruined anyway… soaked because of me.”

He gave a slow, deep thrust, making you cry out. “Besides, you won’t be needing panties for the rest of the night, jagiya.”

With your legs now properly on his shoulders, he had all the room he needed. Taehyung pulled back almost completely, only the tip of his cock still inside you, before slamming back in hard.

The new position allowed him to fuck you with deep, powerful strokes... fast and relentless.

“God, look at you,” he teased breathlessly, eyes raking over your body as he pounded into you. “Legs up on my shoulders, taking every inch like such a good wife. You feel even tighter like this. So wet… so fucking perfect.”

You could barely form words, moans spilling freely from your lips with every hard thrust. The angle was devastating, he was hitting so deep, the pleasure bordering on overwhelming.

“Taehyung— ah! Too deep… it feels... oh my god—”

“Not too deep,” he corrected with a husky laugh, leaning down to bite gently at your collarbone while still thrusting hard. “Just right. You can take it. You always take me so well, baby. My pretty girl who pretends to be mad and then rides me like she’s starving.”

Your third orgasm was rushing toward you fast now, the coil in your stomach tightening unbearably.

You could feel Taehyung getting closer too... his thrusts growing sloppier, his breathing harsher, the veins in his neck standing out as he fought to hold back.

“I’m— I’m gonna come again,” you gasped, hands reaching up to clutch at his arms. “Taehyung, please... come with me. I want to feel you...”

He groaned loudly, forehead dropping to rest against yours as he fucked you harder, the bed creaking beneath you.

“Yeah? You want me to fill you up while you come on my cock? While your legs are shaking on my shoulders?”

“Yes... yes, please,” you begged, voice breaking on a moan as the pressure became too much. “I’m so close… come inside me, Taehyung. Please—”

His pace turned punishing, hips snapping against yours with wet, filthy sounds. “Fuck, I’m right there too. Come for me, jagiya. Let me feel you milk my cock. Come together with your husband like the good girl you are.”

The words pushed you over the edge.

Your third orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body with blinding intensity. Your walls clenched hard around him, pulsing rhythmically as you cried out his name, back arching off the bed, legs trembling violently on his shoulders.

Taehyung followed right behind you, burying himself as deep as possible with one final, powerful thrust.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as he came hard, spilling inside you in hot, thick pulses. His hips stuttered, pressing tightly against you as he filled you up, the warmth of his release mixing with your own wetness.

Both of you shook through the intense shared climax, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in heavy pants.

Taehyung’s arms trembled slightly as he held himself up, careful not to crush you even while buried deep inside.

After long moments, he slowly lowered your legs from his shoulders, letting them fall gently to the sides as he stayed nestled inside you. He pressed soft, lazy kisses along your jaw and neck, his voice now softer, laced with affection and lingering playfulness.

“See? No more sleeping in the guest room,” he murmured, nipping at your earlobe. “This is where you belong... under me, full of me, coming apart for me. Got it, wife?”

You could only manage a breathless, sated laugh, your fingers threading through his messy hair. “Got it… you possessive idiot.”

He smiled against your skin, giving one last lazy thrust before settling his weight more comfortably over you. “Your possessive idiot. And you love it.”

The two of you stayed locked together like that, hearts still racing, bodies slick with sweat, the fight from earlier completely erased in the afterglow of intense, loving sex.

Taehyung stayed buried inside you for a few more moments, savoring the closeness. After a while, he gently pulled out with a quiet groan, his cock still semi-hard and glistening with your combined releases.

Without a word, he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a few tissues from the box. With tender care, he first cleaned himself quickly, then turned his full attention to you.

“Stay still for me, jagiya,” he whispered softly.

He gently wiped between your legs, cleaning the mess of your combined orgasms from your thighs and folds with slow, careful strokes. His touch was gentle and loving, almost reverent, as he made sure you were comfortable.

When he was done, he tossed the tissues aside and finally rolled onto his back. Immediately, he pulled you against him, guiding your body so you were curled comfortably into his chest.

His arm wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers splayed possessively over your bare skin as if he refused to risk losing you to the guest room or anywhere else for even a second tonight.

Your leg draped over his thigh, your cheek resting right over his steady heartbeat. The room was quiet now, filled only with the sound of your slowing breaths and the faint rustle of sheets.

Half-asleep already, his voice came out in a low, mumbled murmur against the top of your head. “Guest room is banned… forever.”

You let out a quiet, tired laugh, the sound soft and affectionate as you nuzzled closer into his warm chest.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns over his skin.

“Bossy,” you whispered, smiling against him.

Taehyung hummed in agreement, pressing a sleepy, lingering kiss to your hair. His lips stayed there for a moment, breathing you in.

“Only about you,” he replied, voice thick with exhaustion and love. “Only bossy when it comes to keeping my wife right where she belongs… in this bed, in my arms.”

You smiled wider, eyes fluttering shut as contentment washed over you. “You’re impossible, Kim Taehyung. One minute you’re tearing my panties and the next you’re all soft and cuddly.”

He chuckled lowly, the vibration rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. His arm tightened just a fraction around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“Can’t help it. Fighting with you sucks. Sleeping without you sucks more. So no more running off, okay? Even if I’m being an idiot… just stay and yell at me in our bed next time.”

You tilted your head up slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw. “Deal.”

“Promise,” he murmured sleepily, his fingers drawing slow circles on your lower back. “Next time maybe I'll throw you over my shoulder in the middle of the argument.”

You giggled softly, the sound light and full of warmth. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Guilty,” he admitted with a drowsy smile you could feel against your hair. “But only because I love you. So much. Even when we fight… especially after we make up like this.”

Your heart melted at his words.

You snuggled deeper into his embrace, letting his warmth surround you completely.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “More than anything.”

Taehyung let out a contented sigh, his hold on you never loosening. “That’s my girl. Now sleep, jagiya. I’ve got you. And I’m not letting go until morning… maybe not even then.”

You smiled one last time, eyes growing heavy as his steady heartbeat lulled you. “Goodnight, my bossy husband.”

“Night, my everything,” he mumbled back, already drifting off with you safe and warm in his arms.

And that was how the argument ended... not with anyone winning, not with grand apologies, but with the simple, beautiful choice of choosing each other again, wrapped up together in the quiet afterglow of love.

You were seven when you learned your father hugged like a politician.

Quick. Calculated. For cameras only.

After the flash, he would straighten his suit, pat your head like you were a puppy, and walk away without looking back.

To everyone else you were “the Minister’s daughter.” To your father you weren’t even that. You were… “just an investment.” A future bargaining chip.

Only Chairman Kim ever treated you like a kid.

Every Saturday afternoon, he showed up for tea with your father while discussing politics. He always brought you strawberry candies in golden wrapper.

“For you, little princess,” he’d say, tapping your head, handing you candies while you smiled brightly.

His son always stood behind him. Tall. Quiet. Too serious for a kid.

Kim Namjoon.

You didn’t pay attention to him at first. But at nine, you noticed him properly for the very first time. He was twelve, wearing a navy suit, hair neatly combed. He looked like a tiny adult who had forgotten how to be a child.

You were sitting under the grand staircase with a sketchbook, drawing princess dresses made of candy wrappers.

He walked past.

Then stopped. and looked down at you.

You froze with your pencil mid-air.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even say a word. He just stared at you for five quiet seconds... long enough for your heartbeat to learn something new, then kept walking.

That night, you tried to draw him.

It was terrible. His head was huge, his body tiny. But you kept the drawing with you like a treasure anyway.

You didn’t know he stopped at the top of the staircase that day, looking back over his shoulder, wondering why a little girl designing candy wrapper dresses felt more alive than the whole house.

National Foundation Day.

It was your first grown-up banquet. You wore a yellow silk sundress embroidered with daisies. Your mother said it made you look “too bright.” Your father said nothing.

Namjoon was also here. He was twenty-one now. Taller... Sharper... Even more handsome in a way that hurt to look at. You saw him from across the ballroom. He was talking to a senator, but your heart already tripped over itself.

When he finally stood alone by the balcony doors, you took a deep breath, lifted your dress slightly so you wouldn’t trip, and walked toward him.

“Hi, Oppa,” you said, trying to sound casual and not like you’d practiced that exact greeting fifty times in the mirror.

He turned.

His eyes skimmed down your yellow sundress… then immediately lifted back to your face.

Too fast. Too controlled.

“Hello,” he said gently, voice and smile polite but distant.

You hated how cold it sounded.

Still, you tried.

“I, um… I saw your speech last week,” you said. “It was really, really good.”

He blinked at you like he wasn’t expecting genuine praise.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Then... “Excuse me.” He stepped around you and walked away.

You stood there alone, gripping your glass so tight your fingers ached.

But.. what you didn’t see was, Namjoon slipped behind a marble pillar twenty feet away, leaned his forehead against the cold stone and whispered under his breath, “…Why did she have to wear yellow? Why did she have to look so bright and cute?”

He stayed there until he calmed his breathing.

Because you were eighteen. And he was twenty one. And he wanted things he absolutely should not want.

At nineteen, you left your hometown to chase your bachelor’s degree—finally free from the suffocating walls of politics and expectations. You ran as far away as your world allowed. Your mother supported your dream.

Into color palettes. Into soft fabrics.

Into a life where people chose you because you made things beautiful, not because you fit into a political chessboard.

Your father fought you for years.

“This career is useless,” he scolded. “You’re embarrassing me.” “Come back and try to join politics.”

You didn’t. You kept sketching. Kept sewing. Kept breathing in a world full of art, not strategies. But when Autumn Festival came around, you had no choice but to return home.

And after a full day of polite smiles, fake compliments, and your father’s constant reminders of “behave,” you needed air. You needed space. You needed escape.

So you slipped away the first chance you got. Straight to the National Assembly library... your secret escape since childhood.

Quiet. Dusty. Safe.

A place where no one asked you to be perfect. A place where you could breathe again. A place filled with old books that smelled like freedom.

You didn’t expect him to be there.

Namjoon was twenty-two, round glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by policy reports. He looked annoyingly attractive in that serious, bookish way.

You hesitated before walking to his table.

“Hi... I didn't expect you here,” you said, softly.

He looked up. And for a second, his expression softened like sunlight touching snow. “You’re home for Chuseok,” he said. It was not a question... cause he already knew.

You nodded. “My house is too loud. I needed to hide.”

He smiled a little at that. “Same.”

You sat across from him.

You talked for forty minutes. Softly. Comfortably. About nothing and everything.

You: “Do you ever get tired of all the grey suits?” Him: “Grey is safe.” You: “Safe is boring.” Him, after a long pause: “…Some of us don’t get to pick exciting.”

At one point, you reached for his pen—even though you had three of your own. Your fingers brushed. He sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his hand back like you’d burned him.

You pretended not to notice.

When you left, he watched you walk all the way to the door. And when the library finally closed, he was still staring at the spot where your fingers had touched his.

Few months later, chairman Kim passed away unexpectedly, it felt like all the color drained from Namjoon’s world.

At the funeral, he stood expressionless. Those deep, thoughtful eyes carried a grief so restrained it almost hurt to look at him. He bowed and thanked guests, all robotic and polite.

It was the first time you saw Namjoon truly break.

You placed a single strawberry candy on the funeral wreath—one he used to give you every weekends.

Namjoon stared at it for a long moment.

When he looked up at you, his eyes were red, his voice rough.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

You wanted to hug him so badly your chest hurt. But you didn’t. You walked away before you cried.

After that, something hardened inside him. He returned to politics sharper, colder, impossibly composed. He became ice who forgot how to melt.

You approached him once at a diplomatic dinner months later. You wore a dress you designed yourself—lavender silk, soft draping, delicate straps.

Your heart was fluttering like always.

“Oppa… you look thinner,” you said quietly.

“I’m fine.” He replied.

Short. Cold. Clipped.

His eyes flicked away the moment your friend approached.

It hurt. You told yourself he didn’t care. Didn’t feel anything. Never did. But you never knew he went home that night and punched a wall, furious at himself for reacting to you that way.

After that, you stopped trying to get close. He always stepped back anyway. Always kept his distance. Always refused warmth.

To you, it looked like indifference.

But in truth, he kept his distance because you made him feel things... dangerous, irrational things, and in politics, feelings were fatal.

Senior year felt like breathing after holding your lungs tight for ten years. Semester exams were done. Your brain was empty. Your heart finally felt light.

And that night… you wanted to forget everything.

The silver slip dress you wore clung to your skin like moonlight made of silk. You didn’t dress for anyone. You dressed for yourself... for freedom.

“Come on, babe, don’t overthink. Just dance tonight,” your friend Hyejin yelled over the music, pulling you to the center of the crowded Gangnam club.

The bass hit your body first.

The peach soju washed away the last bit of doubt. And the moment you started moving, everything—politics, your father, expectations, Kim Namjoon—blurred into nothing.

Jimin, your classmate, spun you around with a grin.

“You look dangerous tonight,” he joked, laughing.

You rolled your eyes. “Please, I look like someone who needs sleep.”

He laughed louder and pulled you closer. “Lets have fun and just dance before real life crushes you.”

You giggled, letting him guide you. Just harmless fun. Just dancing.

His hands slipped lower on your waist.

You didn’t notice... didn't care... cause he was just a friend. But someone else did.

Namjoon had not planned to stay.

He only came to discuss a campaign donation. He wore a black suit jacket undone, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like sin in human form.

He lifted his whisky glass. He was mid-sip when he saw you.

And the world… stopped.

One of the donors said, “Assemblyman Kim, shall we go over the proposal—?”

“Hold on,” Namjoon said without looking away.

Because there you were. Shining... Laughing... Dancing with another man. You spun, silver dress flashing under neon lights. Jimin’s hands settled on your waist.

Namjoon’s fingers tightened around the glass.

He whispered under his breath, “No… absolutely not.”

His jaw flexed. His shoulders locked. He shouldn’t look. He tried not to look. But he failed.

Jimin leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re seriously glowing tonight,” he shouted.

You laughed, warm and drunk. “It’s just glitter! Hyejin dumped half a bottle on me!”

He grinned. “Well, it's working and you are shining.”

You smiled back without thinking.

Namjoon saw that smile. And the way Jimin’s chest pressed to your back and how naturally you leaned into the touch. His heart slammed inside his ribs.

One donor asked, “Kim Namjoon-ssi? Are you listening?”

“No,” he said honestly, eyes locked on the dance floor.

“Namjoon-ssi, about the contribution—”

“Not now,” he said, voice clipped, icy.

He barely heard himself. All he heard was the blood roaring in his ears, one thought slamming over and over.

She’s mine. Why is he touching her? Why is she letting him touch her? Why wasn’t I there first?

Your laughter floated up to the balcony.

Something in him snapped.

Namjoon didn’t let them finish. He stood so fast his chair scraped loud across the marble floor. “Excuse me,” he said sharply. He didn’t wait for an answer.

He was breathing too hard. He reached the middle of the staircase and stopped. His chest hurt with how badly he wanted to drag you away from that boy.

He wanted to storm across the floor. He wanted to pull you into him. He wanted the whole club to see who you belonged to. But then another thought punched him.

She still thinks you don’t want her. She still thinks you’ve never looked at her that way.

He squeezed the railing until the metal groaned.

“Not like this,” he whispered. “Not drunk. Not in a club. Not when she doesn't know.”

He forced himself to turn around. Forced himself to walk back up. Forced himself to finish his drink. The glass cracked in his hand before he even realized he was squeezing it that hard.

Blood dripped down his palm, warm and slow.

He was too busy staring at the back of your silver dress in his mind.

Too busy remembering the very first time he wanted to kiss you—in that stupid yellow sundress years ago. Too busy losing the last bit of restraint he had left.

He left early.

He didn’t trust himself to stay.

Not when he knew exactly how good you’d feel pinned against the wall. Not when he knew exactly how easy it would be to claim your mouth and whisper, “I never stopped wanting you.”

He sat in his car for a long moment, hands shaking on the steering wheel. Then he whispered into the dark. “I’m done waiting.”

Meanwhile, You… You danced until your heels hurt and your hair stuck to your neck. Jimin offered to walk you home.

You shook your head. “I’m fine! Taxi is enough.”

He ruffled your hair. “Your loss.”

You laughed and waved goodbye.

You fell into bed at 4 a.m., cheeks flushed, heartbeat warm, mind airy.

And you didn’t think about Namjoon even once. Because you still believed he didn’t want you. You had no idea that the man you thought was cold and uninterested…

…just walked away because he was terrified he’d kiss you in the middle of a crowded club.

Terrified he’d finally lose control.

And deeply unaware that his control was already gone.

The dining room in your family’s official residence was always cold, even in summer.

Crystal chandelier, long mahogany table, portraits of presidents staring down like they were judging the food.

You were twenty-one, home for the weekend from university, wearing an oversized cream sweater and soft linen pants, hair still damp from the shower.

Your father sat at the head of the table, tie loosened for once but jaw locked tight. The staff brought the food in, quietly as always, never making eye contact. He didn’t let them finish.

He put his phone on the table—flat, heavy, decisive. “We need to talk about your future.”

You paused mid-bite, chopsticks hovering. “My… future?”

You tried to smile. Failed. “Dad, I already told you and mom. I got that internship in Paris. Remember? The eco-fashion collective? They only choose seven people in the whole...”

“I’m not talking about hobbies,” he interrupted, dismissing your dream with one flick of his hand.

You froze. “Hobbies?”

Your chest pinched. “Dad, it’s not a hobby, it’s my—”

“A marriage proposal has come for you and you will marry Assemblyman Choi’s son,” he continued, calm and cold. “Next month. You can finish rest of your last semester from here. I know attendance isn’t mandatory for this semester.”

The words slammed into you like a fist. Your chopsticks slipped and clattered onto the bowl. The sound echoed far too loudly.

“…What?” you whispered.

Your father didn’t flinch. “It’s already arranged. The Chois are powerful allies. This is a good match.”

“No.” You pushed your chair back. “Dad, absolutely not. Minhyuk is—”

“A respectable young man,” he cut in.

“A creep!” Your voice cracked. “He hits on my friends! Last month at the gala he cornered Ji-eun—”

“Rumors,” he snapped. “Girls exaggerate.”

Your jaw dropped. You felt sick.

“Dad, he’s a walking scandal. He literally bragged about cheating on his ex because she was ‘too clingy.’ I’m not marrying a man like that—”

“You will,” he said, slamming his palm on the table.

The glasses jumped. So did you.

“Because I said so.”

“Why won’t you listen to me?” Tears piled hot behind your eyes. “I’m building something. Fashion is important to me. I’m actually good at it—my professor said my designs could get into Seoul Fashion Week...”

“Enough.” His voice boomed. “Stop embarrassing yourself with glitter and fabric scraps. You have my name. That means something. And you will honor it.”

Your throat burned.

“Is that all I am to you?” Your voice trembled. “A tool? A deal? A pretty bargain chip?”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even hesitate.

“You are a disgrace to this family! Wasting your time on useless creative fields... drawing dresses like some starving artist! Do you know how many doors my name opens? And you throw it away for fabric scraps and glitter?”

Tears stung your eyes, hot and angry. “It’s not useless! It’s my life! You never even asked what I want!”

“What you want?” He stood too, towering over the table, face red.

“You want to embarrass me? Parading around in those ridiculous clothes, partying with those artsy nobodies? No daughter of mine will live like that. You will marry Minhyuk. You will smile at events. You will give me grandchildren who will carry this legacy. End of discussion. Or I pull every penny of your tuition, your apartment, your precious little fabric budget. You’ll be on the street by Monday.”

You went still. Absolutely still.

“Dad…” Your voice was barely air. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he said simply. “And I will.”

Then he buttoned his jacket.

“Dinner is over.”

He walked out, door slamming behind him so violently the chandelier trembled. You sat back down slowly, shoulders trembling, tears falling silently into your lap.

You whispered into the empty room, “I hate you… I hate you so much.”

The staff pretended not to hear. But everyone did.

Namjoon’s office was dim, lit only by a desk lamp as he reviewed policies. He’d been working for hours; exhaustion clung to him like smoke.

His chief of staff entered quietly.

“Sir… there’s news. I think you should know.”

Namjoon didn’t look up. “What is it?”

The chief hesitated. “Minister Park just informed Chairman Choi… that his daughter agreed to marry Minhyuk.”

Namjoon’s pen froze mid-sentence.

“…What?” His voice was so low, it barely counted as a word.

“They’re planning the wedding for next month.” Chief replied.

Namjoon slowly lowered his pen, staring at nothing. “She agreed?” he repeated, like he needed confirmation.

“He says so...” The chief nodded, but continued, “... but I heard she was threatened too.”

Snap...

The pen broke clean in half in Namjoon’s hand. Ink bled over his skin, but he didn’t feel it. Namjoon stood abruptly, grabbing his coat.

“Sir... where are you—?”

“Get the car.”

“Sir?”

“Now.” He roared.

He drove faster than he should have through the quiet streets of Seoul. Every muscle in his body was tight. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. His jaw was locked so hard it ached.

She agreed? Did she really? I can't believe it... I know her father force her? Does she think she has no choice?

His heart hammered.

He couldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t. He knew your father might have forced you or threatened you.

You were his... No one can dare to touch you... He couldn’t even finish the thought without losing control of the car. He reached your father’s residence in minutes. Security let him in without question.

Your father looked up from his brandy as Namjoon entered unannounced.

“Namjoon,” he said calmly, “it’s very late.”

Namjoon didn’t bow... Didn’t sit... Didn’t even breathe properly.

“I’m here to discuss about your daughter.”

Your father smirked faintly. “You heard the news.”

“I did.” Namjoon stepped closer. “And I’m here to tell you something.”

Your father raised an eyebrow. Namjoon’s voice was steady, but beneath the calm was something dangerous.

“She will not marry Choi Minhyuk.” He pause a beat. “She will marry me.”

The amused expression disappeared from your father’s face. “You’re serious.”

Namjoon’s chest rose and fell once. “Completely.”

Your father set his glass down slowly. “Namjoon… you are an excellent young man. Too excellent for someone like her. You can easily aim for someone from a stronger political family.”

Namjoon’s jaw flexed. “I’m not asking.”

Your father stiffened. “…What did you say?”

Namjoon stepped directly in front of the desk, lowering his voice.

“I’m telling you. I will marry her... Not Choi... No one else... Only Me.”

Your father narrowed his eyes. “And why should I agree to this sudden… demand?”

Namjoon leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “Because I’m the only man in this country who can give you what Choi never will... stability. Power. Control.”

Your father blinked.

Namjoon continued, tone razor-sharp. “Choi Minhyuk will embarrass you within a year. His scandals will drag your legacy through the dirt. But with me? Your family name becomes untouchable. I don’t lose. I don’t slip. I don’t fail. Tie your daughter to me, and your future is secure.”

Your father stared at him for a long, heavy moment. Then he slowly reached for his phone. “Prepare the marriage documents for Kim Namjoon,” he said into it. “Have them sent to his office by morning.”

Namjoon straightened.

Your father looked up. “The wedding announcement will be next week.”

Namjoon nodded once. “Thank you, Minister.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “One more thing.”

Your father looked up again.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a quiet, deadly softness.

“If you ever threaten her tuition, her career, or her freedom again, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your career counting paper clips in a provincial office. Do we understand each other?”

A flicker of fear crossed your father’s face. “…We understand each other.”

“Good.” Namjoon left.

Outside, in the cold night air, he leaned against his car, finally letting the breath he’d been holding escape.

His hands were still stained with broken pen ink.

He closed his eyes, head falling back.

He’d waited eight long years to claim you... Eight years of distance, of control, of swallowing every feeling.

Now? You were finally, undeniably his.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, heart pounding.

“I’m coming for you,” he whispered to the night.

“And this time… I’m not stepping back.”

The hallways smelled like polished wood and ambition.

You didn’t call ahead. You didn’t care that his secretary tried to stop you. You shoved past her, heels clicking like gunshots on the marble, coat half-on, hair wild from the wind outside. You pushed the heavy oak door open so hard it banged against the wall.

Namjoon was standing at the window, phone pressed to his ear, back straight, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He ended the call without turning.

“I wondered how long it would take you to find me,” he said, calm, almost too calm.

You slammed the door behind you. Your hands trembled.

“How dare you,” you said, voice shaking with anger. “How dare you walk into my life like you own it and decide who I marry!”

He finally turned, slowly, eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t decide anything,” he said. Calm. Infuriatingly calm. “Your father did. I just changed the name on the contract.”

Your feet pounded across the floor until you were standing right in front of him, barely an inch apart.

“Who the hell asked you to play hero, Kim Namjoon?” you spat, chest heaving.

He looked down at you, jaw tight. “You preferred Choi Minhyuk?”

The name tasted like poison.

“I prefer no one!” you said. “I want to finish my degree, open my own studio, live my life... my way!”

He chuckled, low and sharp. “And you think your father was going to let you do that?” His eyes darkened. “He would have sold you to the highest bidder the second you walked across that stage. I know it. You know it.”

Your hands flew to his chest, shoving, angry, desperate.

He didn’t budge. Not an inch.

Instead, in a move so fast it stole your breath, he caught your wrists and yanked you toward him. You stumbled, crashing into him, palms flat against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath your fingers.

Your faces were inches apart. His breath brushed your lips... warm, faintly minty, with a rich undertone of coffee that made your stomach clench.

You hated how good he smelled.

You hated how your anger faltered for a split second, leaving your body betraying your mind.

“You should be thanking me,” he said, voice low, rough.

“Thanking you?” you spat, trying to pull away. He didn’t let go. “For what?”

“For saving you from him.” He glanced at your chest, then up at your eyes. “Choi Minhyuk would have destroyed you. Made you quit your passion, smiled at cameras while crying alone in bathrooms. I’ve seen what he does. I’ve seen the bruises he leaves on hearts like yours.”

Your stomach sank.

Namjoon’s voice dropped even lower. “I will never lay a hand on you in anger. I will never ask you to be less than you are.”

He leaned in until his forehead almost touched yours. “With me, you graduate. You design. You travel to Paris, Milan, New York, wherever the hell you want. You keep your name on the label. You keep your freedom.”

His grip loosened, but he didn't let go. “You’ll just have my last name too.”

You trembled. Rage mixed with something hotter, something dangerous.

“And what do you get out of this, Namjoon?” you whispered. “A political boost? Bragging rights? Or… a pretty little trophy wife?”

His jaw flexed.

He let go of one wrist to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone like you were fragile glass. “I get to sleep peacefully at night knowing that you are safe and no one else is touching you.”

The words landed between you, raw and sharp. You sucked in a breath. He saw it, eyes darkening.

Then he stepped back, regaining control.

Cold, smooth control that had nothing to do with kindness.

“Two days,” he said. “Think about it.”

He walked back to his desk. He didn’t glance at you again. You left, shaking, slamming the door behind you.

You drove to your mother’s apartment, the one your father pretended didn’t exist after the divorce. She opened the door in loose silk pajamas, hair falling around her face, eyes tired but alert.

You collapsed into her arms, crying like a child.

When the story spilled out, she didn’t flinch.

She poured chamomile tea, sat you on the couch.

“I married your father because I had no choice. I was young and scared,” she said quietly. “I thought love would grow. It didn’t. Every year, I got smaller.”

She held your hands. “Namjoon… that boy has watched you since you were sixteen. He’s never smiled much, but his eyes… they were always on you. Keeping you safe. Waiting.”

You swallowed hard. “He… he doesn’t even like me.”

“He’s in love with you,” your mother corrected gently.

“He’s giving you a door your father wants to slam shut forever. Take it, baby. You can always choose whatever destination you want later through that door.”

Next Morning, you walked into his office again. The secretary didn’t even try to stop you this time. He was at his desk, pen in hand, signing papers. He looked up as you closed the door softly.

Hands shaking, you forced your voice steady. “I have conditions.”

He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. “Name them.”

“I finish my degree, my internship. No interference.”

“Done.”

“I keep my studio, my brand, my name on every label.”

“Done.”

“I am not a doll. I will not quit my life to smile next to you at banquets.”

He stood, crossed the desk until he was in front of you. “I don’t want a doll. I want you. Safe and peaceful.”

Your throat tightened. “One more,” you whispered.

He waited.

“If you ever try to control me the way he does—”

“I won’t,” he said, voice steady, eyes locking with yours.

You exhaled, relief, fear, and something wild all at once. “Then… yes.”

For the first time, Kim Namjoon smiled.

A real smile, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

“You won’t regret this,” he murmured, softer.

You lifted your chin. “I’d better not.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Welcome home, Mrs. Kim.”

You rolled your eyes, heart thundering for a completely different reason. “Technically I’m not Mrs. Anything yet.”

“Give it one month,” he whispered, stepping closer. Close enough that stepping back wasn’t an option anymore.

And for the first time, you didn’t even try to.

The wedding had been quick.

Too quick.

A blur of black suits, white flowers, and your father’s satisfied nods. Nothing warm, nothing soft... just contracts, handshakes, and a single fleeting glance from Namjoon that left your stomach twisting for reasons you couldn’t name yet.

Moving into his penthouse felt like stepping into another world... luxury that almost hurt your eyes, marble floors that echoed every step, and a quiet so deep it was suffocating.

You unpacked in your separate room, the one at the far end of the hall. He had his own, just a few doors away. That night you lay in that big bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

You came down the stairs at 9:15 a.m., legs bare in those tiny silk shorts, drowning in your oversized hoodie. You were still sleepy, still warm, still looking like trouble.

He was already at the kitchen island in fresh suit, sleeves rolled up, black coffee steaming beside a tablet full of boring government stuff.

He heard your footsteps. He looked up once... just once, and his eyes stopped dead on your legs.

A quick inhale. A tiny freeze in his action.

Then he ripped his gaze back to the screen like his life depended on it. You shrugged and pretended not to notice.

You grabbed a bowl and poured cereal. The clinking sounded like a loud gunshot in the silent kitchen.

Still, you tried.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

He didn’t look up. Not even a little.

“Morning,” he answered, voice low, careful… like if he looked at you again he would do something stupid.

You sat down three stools away, dramatically... like a queen claiming her territory.

Then… silence. Awkward, heavy, warm silence.

You stared at him. Then at his shoulders. Then at the tiny muscle twitching in his jaw. You lasted forty-three seconds.

“Do you always eat alone?” you blurted, poking at your cereal like it offended you.

He finally glanced at you—this controlled, composed look with eyes that were way too soft for someone pretending not to care.

“I’m used to it,” he said. Not coldly but honestly.

You huffed, stirring your cereal aggressively. “Yeah, well… you have a wife now. So get unused to it.”

His mouth twitched. The closest thing to a smile he’s allowed himself at 9 a.m.

“Noted,” he murmured, voice warm this time.

You tried not to smile.

He tried not to stare at your legs again. Both of you failed.

Soon, he finished his coffee, slipped into his blazer, and paused by the front door. “I’ll be late,” he said. “Long session at the Assembly.”

You nodded, sipping your coffee. “Come home safe.”

He froze for half a second—like the words did something to him, but then he nodded, voice lower now.

“I will.” And then he was gone.

You didn’t see him again for 18 hours, but the warm echo of that tiny, hard-won smile stayed with you the whole day.

It was 6:12 a.m., another morning at house where silence lived more louder than the conversations you two ever had.

It was way too early for your brain to function, but cravings don’t care about sleep schedules. You stood on your toes, tiny cotton shorts riding up your thighs as you reached, struggling—for the top-shelf.

You didn’t hear him come in.

But you felt him first.

A warm breath hit the back of your neck... soft, slow, like he was tasting the moment. You stiffened, fingers curling on the cabinet edge.

And then his bare chest—still faintly damp from his early gym session, pressed against your back.

Hard muscle. Hot skin.

A silent, dangerous wall of him.

He reached past you, arm brushing your cheek, body pinning you to the counter without even touching you intentionally. Your breath caught. He didn’t move away.

For five heavy, stretched-out seconds, the whole world narrowed to heat radiating from his body, your pounding heartbeat, and the thin layer of your shirt separating your spine from his chest.

He spoke low, voice rough with sleep and sweat. “This shelf is too high for you.”

Your throat tightened. “I'll manage.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just lowered the cereal box… slowly… setting it on the counter with deliberate care.

His knuckles skimmed your hip on the way down.

A soft graze. Barely a touch.

But your breath hitched like he’d put his hand under your shirt.

His chest finally pulled away from your back, and you exhaled without knowing you’d been holding anything in.

You turned to face him.

He was already halfway across the kitchen, shoulders stiff, jaw flexing so hard you saw the muscle jump near his cheek. Like he was holding something back. Like touching you, even accidentally, was a test he barely passed.

You opened your mouth to say something but he didn’t look back.

Just tossed over his shoulder, voice low. “You shouldn’t have to struggle for basic things.”

Then he disappeared into his room.

The next morning, you shuffled into the kitchen, hair messy, eyes half-shut and froze.

Everything... Every single thing, was rearranged.

The cereal. The snacks. The spices. The ladles. The jars. All placed lower. All placed where you could reach without stretching.

You blinked, stunned. “This wasn’t like this yesterday…”

You heard his voice behind you, softer this time but with the same deep rumble. “You don’t have to struggle for anything in this house.”

You turned.

He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with those unreadable eyes.

“Why did you…? And when...?” you asked.

His jaw flexed again before he admitted, quietly, “Because I didn’t like seeing you struggle.”

Your heart did a stupid flip.

Every morning started the same way and night ended the same way.

Maybe it was the brush of his fingers against yours when he handed you a glass, the touch so light it felt like an accident but lasted just a second too long.

Maybe it was a care and love hidden under those tiny acts and moments. Or maybe it was the way your eyes met in the dim hallway, his gaze sliding down to your mouth, yours flickering to his collarbone, silence stretching warm and unbearable between you.

Someone always looked away first, pretending nothing had happened… even though you both felt it.

That unfinished moment followed you to your separate rooms, settling under your skin, making the air heavier the next morning. Nothing was ever resolved.

Nothing was ever said.

And every night the tension just… lived there, growing thicker, waiting for one of you to finally stop walking away.

It was supposed to be a quick phone call.

Instead, your father’s voice sliced you open like it always did. “Three months married and not even a single public appearance! Do you want people to talk? Do you want to embarrass me again? And along with me Namjoon too!”

Your throat tightened. “Dad, I’m finishing my degree... I need to submit my designs...”

“Nonsense. Namjoon is being polite, but that doesn't mean you will take advantage of it. He is gonna run for Mayor soon and he needs a proper wife beside him. Get your priorities straight.” He hung up before you could breathe.

You sank onto the cold marble floor of the hallway, hugging your knees, trying to swallow the knot in your chest, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable.

You didn’t even hear footsteps.

Just a sudden shadow falling across you.

“Hey…” Namjoon’s voice dipped low, gentle in a way that cut deeper. “Hey. What happened?”

You shook your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “It’s nothing. I’m just… being... dramatic.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you so fast it startled you.

“No.” He took your shaking hands, prying them away from your face. “You don’t cry like this unless someone hurt you.”

Your lips parted, breath trembling. “I... I talked to my father.”

Namjoon went still.

His jaw flexed once. Twice. Something dark moved behind his eyes.

“What did he say?” His voice was so calm it was dangerous.

“That I’m… embarrassing him... and you too. That I’m not being a proper wife. That I should forget my stupid degree and—” Your voice cracked.

His thumb brushed a tear off your cheek.

Then another.

Then the next.

“Live your life the way you want,” he whispered, inching closer. “I’ll handle everything else.”

You swallowed, a sob escaping before you could hold it back.

He cupped your face with both hands—warm, large, steady. Your breaths tangled. His forehead almost touched yours.

You could feel his heartbeat.

Fast. Hard. Uncontrolled.

For a moment, you thought he’d kiss you. His eyes flicked to your lips but he stopped himself. Pulled back like your lips were fire.

His hands fell to his lap.

He looked away, breathing unevenly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t…”

You didn’t understand what he meant cause he never completed the sentence. You only knew your chest hurt when he stood up and helped you to your feet, careful not to touch you too long.

“Let me take care of my campaigns,” he said gently. “You focus on your dreams.”

You nodded, thinking he was just being kind.

He walked away with fists clenched, jaw locked, like he was punishing himself for wanting you too much.

A week later, you were hunched over your laptop in the living room, surrounded by fabric swatches and sketches. Your leg bounced restlessly, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.

You didn’t hear him come in until he spoke. “You’re overthinking.”

You jumped. “Uh... I’m working.”

“Torturing yourself isn’t the same thing,” he replied calmly, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walked closer.

You glared. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His voice was unshakeably gentle. “Tell me what you are struggling with. Tell me what you need.”

You shook your head. “Materials. But the supplier is out. And the backup is too expensive. And the design idea is good but I can’t finalize it because the fabric isn’t right and—”

“Okay.” He stopped in front of you, lowering his voice. “Slow down. Which materials?”

You blinked, surprisingly.

He listened as you rambled, your hands moving animatedly, describing textures, cuts, colors, structure.

He didn’t interrupt. Not once.

He looked at you like the world’s gone quiet and you’re the only thing worth hearing.

Hours later, when you stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, you noticed boxes stacked neatly by the wall.

Your heart stopped.

Everything you mentioned. Even the items you said were “impossible to get at very short notice.”

You found him in the hallway, sleeves rolled up, opening the last box.

“You did all this?” you whispered.

“I told you,” he said without looking up, “I’ll handle everything else. And I hate seeing you struggle.”

The next morning, he led you to a door you had never opened.

Inside?

A full studio. Your dream studio.

Tailored exactly to the way you work.

You turned to him, stunned. “Namjoon… this is—this is too much.”

“No,” he said, meeting your eyes steadily. “It’s not enough.”

You swallowed hard.

He stepped closer, gaze gentle. “You deserve space to build your future. You’re not supposed to fit your dreams into a corner of the living room.”

Your chest tightened. “You made this… for me?”

“I made it because I like watching you work,” he said, then immediately looked away like he didn’t mean to be that honest. “It—uh—it’s important to you. That’s all.”

But you heard it.

Two weeks later, everything had blown up—posters everywhere, meetings stacked on meetings until he was nothing but a shadow passing through the house. You hardly saw him anymore... except in the quiet hours of the morning.

And the day he officially filed his candidacy, you dressed him in the first suit you’d finished for him.

A midnight–navy wool-silk… smooth, rich, beautiful with hand-stitched lapels. A thin silver pinstripe that showed only when he moved.

He looked unreal in it. But you pretended you weren’t staring.

He stood in the center of your studio like a perfectly-behaved mannequin, while you circled him with pins in your teeth and your heart somewhere in your throat.

“Arms up,” you said, tapping his elbow.

He lifted them instantly. No hesitation. No argument. Just complete obedience to your soft little command.

You pretended it didn’t affect you.

He watched you in the studio mirror, eyes following every move you made.

Your palm slid over his shoulder, smoothing the fabric. You stepped closer, fingertips smoothing down the length of his bicep, then flattening the jacket across his chest.

His chest was warm. His heartbeat was fast.

You tried to pretend you didn’t notice.

“Is it too tight here?” you asked softly, pressing your hand over his heart to check the fit.

A low sound escaped him... half-laugh, half something else. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror.

“If it were any looser,” he said, “I’d look like I borrowed my father’s suit.”

You smiled under your breath and moved behind him to check the vents. Your hands skimmed lightly along his waist to adjust the back seam.

He inhaled sharply—so sharply that you felt it through the fabric.

“Stop moving,” you scolded, nudging him with your knee.

“Believe me,” he muttered, “I’m trying.”

You stepped to his front again, reaching for the tie you dyed yourself—a deep burgundy that warmed against his skin. You slid it under his collar, your knuckles brushing his throat.

He swallowed. You felt everything.

“Hold still,” you whispered.

He didn’t. He swayed almost imperceptibly closer.

You tied the knot slowly, adjusting it until it sat perfectly. Your hand smoothed down the tie, down the firm line of his chest… and lingered over his heart again without meaning to.

Your voice dropped. “There. You look…”

You swallowed the rest.

He turned his head, meeting your eyes through the mirror like the way a man does when he’s trying very hard not to cross a line.

“How do I look?” he asked, voice deep and rough.

You let out a shaky breath. “Like you’re going to win.”

His eyes dropped immediately to your mouth. “And if I do win?”

You stepped back a tiny bit—barely an inch. “Then the city gets a mayor who dresses well.”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh, like it hurt him. “That’s all?”

Your fingers were still brushing his chest, even though you were trying to drag them away. His heartbeat was wild under your palm—louder, faster, like he was afraid you’d hear everything he’d been holding back.

“Mhmm...,” you said quietly.

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing like he needed to calm himself, then stepped back with visible effort. His hands clenched at his sides.

“One more month,” he told himself in mind, almost like a promise. “Just one more month…”

He left before you could say anything further, afraid he’d grab you, afraid he’d kiss you, afraid he’d ruin the careful control he’d been holding onto.

You watched him on the television from your new studio—half-finished sketches on the table, fabric scissors forgotten in your hand.

He stepped onto the stage for his first town-hall speech wearing the suit you made for him.

Under the bright lights, the midnight navy shimmered. Every turn caught the silver pinstripe. The burgundy tie glowed against his throat.

He looked powerful... Confident... And heartbreakingly handsome.

A reporter leaned forward. “Mr. Kim, your suit looks fantastic today. It's different than what you usually wear. May we ask who designed it?”

He smiled—small, soft, secret.

“My wife,” he said.

Those two words hit you harder than the studio lights above you. You felt your breath catch, your chest tighten, your heart race against your ribs.

He said it with pride. With ownership.

With something warm and protective in his voice that made your knees weak.

You pressed a hand to your chest as he continued speaking on screen, his voice steady and strong. But all you could hear was the smile in his voice when he said it.

My wife.

You’d promised one night for yourself before finals took over everything. Just one night to forget the weight on your shoulders. One night to laugh with the friends who pulled you out of the suffocating world of politics and lit up your college days.

One last night before all of you drifted toward your own futures.

So you went out with your friends to a rooftop bar in Itaewon—fairy lights hanging above you, cheap cocktails in plastic cups, music loud enough that your overthinking finally shut up for a few hours.

Jungkook, your playful, chaotic friend, offered to drive you home when your cab cancelled. At 2:13 a.m., his matte-black Jeep stopped in front of the entrance to the penthouse.

You leaned over the console to side-hug him, laughing at something stupid he had said. “Thanks for the ride, Kook. Seriously.”

He hugged you back briefly and grinned. “Anytime. Text me when you’re alive tomorrow.”

You hopped out, still giggling, hair messy, heels dangling from your fingers.

You didn’t know someone else had watched the entire thing.

Namjoon had been pacing the living room for two full hours, phone in hand, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you. He saw the hug. He saw you smiling. He saw another man’s hands around you.

And something inside him burned.

The moment Jungkook’s car drove off, you stepped inside—humming softly, completely unaware of the storm brewing for you.

You stopped dead.

Namjoon stood in the dark living room, facing the window, the city lights outlining his tall frame. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly wild like he had been dragging his fingers through it.

His voice cut through the darkness like a knife. “You should have told me you’d be late.”

Your heart jumped. “God, Namjoon. Don’t stand in the dark like that. It’s creepy.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he said without turning. “I was waiting.”

“For what?” you asked, dropping your heels by the door.

“For you,” he said simply.

You blinked. “I texted you. You didn’t reply.”

He finally turned toward you. His eyes were sharp. “I was in a strategy meeting until 11.”

You let out a breath. “Okay… then what’s the problem?”

He stepped forward. Slowly. Controlled.

But his jaw was tight, and you saw the muscle tick.

“The problem,” he said softly, “is coming home and watching some guy put his hands on my wife.”

Your lips parted. “Jungkook just hugged me. He was driving me home...”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It DOES matter. He’s my friend!”

“I don’t care,” Namjoon growled, taking another step. “I don’t care about him. I care that his hands were on you. I care that you were laughing in his car. I care that you didn’t tell me you’d be with him that late.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Then a sharp, humorless laugh escaped you.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” you said. “You don’t even TOUCH me, Namjoon. You barely LOOK at me. You treat me like a roommate you’re forced to live with—”

His voice cracked open, raw and ragged. “Because I’m trying not to ruin you before you graduate.”

The room fell silent. You swallowed, the anger melting into hurt.

“Then why... why do you act like you don’t want me?” Your voice shook. “Every time I get close, you step away. We sleep in separate rooms. You treat me like I’m made of glass. You don’t even love me. You’re just stuck with me. So why the hell do you care who drops me home?”

Something inside him broke. You could feel it.

He moved faster than you could process.

In two strides, he had you caged against the wall, his hands on either side of your head, chest rising and falling, breath shaking.

He wasn’t touching you. But the air between you felt electric.

His voice was low, furious, trembling. “You think I don’t want you?”

Your breath stopped.

He leaned closer, lips almost brushing your cheek.

“I have wanted you,” he whispered, “since you were sixteen and I was nineteen. And it was wrong. It was illegal. And I hated myself every single day for it.”

Your eyes widened, heart slamming against your ribs.

He continued, voice breaking, “I married you because the thought of another men breathing near you made me want to burn the world down. I married you so no one else ever would.”

His forehead pressed gently against yours. His whole body shook with restraint.

“I count the hours until your graduation,” he murmured, “because if I touch you now... if I kiss you now—I’m afraid I won’t let you leave that bed for days.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer until your lips hovered an inch from his.

“Then stop being fucking coward,” you whispered.

“I’m twenty-two. I’ve been yours on paper for three months and yours in every way that matters. So fucking show me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

His breath hitched. His grip tightened on the wall. His eyes dropped to your lips like he was starving.

And that was the moment... everything snapped inside him.

He made a sound you’d never heard from him before—half-groan, half-growl, like something wild had finally been let out of its cage.

Then his mouth crashed onto yours. There was nothing soft about it.

No pause. No hesitation.

Just years of hunger slamming into you all at once.

His lips were hot, desperate, almost angry with how long he’d held himself back. Your teeth bumped, your tongues tangled, breath mixing in messy gasps that tasted like whiskey, jealousy, and every held-back fantasy he’d buried for years.

You moaned into him... high, needy—and he swallowed the sound like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight, controlling your head with an ease that sent heat pooling between your legs.

The other hand grabbed your thigh, hauled it up around his hip, dragging you flush against the thick, hard heat straining against his slacks.

His hips rolled, rough and frustrated.

“Fuck…” he breathed against your lips, voice torn open. “Feel that? That’s what you’ve been doing to me for years, sweetheart. Every damn day.”

You couldn’t even speak.

Your hands were shaking as you grabbed at his shirt, popping buttons, pushing fabric aside until your palms met his bare chest.

Hot. Solid. Trembling.

His heart hammered so hard you felt it against your fingers.

He groaned—a deep, broken sound, and dropped his mouth to your neck. The first kiss was hot. The second was harder. Then he sucked, teeth dragging, leaving a mark that made your knees almost give out.

“Tell me to stop,” he gasped against your skin. He was breathing like he’d run miles. “If you say stop, I swear to God I will. But this is the last time I’m asking you. Last chance, baby...”

“Don’t you dare,” you panted, nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

Something in him snapped clean in half.

He spun you so fast you gasped, your back hitting the wall as his body pressed into yours from behind. His mouth found the nape of your neck, kissing, biting, breathing you in like he’d been drowning in restraint.

His hands slid under your cropped sweater, warm palms gliding over your stomach, up your ribs, until they cupped your breasts completely. He groaned into your skin as his thumbs brushed your nipples through the lace—slow first, then firmer when he felt you shaking.

“God,” he whispered, voice shaking, “I dreamed about this. I dreamed about touching you like this. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You arched back, grinding against the hard line of his cock. He cursed—low, filthy, helpless.

“Baby…” he rasped, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot on your skin. “If you do that again, I’m gonna lose every bit of control I have left.”

You did it again.

And he broke all over you.

“These clothes,” he snarled, yanking your sweater over your head, bra following in one impatient tug. Cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was on your shoulder, your spine, licking a hot path downward as he dropped to his knees behind you.

He spun you so fast the room tilted, hands rough on your hips as he folded you forward, palms slamming flat against the wall for balance. Your skirt was already bunched at your waist, panties dangling uselessly around one ankle now.

Cool air kissed your soaked skin for half a second, and then his mouth was on you, no warning, no mercy.

“OW... FUCK... Namjoon—”

He groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating straight through your core. “Fuck, you taste better than I dreamed,” he rasped, voice muffled against you. “So fucking sweet.”

Another long, deliberate lick, slower this time, flattening his tongue so he could feel every shudder that rolled through you. When he reached your clit he circled it once, twice, then sucked it between his lips, hard.

Your knees buckled.

You would’ve hit the floor if his hands weren’t gripping your hips like iron.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Legs open. Let me eat this pretty pussy the way I’ve been dying to for months.”

He spread you wider with his thumbs, exposing you completely, and dove back in. This time his tongue speared inside you, thrusting deep, curling, fucking into you like he couldn’t get far enough.

You felt the wet drag of it, the obscene sounds of him drinking you down echoing off the walls.

“Namjoon... oh god—”

You whimpered, pushing back against his face shamelessly.

He moaned again, louder, the vibration making you clench around nothing. “That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck yourself on my tongue. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

You did, rocking back, chasing his mouth.

He let you for three desperate strokes, then took control again, tongue flicking fast over your clit, relentless, before sucking it hard enough that stars burst behind your eyes.

“Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name,” he promised, words slurred against your slick folds. “Then I’m gonna do it again with my cock.”

Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling hard, and you cried out, palms slapping the wall for balance.

“So wet,” he growled, voice muffled against your skin. “Been wet for me for months, haven’t you?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—” You clenched around his fingers so hard.

“Come for me, baby,” he demanded, voice raw. “Come all over my face, right now, let me taste it...”

The orgasm crashed over you so hard you screamed, thighs clamping around his head, hips jerking helplessly as wave after wave tore through you.

He didn’t stop, just kept licking, gentler now, drawing it out until you were sobbing from overstimulation, pushing weakly at his forehead.

Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes black with lust, your wetness glistening on his chin. He stood slowly, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he was savoring the taste.

“Turn around,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

He made you stand in one motion, spinning you again to face him. His belt clinked open, zipper rasping down. You reached for him desperately, fingers wrapping around his cock... hot, thick, leaking—and he hissed, head falling back.

Your back hit the wall again as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, slick and burning.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice shaking.

You did.

His eyes were wild, pupils blown, lips swollen from your kisses. Sweat glistened at his temple.

“I love you,” he said, raw and reverent. “I love you so much it’s fucking killing me.”

Then he pushed in... one long, slow, devastating thrust that stretched you open and seated him to the hilt. You both froze, trembling, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air.

He didn’t move yet.

Just held you there, buried deep, pulsing inside you.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I’m yours,” you breathed. “Always was.”

His control snapped a second time.

He pulled back and slammed inside again, hard enough that your moan cracked in half.

“Fuck—” you sobbed, head banging back against the wall.

Namjoon didn’t give you time to breathe.

He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward with wet, filthy slaps of skin on skin, the wall trembling behind you with every relentless drive. Each stroke dragged the ridge of his cock over that spot inside you that made your vision spark white, made your toes curl.

Your nails raked down his shoulders, carved burning lines across his back, and he hissed through his teeth, fucking you harder.

“Like that?” he growled against your ear, voice ragged. “You want it rough, baby? Been dreaming about splitting this tight little pussy open for years.”

“Yes—yes... Fuck... harder—” you chanted, barely sane.

He shoved one hand between your sweat-slick bodies, fingers finding your clit, swollen and slick, and started rubbing fast, merciless circles that matched the brutal pace of his cock.

“Listen to you,” he rasped, breath scorching your throat. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Can hear it every time I fuck into you—soaked down my balls, dripping on the floor.”

The obscene sound of it filled the room... slick, rhythmic, filthy, mixed with your broken moans and his low, animal groans.

“Namjoon—please—”

“Please what?” He slowed just enough to grind deep, rolling his hips so the head of his cock pressed hard against your wall, making you see stars. “Tell me what you need.”

You clawed at his back again, legs shaking around his waist. “Make me come... want to come on your cock... please—”

He snarled, snapped his hips faster, fingers working your clit in tight, ruthless circles. “Gonna give you everything,” he promised, voice cracking. “Gonna fill this pussy up so good you’ll feel me for days. Every time you move tomorrow you’ll remember who you belong to.”

The pressure coiled viciously tight, your walls fluttering around him.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, dark and filthy. “Squeeze me... fuck... milk my cock, baby, show me how much you love this—”

His fingers pressed harder, rubbing side-to-side now, fast and perfect, and you shattered.

The orgasm hit you sooner than earlier, ripping a scream from your throat as you clenched around him, vision whiting out.

He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a broken groan of your name.

You stayed locked together, shaking, sweat-slick, his cock still twitching deep inside you, your legs trembling around his waist.

After a long moment he lifted his head, eyes soft now, almost scared.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I lost it. Did I hurt you?”

You laughed, breathless and wrecked. “You better do that again in approximately five minutes.”

Relief flooded his face.

He kissed you slow this time, tender, like he was memorising the taste. “Bedroom,” he murmured against your lips. “Now. I’m nowhere near done proving how much I love you.”

He carried you there without pulling out, your bodies still joined, and kicked the door shut behind you.

Neither of you slept that night.

The gala felt unreal.

It was Namjoon’s first major campaign event after your graduation, and he stood in the centre of the room in the deep wine-coloured suit you had made with your own hands. The silk lapels caught the light every time he moved.

He looked powerful. He looked calm.

He looked like the future of the city.

And he looked like yours.

You stood half a step behind him in your backless blood red dress, silk flowing around your legs like spilled wine. The diamond choker around your throat glimmered with each breath.

Namjoon had clasped it himself before you left, his fingers warm on your skin, his lips brushing the nape of your neck as he whispered, “Perfect.”

You had felt warm and proud and so unbelievably happy.

Until she arrived.

Councilwoman Lee Soojin.

Young. Elegant. Confident. And very aware of her beauty.

She moved through the crowd like she owned the floor, eyes locked on Namjoon before she even reached him.

“Mayor-to-be,” she said in a silky voice, placing her hand on his forearm like it was a habit. “You absolutely must tell me who designed this suit. It should be illegal to look this good.”

Her fingers travelled along the lapel, far too close to his throat.

You felt heat rise in your chest.

Namjoon stiffened almost instantly. His smile froze into something polite and cold.

“My wife designed it,” he said, turning slightly so he could gesture toward you. He said it calmly, proudly, like there was never any question.

Soojin’s gaze flicked to you... one quick, dismissive glance, before she turned back to him as if you were decoration.

“Well,” she said with a soft laugh, “she must have measured every inch of you very carefully. It fits you perfectly.”

Your hand tightened around your champagne flute.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened in the way you knew meant he was seconds from snapping.

You stepped forward before he could.

“Every inch,” you said sweetly, letting your voice glide like honey over steel. “Twice, actually.”

Soojin blinked, startled.

You slid your arm through Namjoon’s, pressing your palm firmly against his chest. “Enjoy your evening, Councilwoman.”

She stepped back. Her smile finally cracked.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But his heart was slamming against your palm like a drum.

He stayed silent the entire walk to the car.

The drive through Gangnam was a slow burn.

Neon lights flashed across the windshield, slicing across the tense air between you. The city looked alive outside, but inside the car everything was quiet and heavy.

Namjoon drove himself tonight.

No driver. No witnesses. No escape.

You sat with your arms crossed, face turned toward the window, trying not to show how furious and jealous and stupidly, painfully in love you felt.

He kept glancing at you.

Once. Twice. Every few seconds.

“Baby—” he tried.

“Don’t,” you said sharply.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking wrecked. “I didn’t like how her hand...”

“I said don’t.”

Your cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling, your lipstick bitten off from how hard your teeth dug into your lip.

And Namjoon?

He looked like he was seconds away from either apologising or pulling over and kissing the breath out of you.

At the next red light, he reached over... slowly, as if not to startle you. His hand brushed the seatbelt strap across your chest… sliding down to adjust it.

Completely innocent. Until it wasn’t.

His knuckles grazed the soft swell of your breast. His hand paused.

Your breath caught.

His fingers stayed there—just barely—but enough to make your entire body tighten.

“Namjoon,” you warned, voice low, trembling.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even blink.

Green light.

He jerked his hand back and accelerated, jaw clenched so tight you could see the strain in his neck.

Next red light.

You unbuckled your seatbelt.

His head whipped toward you instantly. “Baby… what are you—”

You didn’t wait.

You climbed onto his lap in one smooth, furious motion. Silk sliding, your dress riding up, knees pressing into the narrow space between the seat and the console.

His hands snapped to your waist on instinct, eyes wide, breath gone.

“Drive,” you ordered when lights turned green, voice shaking with possessiveness, like you ruled the whole damn city.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His body reacted before his mind did, hardening against you inside his suit pants.

“B-Baby…” he breathed.

You rolled your hips once—a slow, deliberate grind that made him choke.

His head fell back against the seat with a thud. “F-Fuck...”

“You’re mine,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “How dare she flirt with you? No one touches you. No one leans in like that. No one puts their hands on what belongs to me.”

You bit his earlobe... hard enough to make his breath shatter. He jolted, hips bucking up helplessly.

“Say it,” you demanded softly. “Say you’re mine.”

His answer came without hesitation, voice raw.

“I’m yours... Babe,” he rasped. “Only yours. Always. I swear... no one else even exists to me.”

You started grinding.

Slow, deliberate, filthy circles that dragged the soaked lace of your panties over the thick line straining his trousers.

The friction was perfect, maddening, every roll of your hips grinding your clit against the rigid line of him until your breath came in sharp little gasps.

Namjoon’s head fell back against the headrest with a thud, throat bared, Adam’s apple working as a broken sound tore out of him, half groan, half prayer.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasped, voice shredded.

“Keep moving on me, baby. Make me feel who I belong to.”

You leaned in, lips brushing the frantic pulse hammering under his jaw. “Gonna leave marks,” you whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. “So tomorrow, when she sees you again, she’ll see my marks all over you.”

His answering growl was feral. “Do it. Mark me so deep I feel you for days. Want the whole fucking world to know I’m taken.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You latched onto the spot just below his ear, sucked hard, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting.

Then lower, yanked his collar aside with impatient fingers, buttons straining, and sealed your mouth over his pulse. You sucked until you felt the skin give, until the hickey swelled hot and purple under your tongue.

His cock jerked against your clit, a fresh flood of wetness soaking through your panties onto his trousers.

You pulled back just enough to admire your work, lips swollen, eyes glittering. “Sensitive here, husband?” you purred, tracing the fresh bruise with your thumb.

He laughed, breathless, wrecked. “Only when it’s you.”

You rewarded him by grinding down in one slow, torturous circle, dragging the lace seam right over the head of his cock. His hips snapped up to meet you, chasing the pressure.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re soaked. I can feel you through my suit. Gonna ruin these trousers, baby?”

“Good... I can design 10 more,” you whispered, nails raking down his chest, catching on the buttons.

His hands slid from your hips to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so you could feel every inch of him.

“Take whatever you want,” he said, voice raw and desperate. “Use me. I’m yours, every part of me, fucking take it.”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He jerked the wheel, turned into a narrow service alley behind closed boutiques, cut the engine.

City sounds disappeared.

Only your breathing and the soft tick of cooling metal. He stared at you... eyes black, chest heaving. You didn’t wait.

You finally attacked his mouth, teeth scraping, tongue sliding deep, pure, feral possession. He met you with the same violence, one hand fisting your hair, the other already shoving under the silk of your dress, fingers sinking into the bare skin of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he snarled against your lips, “do it. Take me. Right here.”

Your hands dropped to his belt... metal clinking, leather whipping free. You tore the zipper down, reached inside, wrapped your fingers around him.

He was scorching.

Thick, pulsing, slick with precum that smeared over your palm as you pulled him free.

“F-Fuck—” His head slammed back against the headrest.

“Look at you,” you whispered, stroking once, slow and firm, thumb circling the wet tip.

“So fucking hard for your wife.” You leaned in, voice poison-sweet. “Did you like her fingers on your arm, Namjoon? Did it feel good when she laughed while standing too close?”

“No,” he growled, hips already fucking into your fist, frantic. “Only want you. Only ever you. Swear to God...”

You squeezed, just hard enough to make him choke on the words.

“Then prove it.”

You shifted, shoved the soaked lace of your panties aside with trembling fingers, and lined him up.

Just the head. One cruel inch.

You sank down.

His groan was guttural, broken, hands flying to your hips like he was trying to stop himself from slamming you down the rest of the way.

“Wait... fuck... baby—”

You didn’t wait.

You took him in one slow, relentless glide until he was buried to the root, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your vision blurred.

“Holy shit...” His voice cracked. “So tight... so fucking perfect—”

You rolled your hips once, slow and deep, clit grinding against the base of him.

“Mine,” you breathed against his mouth, starting to ride him in deliberate, punishing strokes. Every downward slide took him to the hilt... every upward drag tore a curse from his throat. “This cock is mine. This body is mine. These sounds—”

“Yours,” he panted, fingers bruising your ass as he guided you harder, faster. “All yours... fuck... take it, take everything—”

You found the angle that made you see stars and ground down, circling, owning.

He lost it.

One hand shot up, fisted the front of your dress, and ripped.

Silk tore with a sharp, satisfying sound. Cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was on your breast, hot and wet, sucking your nipple hard enough to make you cry out.

“N-Namjoon—Yes... Fuck!”

He growled around the sensitive peak, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, while his hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours. The car rocked violently, windows completely fogged.

“Say it again,” he rasped, switching to the other breast, leaving it swollen and shining. “Tell me who I belong to.”

“You’re mine,” you moaned, nails raking down his scalp, holding him to your chest. “Only mine. No one else gets this—no one else gets to hear you fall apart...”

He released your nipple with a wet pop, head falling back, throat exposed, sweat glistening in the hollow of his collarbone.

“Never,” he swore, voice shredded. “Never wanted anyone the way I want you. Fuck... look at me.”

You did.

His eyes were wild, wrecked, completely gone for you.

“I love you,” he said, raw and desperate, hips still driving up into you. “Love you so much it fucking hurts. Want you on me, in me, around me.. always—”

The words snapped the last thread of your control.

You slammed down hard, grinding in tight circles, clit dragging against him with every thrust. The pleasure coiled vicious and bright.

“Come inside me,” you ordered, voice trembling on the edge. “Right now. Want to feel you lose it while I’m wrapped around you.”

He groaned your name, hands forcing you down one final time as he erupted... hot, thick pulses flooding you, cock jerking deep inside as he came apart with a broken groan.

The feeling of him spilling pushed you over.

You shattered, walls clamping down, milking him through it, your own release crashing so hard your vision whited out.

The car was a haze of sex and shattered breathing.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, your heartbeats thumping in the same fast rhythm. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and warm, like he wanted to keep you pressed to him forever.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, kissing the warm skin there, brushing your lips over the marks you’d left in the heat of the moment. Your voice came out softer now, almost tender.

“No one touches you like that,” you whispered. “No one gets you like that. Only me. Understand?”

He let out a weak laugh... the kind that sounded breathless and almost shy, but so, so happy. “Understood, Mrs. Kim,” he murmured, and you felt his smile against your hair.

His fingers slid slowly down your spine, not rushing, just tracing you like he was memorizing every inch.

Then his lips brushed the top of your head.

“I love it when you’re jealous,” he confessed quietly. “I love knowing you want me just as much as I want you. It… does something to me.”

Your lips curved into a smile against his skin.

“Then get used to it,” you said softly.

He tipped your chin up with two fingers, guiding your face to his. His kiss was slow this time.... deep, sweet, almost fragile.

Like he was pouring his whole heart into it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because I’ve been yours since the day you spilled acrylic paint on my shoes at sixteen just to get my attention.”

You froze.

Your mouth slowly opened.

“You… you knew I did that on purpose?”

He smiled—the soft, shy kind he never showed anyone else. “Baby… you looked up at me like I hung the moon. How could I not know?”

Your chest tightened, emotion swelling painfully.

After several long minutes of quiet breathing and soft touches, he whispered, “Stay still.”

You blinked up at him. “Why?”

He shrugged out of his blazer and wrapped it around you carefully, covering the torn front of your dress with slow, protective hands.

“Let’s go home,” he said gently, touching your cheek with the back of his hand.

And as he pulled the car back onto the road, both of you wrapped in each other’s warmth and outside, Seoul kept passing by in streaks of neon and streetlight.

Sunlight spilled gold across the sheets.

You were tangled in Namjoon’s arms, face buried in his neck, one of your legs thrown over his hip, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your ass like it belonged there... because it did.

He stirred first, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Baby,” he whispered, voice gravel-rough from sleep. “I have to get up. Assembly budget meeting at nine.”

You made a small, wounded sound and tightened your arms around his neck. “No. Stay… I wish we could stay like this the whole day.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “You know we can’t. I have a meeting at the assembly…”

You nuzzled closer, lips brushing his throat. “Mhmm… just five minutes…”

He didn’t argue. He never could when you asked like that. Instead he rolled you both so you were fully on top of him, your hair spilling over his shoulders like silk.

His palms slid up your bare back, tracing lazy circles.

“Why so clingy today, Mrs. Kim?” he murmured, thumb brushing your spine. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You hesitated for too long.

He noticed instantly. His fingers stilled. His eyes searched your face.

“What happened?”

You lifted your head, biting your lip.

“I got the letter yesterday,” you whispered. “The internship… in Paris. Starting next week.”

The room went perfectly still. His arms locked around you tightly. “How long?” he asked, voice suddenly careful.

“Three months.”

He exhaled, long and slow, and stared at the ceiling.

You felt his heart hammer against your chest. Then, without a word, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. You watched, confused, as he dialled.

You blinked. “Joon… what are you doing?”

“Calling in sick,” he said simply, already dialling.

Your mouth fell open. “What?! You never call in sick... Wait... Stop—”

“Hyung,” he said into the phone the moment it was answered, “I’m not coming in. Fever. Cancel the meetings, reschedule everything. All of it. I’ll update you tomorrow.”

He hung up.

You stared at him. “You actually did that?”

He tossed the phone aside like it meant nothing and flipped you beneath him in one smooth, warm, authoritative motion.

His body hovered over yours. “Of course I did.”

“I can’t stop you from going,” he said, voice low, serious. “And I won’t. I told you the day we got married... I never want you as a trophy wife. I want you chasing every dream you have, even if it takes you across the world.”

He brushed your hair back, eyes fierce.

“But the next three months are going to be hell for me. Campaign, debates, polls… and you won’t be here. So today...” he kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips, “...today is ours. I’m not letting anyone else take a single second from us.”

You laughed through the sudden tears. “You really want me to go?”

He smiled... small, pained, proud.

“I’m proud of you,” he said fiercely.

“I want you to fly. And when you come back, I’ll be waiting exactly like this. Besides... his grin turned wicked, “...I’m going to wear the suits you designed for every single campaign stop. They’re my lucky charm and I'll feel you close.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly.

He kissed back slowly, deeply… then broke away to stare at you with an expression you’d never seen before.

“Can I tell you something? The things you never knew... The things that I kept hidden for so long under my cold personality.” he whispered.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily. “I wanted to kiss you senseless years ago.”

Your brows furrowed. “When?”

His eyes softened as memory pulled at him. “That day you came to the banquet wearing that yellow sundress. You remember? You came to me and praised me for my speech…”

He shook his head, almost embarrassed. “You looked so bright I swear it hurt to look at you. All I could think was... if I kiss her right now, I won’t stop.”

Your heart thudded. “Namjoon…”

“And the library,” he continued, voice getting lower, warmer. “When you reached for the pen and your fingers brushed mine… later you walked away like nothing happened.”

You blinked. “But back then... I thought you were not into me—”

“No... that's not true.” he said. “I stared at my hand the entire damn night like a teenager. I didn’t sleep. I kept touching the spot where your fingers brushed.”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t done.

“And at my father’s funeral…” His voice cracked—the memory still sharp. “I saw you standing with that candy.”

You swallowed. “I... I wanted to hug you. But there were reporters and people—”

He shook his head. “Baby… I wanted to walk straight to you. Fall on my knees. Put my head in your lap and cry like a child. You were the only person I wanted that day.”

Your chest tightened with something fierce and tender.

“Joon… I promise... You will always have me by your side.”

You lifted your arms around his neck and pulled him down until your foreheads touched again.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His smile was pure devotion. “I love you more. Now come here...” He slid his hands down your sides, gripping your hips.

“...we have only one day to make up for ninety nights.”

Three Months Later... Jamsil Stadium.

Forty thousand people... Cameras everywhere... Screens lit up with Namjoon’s face. He stood at the podium, looking powerful, calm, every inch the man Seoul had placed its faith in.

“And together...” he said, voice rolling through the speakers like thunder, “...we will build a Seoul where—”

His breath caught.

Because he saw you.

You’d just arrived from Paris, suitcase still in the car, still wearing the cream coat you’d left in. Your hair was a little longer now, your eyes a little tired but glowing, and you stood at the very back of the VIP section.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

The crowd went silent, confused.

Then he smiled. That helpless, warm, completely ruined by you smile. He cleared his throat, trying to recover.

His voice softened as he continued, almost trembling... “…a Seoul where every dream...” His eyes stayed on you. “...no matter how far it takes you… always finds its way home.”

He drew a steady breath and continued, voice rising with purpose— “A Seoul where every citizen has the chance to work with dignity, where passion and opportunity isn’t a privilege but a right, and where our growth is shared... not by a few, but by all.”

The crowd roared, moved by the promise. People didn’t know why the line hit so hard.

But you did. And he did.

The stadium erupted, forty thousand people screaming his name. He won by a landslide. But the only victory that mattered walked back into his life was wearing a cream coat and tired eyes.

That night, you barely stepped inside before the door of penthouse slammed shut behind you. Namjoon grabbed your face and kissed you so desperately it knocked the breath out of you... like he’d been starving for three months straight.

Your coat slipped off your shoulders and hit the floor.

You were laughing, breathing his name, tears slipping down your cheeks because you’d missed him so much it hurt.

His hands slid into your hair, gripping gently.

“God,” he breathed against your lips, “you’re really here. You’re really—”

You cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tear he tried to hide. “Of course I’m here,” you whispered. “Where else would I go?”

You kissed him again, harder. He broke into a messy laugh that almost sounded like a sob.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, “how many nights I imagined this.” His mouth found your neck, your jaw, your lips again.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, voice shaking.

He didn’t answer.

He just lifted you... effortlessly, and carried you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way like he was making up for every day you were gone.

He laid you on the bed with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Then he crawled over you, suit jacket already on the floor, shirt half-open, tie loose around his neck.

He cupped your face with both hands.

“You showed up,” he said softly, breath uneven. “You came back to me.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheeks. “You’re my home, Joon.”

His eyes went glossy. “Baby…”

His voice broke. “I thought I’d be strong... you know? If I keep myself busy with all these elections stuff, I thought I’d be fine while you were gone. But every night, I… damn, I missed you so much it hurt.”

You pulled him closer, your hands sliding into his hair. “I missed you too.”

He kissed you... slow, deep, like he was memorizing you all over again. When he finally pulled back, he hovered above you, chest rising fast.

“You’re the only person,” he said, touching your lips with his thumb, “who keeps me sane… but also makes me completely fucking insane at the same time.”

You laughed softly, eyes wet.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m going to keep doing that for the rest of our lives.”

His smile... your favorite dimple smile... spread slowly, beautifully. “Promise?”

You hooked your finger around the front of his shirt and tugged him down until his weight settled on you just right, warm and solid and his. “Promise.”

He exhaled like you’d just given him air after months of living underwater.

Outside, the city celebrated its new mayor.

Inside the penthouse, the man himself only cared about the woman beneath him.

And somewhere between the city lights and the sound of his name on your lips, Seoul crowned its new king and queen.

Obsessed. In love. Unbreakable.

A/n: First of all… my brain was short-circuiting whole time while writing this story. Because let’s be honest... Namjoon as a political leader? We all know that man would look unfairly hot standing behind a podium, sleeves rolled up, addressing nation in his deep voice.

And the driving part? Yeah... well... I know, he doesn’t have a license in reality… but if he did? Lord have mercy on me.

Because the thought of him driving... One hand gripping the steering wheel… The other resting on your thigh… Eyes focused on the road with his clenched jaw... Ahhhhhhhh.... He’d look as dangerously sexy driving a car as he looks driving all of us abso-fucking-lutely insane.

KIM NAMJOON

The rain is relentless against the windows in very dramatic hreatbreak manner.

“I’m sleeping in the study,” he mutters, stacking his books like he’s preparing for exile.

You say absolutely nothing.

He narrows his eyes. “Silent treatment? Bold strategy.”

You remain a mysterious burrito under the duvet, only your face peeking out.

He folds his blanket with unnecessary intensity. “You know, mature couples communicate.”

You blink at him.

He sighs and reaches for the last pillow near your side... Then freezes.

Your lace lingerie is placed perfectly underneath.

He lifts it slowly and stares at it like it personally offended him. Then he looks at you... Then at the suspiciously smooth line of the blanket over your body. “…You’re joking.”

You give him your sweetest smile. “I was warm.”

“Warm???” he repeats flatly. “In January?”

You shrug. “Global warming... I guess.”

He presses his lips together to stop the smile threatening to break through. “You are ridiculous.”

He turns toward the door with dramatic determination.... Makes it two steps, then stops and finally turn back. “Do you think this is funny?”

“What? I didn't say anything now. I just didn't let you enter the kitchen earlier because that was not funny.”

He drops the pillow. “Shift.”

“Excuse me?”

He lifts the blanket and slides under beside you in one smooth motion, immediately wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“I was leaving,” he mutters into your neck.

“You were. But I made sure you don't.”

He snorts. “But now I have to make sure you don’t catch a cold from your poor life choices.”

You laugh softly. “So you’re still mad?”

“I am,” he says, tightening his hold. “I’m furious about you didn't let me try cooking your favorite food.” He gives the trail of wet kisses your shoulder.

“You’re smiling,” you whisper.

“I’m just admiring...” he corrects. “...cause you're cute when you plot.”

The rain keeps falling outside. He sighs against your skin.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “just say you miss me instead of launching a full seduction operation.”

You grin. “Did it work?”

He pulls you even closer. “Unfortunately... Immediately...”

KIM SEOKJIN

You know very well that he is committed to the drama whenever you get into arguments.

“I’ll take the couch,” he announces like he’s accepting an award for Most Heartbroken Husband of the Year, aggressively fluffing his blanket and a ridiculously tiny decorative pink neck pillow.

“You don’t have to,” you reply far too sweetly from beneath the massive white duvet.

“I insist,” he says, chin high. “I need space. Emotional distance.”

You make a soft, unimpressed hum and sink deeper under the covers.

He mutters the whole time. “Unbelievable. I cook, I clean, I’m handsome...”

He marches over to grab the last pillow near your side and freezes. His brows slowly rising.

Between two fingers, he lifts your lace lingerie like it’s a piece of evidence in a crime investigation. “…Explain.”

You blink up at him innocently. “Oh. That? I was looking for that.”

“You were looking for it?” He gestures toward the very obvious outline of your bare shoulder under the blanket. “While not wearing anything?”

You say nothing. Just blink innocently.

His jaw tightens. “You think this works on me?”

You lift the sheet just enough to show your shoulder. “Maybe.”

He groans and turns dramatically toward the couch. “I thought...” he mutters, “...I married a peaceful woman.”

You giggle.

He makes it exactly three steps... then stops and sighs. “…You’re naked.”

You shrug beneath the sheets. “You can check it yourself.”

He turns slowly, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m strong?”

“Are you?” You tease him.

He drops the pillow. “I was going to be noble,” he says, stalking back toward the bed.

“You still can,” you challenge sweetly.

He lifts the duvet and slides in beside you, immediately pulling you flush against him. “Suddenly... I don't want to.”

Your leg brushes his and he inhales sharply. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

“You were leaving.”

“I was,” he agrees, hand settling at your waist. “But then you decided to fight unfair.”

He nuzzles into your neck. “Next time, just say you don’t want me to leave.”

You whisper, “I never do.”

He melts immediately. “Fine. I forgive you. But I’m still right about me being more handsome than your favorite actor.”

“OH God... Jin... Not again.”

He smirks, nose brushing yours. “Shh... Now focus on me and kiss me.”

MIN YOONGI

“I’m sleeping in the studio,” Yoongi says flatly for the fifth time, grabbing his headphones and duvet.

“You said that already,” you mumble from under the blanket burrito you’ve created for yourself.

“Because you called me a kitten.” He complains again.

“You do look like one. Also... you pout when you’re mad.”

“I don't. And I don't pout.”

“You literally hissed at me ten minutes ago.”

He glares. “That was a warning.”

You gasp dramatically. “See? Kitten behavior.”

“I’m leaving.” He grabs the last pillow from his side and pauses. There’s lace underneath it. Very delicate... Very obvious...

He blinks once... Twice...

Then slowly looks at the suspiciously smooth silhouette under the blanket. “…You’re not wearing anything.”

You peek out just enough for him to see your innocent expression. “Maybe I got too warm arguing with a grumpy kitten.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not a kitten.”

“Prove it.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly fighting himself. “You are playing dirty.”

You stretch slightly under the sheets, the fabric shifting just enough to outline bare skin. “Am I distracting you?”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds very much like a curse. He takes two steps toward the door, then stops and stares at the wall.

He finally turns back, drops the pillow and switches off the lamp. The mattress dips as he slides under the blanket beside you. Without warning, his arm hooks around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re weak,” you whisper, smiling into the dark.

“I’m not weak,” he murmurs against your ear. “I just don’t trust you unsupervised like this.”

“Oh? Afraid I’ll scratch?” You tease.

He squeezes your hip lightly. “Keep calling me a kitten and I might.”

You laugh softly. “You’re purring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He shifts closer, warm and solid against your bare skin. “You’re cold.”

“I’m not.”

“You would’ve been.”

“Admit it,” you tease. “You couldn’t leave.”

There is a quiet pause, then, low and smug near your ear, “I could’ve.”

His hand slides a little higher along your waist. “I just decided I’d rather stay… and remind you I’m not a kitten.”

You shiver slightly.

“Still think I look cute?” he murmurs.

You smile. “Very.”

He presses a lazy kiss to your temple. “…Unfortunately, so do you.”

JUNG HOSEOK

“I’m sleeping in the guest room!” he declares dramatically, pointing at you like you just betrayed the nation.

“You hate the guest room,” you reply from the bed. “Also, this whole fight started because you screamed.”

“I did not scream.” He replies in defense.

“You jumped on the couch and said, ‘WHAT IS THAT CREATURE?’”

“It had wings!” he defends. “It was aggressive.”

“For God sake, Hoseok... It was just a ladybug.”

“It looked at me weird.”

You disappear under the covers before you start laughing again. He huffs, aggressively folding a blanket he absolutely does not know how to fold.

“I am not scared of bugs,” he continues. “I simply prefer they respect my personal space.”

You snort.

He marches over to grab the last pillow from your side and freezes. His fingers brush lace and his eyes widen slowly. He lifts it up, then looks at you.

Then at the suspiciously bare shoulders peaking under the blanket.

“…Oh.”

You wiggle just enough to prove a point.

“Are you naked?” he asks, voice dropping a little.

You hum. “I’m simply existing outside my clothes.”

He tries so hard not to smile and fails immediately. “You are so unfair.”

He turns toward the door dramatically but turns back. “You planned this because I said I don’t like bugs.”

“No,” you say sweetly. “I planned this because you look cute when you’re defensive.”

He drops the pillow. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re scared of bugs.”

He dives back into bed with a dramatic sigh, pulling the covers over both of you.

“I am not scared,” he murmurs, hands sliding around your waist. “But I might need to inspect this situation.”

“Inspect what?”

“You. Thoroughly.”

You grin in the fairy light glow. “Scared?”

He leans closer, whispering, “Only of leaving you like this and regret.”

“Good answer.”

He tightens his hold. “Next time just say you want me here.”

“I want you here.”

He kisses your shoulder softly. “Then I’m not going anywhere. Even if the ladybug comes back.”

PARK JIMIN

“I need space,” he says quietly, grabbing his blanket like he’s about to film a breakup scene in the movie.

You nod way too calmly.

His eyes narrow. “Why are you not reacting?”

“Reacting to what?” you murmur sweetly from under the duvet.

He huffs and reaches for his pillow, lifts it and freezes. A delicate piece of lingerie rests underneath. His ears turn bright pink instantly. Slowly… very slowly… his eyes move to you.

The duvet covers you up to your chin. Bare shoulders... No straps...

“…You’re not wearing anything,” he whispers.

You tilt your head. “Is that illegal?”

He swallows hard. “You are unbelievable.”

He takes one dramatic step toward the door, and stops. He turns back. “You’re really not wearing anything?”

You lift one hand from under the sheet and wiggle your pinky at him. “Maybe... I was hot.”

He squints at you. “You were mad five minutes ago.”

“I multitask. And you were the one who started the argument just because I compared my pinky with yours.”

He groans, drops the pillow, and climbs back into bed. The mattress dips, the blanket shifts, cold air brushing over skin before he pulls it tight around both of you.

His hand finds your waist immediately.

“You fight dirty,” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek.

You smirk and lift your hand, pressing your pinky against his.

“By the way,” you say teasingly, comparing them, “my pinky is longer than yours... see.”

He gasps softly. “It is not. You are at it again.”

“It is,” you insist, wiggling them side by side. “Yours is cute. Pocket-sized.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s a smile threatening.

“Pocket-sized?” he repeats slowly.

“Mhmm... Tiny. Adorable. Like a limited edition.”

He rolls on top of you gently, trapping you under his warmth. “Careful.”

“Why?” you whisper, teasing. “You’ll poke me with your tiny finger?”

His ears go deeper pink. “You’re bold for someone completely naked.”

You grin. “Did it work?”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice low and warm. “…Yes.”

You trace your longer pinky down his wrist slowly. “So you’re staying?”

He exhales softly, arms tightening around you. “I wasn’t going to sleep without you anyway.”

“So you accept your pinky is pocket-sized.”

He kisses your nose, then your cheek, voice playful but heated. “Keep teasing and I’ll show you it’s not just my pinky that’s competitive.”

You burst into laughter, burying your face in his shoulder as he hides his flustered smile in your hair.

KIM TAEHYUNG

“You hurt my feelings,” Taehyung announces, clutching his chest like he just got betrayed in a k-drama.

You’re under the duvet, only your face and one hand visible, thumb scrolling peacefully. “Mhm.”

His jaw drops. “Mhm? I cried for three whole minutes during that tragic scene!”

“You fake-cried,” you correct calmly. “And you were peeking to see if I was watching.”

“That’s called method acting,” he defends.

You snort, still texting.

He gasps louder. “You chose your phone over me during the movie. And now in bed too? Am I competing with Wi-Fi?”

“I chose peace.”

“Unbelievable.” He grabs an extra duvet dramatically. “I’m sleeping in the other room. Clearly your screen understands you better.”

You glance at him lazily. “Close the door on your way out.”

That makes him pause. He narrows his eyes and marches over to grab his pillow.

He lifts it and freezes, and stares at the delicate lace underneath.

Then slowly… very slowly… his gaze drifts to the suspiciously smooth blanket covering you. “…Oh.”

You blink up sweetly. “What?”

His voice lowers. “Are you naked under there?”

You tilt your head. “Wouldn’t you like to confirm?”

His pout melts into a smug grin. “So you ignored my method acting for this?”

“You said you needed attention,” you murmur. “I’m being generous.”

He drops the pillow. “You are dangerous. You’re trying to distract me from being mad.”

You smile innocently. “Is it working?”

He groans and dives back into bed, yanking the duvet over both of you. “Yes. It’s working.”

He immediately wraps himself around you, warm and clingy. “You can’t ghost me and then reward me like this. That's illegal.”

You giggle. “So you’re not leaving?”

He nuzzles against your neck. “Nope. Now I’m negotiating terms.”

“Oh? What are the terms?”

He hums thoughtfully. “One... you put the phone away. Two... you admit you missed me. Three…” his fingers tighten playfully at your waist, “...I get exclusive access under this blanket.”

You pretend to think. “That sounds biased.”

“It is,” he whispers smugly biting your earlobe. “I’m very committed to winning this argument.”

JEON JUNGKOOK

“I’m serious... I’m sleeping in living room.” Jungkook mutters, aggressively folding his blanket like it personally offended him.

You stay very quiet under the duvet.

This is all because of a jar. A stupid pickle jar.

He had tightened the lid extra hard that morning, flexing a little, hoping you’d call out, “Kook... I can’t open itttt...” so he could swagger in and rescue you.

Instead? You popped it open in ten seconds without calling him.

You didn’t catch on at first... but after hours of his dramatic sighing, broody silence, and him glaring daggers to pickle jar, it finally clicked.

And when you laughed it off, calling him cute, it turned into a full-blown petty argument.

Now he grabs the last pillow from his side. The lace underneath falls into his hand.

He freezes and slowly looks at you. “…Y/N.”

“Yes?”

“You’re not wearing anything.”

“Nope.”

His ears turn bright red. “We were arguing.”

“And now?” You ask innocently.

He blinks like his brain is buffering. “…Now I’m confused.”

You lift the sheet just a tiny bit. “You coming back? Or are you still mad about the jar?”

His jaw drops. “You... you can't just...”

He groans, mortified. “I just wanted you to ask for help.”

“You could’ve just said that, baby.”

He hesitates exactly two seconds before diving under the blanket beside you. “You can’t just weaponize being naked!”

“Did it work?”

“…Yes.” He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you flush against him. “I was trying to be cool.”

“You were trying to be useful.”

He hides his face in your neck. “I like when you need me.”

You smirk. “Oh, I definitely need you.”

His grip tightens immediately. “Don’t say that like that.”

“Like what?” You trace your finger along his jawline.

He swallows. “Like you’re doing it on purpose.”

You further trace a finger lightly down his chest under the sheets. “I am.”

He groans softly. “We’re still discussing the jar tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

He presses his forehead to yours, cheeks still pink. “…But now... no more doing things by yourself under this blanket.”

You laugh as he pulls you closer.

“And for the record,” he mumbles, “next time pretend you can’t open it.”