#reader x rm

You moved slowly, almost like a zombie, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight. You touched those things like they were burning.

Should you throw it or keep it?

That line had been circling your brain for weeks now. At the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.

You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part, it wasn’t a moment. not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow, like rot beneath paint, like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness and then just… nothingness.

You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished, nothing was expected anymore.

And you had stayed, for too long, giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring and empty apartment.

You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.

There it was. The ring.

In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not when you were thinking of fixing things, not when you were dreaming of the big day he finally asked you the question. Not ever. And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.

But he hadn’t.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. You looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something, done something, fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.

Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart, for a fight that was never coming, for a life that you had planned with him in your mind… for him, for something… but nothing came. It was just you, like always.

Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights lit up the streets. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred— of an art gallery.

Of a man in sunglasses.

Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.

< Four year and a half ago. Manhattan, USA. >

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels clicking against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper. A familiar scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.

You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.

Some visitors needed to be approached, others needed to be left alone until they couldn’t handle the silence anymore and had to look for someone to share their thoughts. You knew he was the later one. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.

He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus an egocentric art curator would pretend to have.

After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”

You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension, between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece, ‘Fragmented Horizon’, is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”

“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”

He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”

You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise but never neat.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”

You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for holidays and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”

“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”

“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.

His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”

You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”

He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”

“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”

He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw. “Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture. A delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.

You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible. Like, the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”

He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”

You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art. It’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.

He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”

“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”

“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artists who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”

“Umm…. not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”

He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in back in the city.

“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.

“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”

“And you are?.”

He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.

“Kim Namjoon.”

For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.

You knew that name, of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything, didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost grateful.

“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries, Kim Namjoon?.”

He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”

You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”

“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.

——————————

It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.

Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin

Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me

You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.

You: Lee Ufan

You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope

A minute passed.

Unknown Number: So basically he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve

Unknown Number: Sounds familiar

You smiled.

You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?

Unknown Number: …. maybe both

Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime

You: And without sunglasses?

Unknown Number: Maybe

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed:

You: I’m not sure that’s true

You: you walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone

Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?

You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way

You: The hat was a nice touch, very 2010s indie musician energy.

Unknown Number: Ouch

Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you

You: You couldn’t afford it

Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do

You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear converse with holes in them

Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?

You: I notice everything

There was a pause, a longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped.

Unknown Number: So do I

Unknown Number: That’s probably why I came back

A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.

You: You came back? Wdym?

Unknown Number: Three times before I said anything

Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning variates” with that one eyebrow lift you did a lot when we talked

Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art

You snorted at how cheesy that was.

You: So what do you do for living?

Unknown Number: Music

Unknown Number: bit of writing, some pretending I’m not in music.

Unknown Number: still an art dealer?

You chuckled at that.

You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way

You: I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates

Unknown Number: That sounds noble

Unknown Number: also so suspiciously underpaid.

You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery

Unknown Number: Very smart

You: That’s why I accepted your number request

You: High risk, high reward

Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?

You: … maybe both

There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:

Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery

Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour

Unknown Number: This is a business thing

You: I see, only professional matters.

You: I have a group at 7pm you can join

You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time

Unknown Number: Done

—————

Friday next week came pretty quickly.

And the gallery had never felt so still.

It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed— soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.

You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.

Good. He was trying.

“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.

“Traffic.”

You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.

“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.

“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”

You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”

You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script, just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.

“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive, controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”

“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”

He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”

You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.

You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops, glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works. A minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.

“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”

“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”

He looked at you. “You don’t.”

You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”

He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”

The question hung between you two like one of the wires, weightless, waiting.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”

You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled. “Both.”

You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds. Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.

“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”

“No encore?” he teased.

You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”

“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.

When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”

“So…?”

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore, something cedar-based and quiet.

“You still might have to,” he murmured.

Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”

“I thought we were already closed.”

“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”

He looked at you for a moment. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.

“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left— hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned— he said: “Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”

You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days.

< Four years ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with tea.

Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.

He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.

“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time and I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”

You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

He looked at you then, a little too long. Your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. To him you always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.

“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”

You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”

Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”

You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”

“I feel older when I say it.”

“Do you regret it?”

“The music?”

“No. The scale of it. The attention.”

He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like— have it without the echo.” You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more. “Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you, what’s something no one knows about you?”

“I once wanted to be a florist.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched. “That’s actually adorable.”

“And extremely impractical.”

“You’d make a very judgmental florist.”

“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”

He laughed, soft and full.

There was a moment of quiet again. Not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”

“Not fate?”

“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”

Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”

He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”

“Accurate.”

“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even from people?”

“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”

He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”

You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”

Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Is it tragic?”

“That depends on your taste in poetry.”

“Oh god.”

You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”

“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Something French?” You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”

You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”

Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”

“It’s not Eleanor.”

“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”

“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”

He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”

“I am not.”

He smirked. “You’re very close.”

And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.

Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: whatever was growing wasn’t temporary.

—————

You were lost.

Not metaphorically. Actually lost.

A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this, this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…

Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”

“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”

“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”

You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”

“That could describe this entire region.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”

You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Namjoon blinked.

“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”

“I know.”

He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.

He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth, simple and sudden, was:

“I love you.”

You stilled.

He felt it immediately. The way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.

You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

A beat.

Then another.

You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.

“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I’m not getting out of the car.”

He smiled, something small, barely there, but real.

“Good.”

You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”

He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.

And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.

—————

It was late.

Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late. The end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.

You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery. An opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.

You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first, just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.

“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“You’re always sexy.”

“Your standards are deeply flawed.”

He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”

And then there was quiet for a while.

You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted, some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.

“I love you.”

Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.

He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist, the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

“About damn time,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.

And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.

< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were cooking.

Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess. Half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”

You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”

“It looks like regret.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”

“You’re gonna dump it.”

“I’m going to elevate it.”

“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”

You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.

“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”

You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.

“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.

“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”

Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”

“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”

“We’d never agree.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”

You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”

Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”

You studied him, eyes sharp, searching, soft.

“And you’re not scared?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Terrified.”

“But?”

“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”

A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”

Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.

“We could take it slow.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”

The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment, over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek, the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.

Not in one night. But maybe, If you two kept choosing it… Every night after.

—————

The gallery was already humming.

Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before. Art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters, this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”

And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.

“Y/n,” someone said. Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”

You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit. Bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.

You were two lines into your opening when it happened.

A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.

He was here. He shouldn’t have been.

But he was.

You kept going, finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork, but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it, past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine, and headed straight toward him.

Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.

“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.

“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.

“You said you—”

“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”

You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.

“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“I know that too.” He looked at you gently. “That’s why I had to.”

You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.

“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.

“No. We’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.

“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.

And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”

—————

You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.

So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.

“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”

But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”

So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.

From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system. Stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.

You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.

Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.

“How do you do this every day?” you asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”

“Respect.”

He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”

“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”

You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”

He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”

You pulled something from your bag. A sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.

“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.

You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”

“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”

He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”

“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”

He laughed, mouth full.

You two sat like that. Your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly, but between his life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.

You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.

When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”

You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”

Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:

You: You’re killing it today, proud of u

He replied seconds later.

Namjoon: Only cause ure here

You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.

—————

Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago, bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.

You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming, off-key and quietly, to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.

Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like— look at you! Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”

“This is store-bought jam,” you said.

“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”

You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.

You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a peck. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.

The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.

“What are we making again?” he asked.

“Chai.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands, how precise they were, how steady, and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.

Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”

“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”

“I’ll write a song about that too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.

You were .

And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.

< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >

It was late afternoon when he showed up.

You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was. Sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.

“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”

He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.

“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”

Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”

You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily, like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.

“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”

“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”

“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”

You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.

Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”

You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.

“Shit.”

You sighed. “You have to go.”

“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.

You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”

Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

“I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll wait.”

A beat.

Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.

When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”

Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm. But only with the ghost of him.

You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.

—————

The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers, something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.

You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flight, no soundchecks, no exhibitions, no rehearsals. Just that. Sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.

You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”

“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”

“To what? A golden retriever?”

“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”

You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”

“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”

“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

You two sat like that for a while, just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”

“The installation with the suspended shards?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”

“Like invisible tension wires?”

“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second— but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”

You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.

“What? Romantic?”

“No. Structural.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”

You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”

“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”

“You are smart.”

“You’re smarter.”

“True.”

You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours, fingers tangling like habit.

The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.

But he was there. And you were there. And time, for once, wasn’t the enemy.

So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a day.

At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”

“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”

“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”

He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”

You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”

Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.

He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.

“Depending on the topic.”

“Rude.”

“Or honest?.”

You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.

“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”

“Hit me.”

“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”

You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”

“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”

“And you?”

“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”

You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”

“Maybe.”

You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”

“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”

“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”

Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?” You nodded. He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”

“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”

“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”

You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”

“Perfect.”

He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.

“At what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people, Namjoon.”

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Then remember.”

And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.

Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill, when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.

—————

You were late to your own morning.

You’d woken up disoriented, your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces, shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.

So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie. “On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”

Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.

In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.

You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”

And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table, he’d actually ordered this time, and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.

“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.

You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but there, with him now, it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your money, your time. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear…

So you had something to eat. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.

But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm. Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.

And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.

< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had never been one for anniversaries.

Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.

This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two for later to drink some wine. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it. Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas, a major one.

You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.

He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.

And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.

You went to your share favorite restaurant, the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.

At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.

At 8:15, you declined the menu, just in case.

At 8:40, you checked your phone.

At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.

The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.

Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.

That was all it said.

You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.

The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”

You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”

You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home, just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.

It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had made you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. Was it wrong to hold him to the standards he had made you put him on?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.

Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.

The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then, almost accidentally, you poured yourself a second cup.

You stared at them both for a while.

The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon

Incoming call

You hesitated only a second before picking up.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.

“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.

“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”

“I figured,” you said.

“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Don’t worry.”

A pause. “How was dinner?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”

You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”

He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”

“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

“I know.”

Another silence. This one worse than all the others.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that, always did. But more so now than ever.

“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.

Not yes. Just… maybe.

He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time, it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.

—————

You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic. Full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.

You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.

Inside: an engagement ring.

Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.

Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.

You trusted him to get there.

It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.

The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath. No honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.

Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.

“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”

Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”

He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”

You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.

Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hm.”

“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.

Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”

Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”

“We’re already weird.”

“Okay. Older and weirder.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”

Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”

He kissed you once. Lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other, formally or not.

The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.

< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were supposed to go away that weekend.

Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.

He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”

You booked it that night.

But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.

“Babe, listen, I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”

You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.

“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean— if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”

But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You should do it.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.

You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.

When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”

He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you, quiet and dull, like a match that never got lit.

Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.

< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.

By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”

“No,” you said.

You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.

He hummed. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Everything.”

“Specifics?”

You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”

“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.

There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.

“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.” You went quiet. He didn’t notice. “I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”

“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

You stayed in the dark a little longer.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry, at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.

You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.

“You’ll be fine.”

You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.

You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.

< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >

It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”

You smiled. “Wednesday?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”

You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.

On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine, nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.

By seven, the table was set.

By eight, the pasta was cold.

You texted him around 7:30.

You: Everything okay?

He didn’t respond.

You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic, hust to keep your hands busy.

At 8:44, your phone buzzed.

Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.

You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: It’s okay.

You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most. It was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.

At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.

Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later

Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?

You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.

You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.

Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.

Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.

And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?

< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner, early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.

“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”

Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”

“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”

He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”

You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”

Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”

You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.

But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.

The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you, stupid and stubborn and hopeful, that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”

But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.

At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.

Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.

There was a second message.

Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.

You didn’t reply.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing, folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.

And once again, work had won.

The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.

The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.

You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.

— N.

You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.

“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.

It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.

You folded the card and threw it in the trash.

The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.

And Namjoon wasn’t there.

When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.

You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

It rang once. Twice.

He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”

“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”

“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”

“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”

Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”

A pause.

“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly, just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”

“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”

More voices. A door opened and shut.

“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”

“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”

He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”

You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”

“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”

You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.

But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.

You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.

That’s when it hit you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.

He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.

You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.

You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.

< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.

You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:

“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”

That was it.

That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.

“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”

“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”

“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”

He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”

“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”

“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”

He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”

“You barely come home at all.”

You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.

After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”

You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back, softly, automatically.

Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing yourself that love should be this hard all the time.

And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.

Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his word of trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything… except being met with indifference

< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with nothing.

No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:

If I stop trying… will he even notice?

The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.

No hey, how’s your day?

No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.

Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.

It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.

On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”

You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”

Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”

You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.

At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.

He finally texted on the fourth day.

Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?

You stared at it.

Not I missed you.

Not I’m sorry for going silent.

Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:

You: All good. You?

He replied twenty minutes later.

Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.

You didn’t write back.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.

Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.

And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.

< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >

The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.

“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare, my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”

“Namjoon.”

The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion, he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.

“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” you said. “It can’t.”

At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.

Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even… outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?

He got defensive. You got louder.

And then it all came out… The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to take.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”

He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”

“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”

Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”

Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury. Like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”

“I’m not choosing work over you.”

“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes— once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.

You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.

“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up. Not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”

Silence. It was heavy, crushing.

Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”

He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you whispered. Silence fell between you two again. You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience. You treat me like a child who needs attention, not your partner who is asking you for a basic thing.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent for a moment. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.

He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”

He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”

You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.

“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.

“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”

But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.

The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.

The slow, deliberate act of leaving.

The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.

He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall, now oddly bare, caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.

In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.

His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There, a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.

Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.

He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.

His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.

Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.

But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase, everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.

He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.

How could he fix it?.

Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight, exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.

The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.

The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.

When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.

“Namjoon.”

He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything. For the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”

“Please—”

“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n.”

“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this— us, it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”

He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”

You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”

“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change, I’ll be better. I swear it.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”

“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”

Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”

Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”

He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.

“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you. Don’t give up on us. Not like this.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”

His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”

“You already did.”

There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.

He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.

“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”

You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.

“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave

He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart, so far away from him.

And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.

< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >

The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.

You had moved. Not far, just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore… Not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.

It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.

And it was working, at least a little bit.

That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then, like muscle memory, you turned the corner and froze.

There he was. Kim Namjoon.

Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.

“Hey.” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Another pause.

You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”

Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it. Gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”

He blinked. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”

He looked like he might cry… but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”

You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.

“What are you—.”

“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here just like this… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”

“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.

“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. I was an idiot, I thought— I don’t know why I didn’t fight harder and I regret it every second. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”

You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”

He stepped closer, just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now— I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”

You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”

He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to God, Y/n… I’ll risk everything for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was holding itself.

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.

i’m so in love with open endings rn

now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt

but anyway here’s a namjoon silly little story that i was going to make it a long fic with lot of parts but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)

“Did you just say ‘hot’ and ‘blend in’ in the same sentence?”

“Ugh, you’re so self-conscious. You are hot. I think it’s time you embraced that.” She pouts at the look on your face. “Come on, y/n,” she wheedles. “Minho will be here, and I’ve been wanting to introduce you guys for ages. He’s such a great guy. Did I mention he’s hot? And dying to meet you? Please let me play matchmaker. Then later when you’re happily married to the love of your life, you can say it was all thanks to your best friend in the entire world who loves you enough to set you up with her hot guy friends.”

“Yeah, well, the position of ‘best friend in the entire world’ might be opening up sometime soon if you keep setting me up with these duds.”

“You’re so mean!” she whines. “I told you the last one was just a misunderstanding.” 

“He ditched and left me with the check, Eun. It was not a misunderstanding. It was a calculated move.” The guy even had the audacity to call you later that night to see if you wanted to go out again, claiming “bathroom trouble” as the reason for sticking you with the check. As if you were dumb or desperate enough to fall for that – especially since he’d conveniently been hit by “bathroom trouble” once he was mostly done eating, not to mention your waitress had been kind enough to let you know that she’d seen him slipping out through a side door – apparently completely fine. 

“Stop complaining. Come on. Sparks are going to fly between you two, I just know it.” She resumes tugging on your arm and you reluctantly allow her to pull you along as she weaves through the crowd, finally stopping you in front of a man who must be the fabled Minho. “Oppa!” coos Ji-eun. “This is y/n. You remember, don’t you?” She shoots him a knowing look. 

“Ah, Ji-eun!” he greets her. “I remember. The one you were telling me about, right?” Minho glances at you. “Eun, she’s gorgeous. Where have you been keeping her?” He takes your hand and plants a kiss on it. “Choi Minho.”

“Y/n,” you reply, somewhat taken aback at his outward display of affection. “I’ve heard a lot about you, so it’s nice to finally meet you.” 

“Have fun, you two,” teases Ji-eun in a sing-song voice. “I’m off to snag myself a drink or a handsome groomsman, whichever one comes first.”

“She’s really something else, isn’t she?” you say, looking to break the awkward silence that falls once Ji-eun is gone. “So how do you two know each other? I don’t think she said.” 

“University,” says Minho. “We were in the same major. Same year, too, but she insists on calling me oppa.” He shakes his head and chuckles. Minho says it like it’s something that bothers him, but it clearly doesn’t, or else he would have corrected her before now. 

“Oh, I guess you were a business major, too.” You nod. “Explains why we never ran into each other. I barely saw her the whole time, and we were roommates.”

“We went to the same university?” Minho seems surprised. “I never would have guessed. What major were you in?” Something about the incredulous look on his face rubs you the wrong way. 

“Uh, yeah. We did.” You narrow your eyes. “I was a graphic design major.”

“Graphic design. Wow.” Minho inhales sharply through his teeth. “How’s that going for you? I hear it’s pretty competitive. You know, if you’re ever looking to change fields I’m sure I could find something for you at my company. A favor for a friend of a friend, yeah?

“Oh, um,” you say, “I…have a job. And I kind of like it, so I’m not really planning on moving any time soon.”

“Well, you let me know if you ever change your mind.” He winks and touches your bare arm. “Any friend of Eun’s is a friend of mine. And I’m sure we could take much better care of you than wherever you’re working now.” Minho’s eyes wander from your face down to your chest and then somewhere over your shoulder, where something – or someone – else seems to catch his eye. 

“Uh…thanks,” you say, unsure how else to respond, feeling a little uncomfortable. You wish you had a drink to settle your nerves and a sweater to cover your chest. Why did Ji-eun have to leave? you curse internally. She knows I’m not good at this. “So,” you say brightly, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. “What does your company do?” 

“We’re in transportation, mostly,” he says, his eyes still somewhere behind you, “but we’ve got our fingers in a lot of pies.”

A few more minutes of conversation with him pass, and it’s already obvious that you and Minho don’t exactly have a lot in common – nor does it seem that you’re really his type, because he keeps glancing at a pretty bridesmaid in a lavender dress somewhere behind you. You’re beginning to wonder what exactly Ji-eun expected the two of you to talk about, because the two of you are polar opposites, and not in the endearing, meet cute, opposites attract sort of way, in the way that even if you did decide to date you’d probably end up butting heads over anything and everything. You steal a covert glance the next time Minho’s eyes wander away from your face and over your shoulder. The bridesmaid is chatting animatedly with what looks like another bridesmaid, cutting glances every so often in your direction – or Minho’s direction, more like. You sigh internally and try to hide your frown. Of course. Minho looks like he could be an idol or an actor; it only makes sense that he wouldn’t be interested in you. He probably only even agreed to meet you as a favor to Ji-eun. Well, if he’s not even going to pretend he’s interested – then why should you? “Minho?” you say sweetly. “I’m going to go get a drink.”

“Don’t miss me too much while you’re gone.” He grins. 

“I’ll, uh, do my best.” You find your way over to the bar and watch as Minho approaches the bridesmaid he was making eyes at, any thoughts of you surely already forgotten. You shake your head and sip your wine. He’s probably better suited for her than he is for you. You blow out a long breath and order a glass of white wine from the bartender. Why does it have to be like this? Every guy, every date, every time you even attempt to put yourself out there – it just never works. Sure, part of it is probably your fault for having unrealistic standards. And part of you doesn’t even really want a relationship, not after watching your parents tear each other to pieces every time they set foot in the same room together. It’s not like it’s always been your dream to fall in love and get married, either. The only thing you’ve ever wanted for yourself is to be happy. If that’s with a man in your life – then so be it. Everyone always says that you’ll know when the right one comes along, but you’re starting to think that has about as much likelihood of happening as you becoming president. 

You throw back half of your wine in one gulp. Ah, should I just leave? you wonder to yourself, scanning the room for Ji-eun. There’s no point in me staying if Minho isn’t interested and nobody else is either. What else am I here for other than that? You debate slipping out the front door, flagging down a taxi, and going home, but eventually decide against it, feeling a twinge of guilt at the idea of abandoning Ji-eun at this wedding by herself – even if she did technically do the same thing to you. Really starting to question who’s putting the most effort into this friendship, you gripe internally. 

You finish the rest of your wine and request another from the bartender. What am I doing? you think suddenly, the first glass of wine beginning to hit you as you start on the second. Am I really just standing here drowning my troubles at a wedding, of all places? This is so dumb. You scan the room. The dance floor is crowded, with people moving back and forth, dancing, reveling in the moment, the music pounding all around. Instead of lingering by the bar, feeling pitiful and alone…the realization dawns on you that you should be out there, having fun. Or, at the very least, keeping your mind occupied enough to forget the disappointment of yet another man having no interest in you. 

“Dance like no one’s watching, right?” you say to yourself, downing the rest of your second glass of wine and hopefully, washing away the nerves that normally plague you, the fear of being perceived when it comes to doing anything in social situations. As the wine hits you, you begin to feel pleasantly warm and tipsy, and you move toward the crowd, the lights bouncing off the lacquered wood floor. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you close your eyes and feel yourself start to move with the beat of the music. You don’t even know the happy couple, but you silently thank them for hiring such a good DJ. 

Minutes pass, though it feels much longer, with you tossing your hair, moving your hips and head back and forth to the beat of the music, forgetting about the fact that your best friend is a terrible matchmaker, and the fact that it feels like she’s genuinely trying to set you up for failure, making you question everything about yourself, forgetting about the fact that you couldn’t even hold a man’s attention for longer than ten minutes, even in a stupidly revealing cocktail dress that your friend made you wear under false pretenses. And in those moments, it’s just you, and the music, remembering that you are pretty, and one guy’s stupid opinion of you doesn’t matter. Love will come, or it won’t, and you’re determined to be happy with your life either way. 

The strappy heels you’re wearing prove to be your downfall, and you eventually decide to extricate yourself from the throng of wedding guests, limping back over to the bar. Your cheeks are flushed, and you’re exhausted, but there’s a sense of exhilaration pumping through you, feeling somewhat revitalized by making yourself do something you wouldn’t normally do on your own. You steady yourself against the bar, standing on one foot while you rest the other, and request another glass of wine from the bartender. 

“Looks like you were enjoying yourself out there.” A low voice materializes next to you. Your head swivels in the direction of the voice to find a man standing just feet away from you, holding a bottle of beer and watching you with interest. He’s much taller than you, but not intimidating, with an approachable air about him, and warm brown eyes that remind you of autumn. A dark blazer is slung over one shoulder, leaving him in a simple white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the folded cuffs tugging at his muscular forearms. His friendly smile accentuates the dimple in his cheek. 

“Oh!” you say, cheeks flushing. You put your other foot back on the ground in surprise. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t normally do that kind of thing, but my friend dragged me here because she wanted me to meet this guy, but they both disappeared, and then I was just standing here all alone feeling sorry for myself.” You lift one shoulder in a shrug. ”I don’t even really know anyone here, but I figured I might as well make the best of it and have some fun.” 

“Looks like we’re in the same boat,” he says with a chuckle. ”I sort of got dragged here too.” 

“Well, from one wedding crasher to another, let me introduce myself.” You hold out a hand jokingly for him to shake. “I’m y/n.”

“Y/n,” he repeats, taking your hand. “Nice to meet you, y/n. I’m Namjoon.” 

"There, now we both know at least one other person." You smile, taking a sip from the glass of wine that the bartender has just set in front of you. 

“So this guy your friend wanted you to meet,” he says. “You didn’t like him?” 

"No?" You make a face. “I mean, he was all right, I guess, but I don't think we had very much in common. Besides, he was making googly eyes at some bridesmaid the whole time I was talking to him." A rueful sigh huffs through your lips. "I’ve got to stop listening to Ji-eun. She means well, but one thing she doesn’t have is a talent for matchmaking.” 

“Sorry to hear that," says Namjoon. "About the guy.” 

“It’s okay. At least we didn’t waste too much of each other's time.” You smile. “Anyway, why aren’t you out there? Isn’t everyone supposed to be dancing? It’s a party, after all.” 

“Oh, no.” He chuckles. His laugh feels affable and warm, just like his smile. “I’m a terrible dancer. It's better that I don’t. I’d probably end up breaking something, or someone. I’m just here for the atmosphere.” He sets his bottle down on the bar top. “Besides, I was having more fun watching you.” His brown eyes twinkle.

Your heart flutters in your chest and you find yourself trying to hold back a laugh. 

“Not buying it?” he says teasingly. You shake your head, still smiling. “Sorry. I’ve never been very good at this. Whatever this is.” 

“I’ll give you a point for trying.” 

“Ah, good. That means I didn’t fail completely, right?” 

“Right. Something like that.” You laugh. “So who dragged you here? Are your friends equally as annoying as mine?” 

"My friend, Seokjin, who's been bugging me to get out for weeks. He claims to know the groom or something. No, wait, it was the best man…or maybe it was the best man’s friend? I’m actually not sure.” He scans the crowded dance floor and points. “Him, right there, with the shoulders.” You follow his line of vision over to a tall, broad-shouldered man, flailing his arms and virtually towering over his dance partner, who, come to think of it, looks a lot like…Ji-eun? "He might actually be more dangerous on the dance floor than me.”

“Funny,” you say. “That's my best friend he's dancing with.” 

“Really?” Namjoon looks at you, then back at them. “Wow. I guess it’s only right that our annoying best friends found their way to each other.” 

“No offense to your friend, but I don’t think it’ll last very long. Ji-eun’s not known for committing long-term. She’s a walking contradiction. Convinced she’ll be the one to introduce me to my one and only, yet has no interest in finding one of her own.” 

“As luck would have it, neither is Jin. They’re a perfect match.” 

You raise your glass. “In that case, may the Seokjins and the Ji-euns of the world always find their way to each other.” 

He clinks his bottle with your cup. “Hear, hear.” 

Namjoon is easy to talk to, and he's especially interested in your job illustrating book covers for a publishing house. "It's nothing special." You wave your hands. “It’s a really small company. And I’ve only been doing it for about a year, so I’m not very good at it yet.” 

"Are you kidding?” he says, awestruck. “I’ve never met anyone who does that. And you must be good, or you wouldn’t be doing it professionally.”

“Well, it pays the bills,” you say, dipping your head modestly, “and it gives me plenty of free time to work on my own art.” 

“Really?“ Namjoon looks intrigued. “What medium do you prefer?” 

“I’m a painter. Mostly. But I like to experiment with a little bit of everything.”

“Wow. She designs book covers. She paints. And now I’m wondering where you’ve been all my life.” A tinge of pink colors his cheeks. “Uh…I just meant…” He rubs at his neck self-consciously. “Anyway.”

He’s awfully cute when he’s flustered. 

The conversation takes a slight turn, and you find yourself listening with interest as he tells you about his work as a grad student, his dissertation on the intersection of art and philosophy, his plans for the future after he finishes his doctorate. Tenure, professorhood, the papers he wants to write. The art he'd like to buy if he had the money. If it were anyone else, you know you'd be starting to zone out by now, but there's something about Namjoon's low, even voice that draws you in and keeps you paying attention. Like a documentary narrator, or a radio host. 

"You're staring at me," he says, his tone light and teasing. 

You were listening so intently that you didn't even realize what you were doing. "Was I?" You turn away slightly, hoping to hide the blooming patches of pink on your cheeks. "Sorry." 

"It's okay." Namjoon's eyes crinkle into a smile. "It's all I can do to get the freshmen in my courses to look at anything other than their screens, so trust me, I don't mind it at all. I'm just glad you don't think I'm boring."

"Boring?" you say, surprised. "Are there people out there who think you're boring?"

"Oh, definitely. You'd be surprised. Jin, for one. He swears up and down that he doesn't think so, but a few minutes in and his eyes are already starting to glaze over. You, on the other hand…well, I've been monologuing for ages, but you've just been standing there with that mesmerized look on your face the whole time."

"Mesmerized?" You chuckle. "I don't know about that."

"No, it's true," he insists. "Admit it. I fascinate you."

"And?” you ask. “What about it?” 

“What do you say we get out of here?” he says, barely blinking an eye. The corner of his mouth quirks. “This party’s almost over anyway. We can continue this conversation somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think.” 

You hesitate. You barely know this guy. But he likes you – you can tell. He’s the first guy in a long time to express genuine interest in you or your job or your personal life in general. It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy to look at, either, with his striking brown eyes and easy, dimpled smile. There’s just something about the way he looks at you that makes your palms tingle and you heart feel like it’s about to explode. And what is it about rolled up sleeves and exposed forearms that just drives you absolutely insane? Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, or the letdown from Ji-eun’s unsuccessful attempt to set you up with Minho – but you have to see where this goes. “Okay,” you say finally. “Where should we go?” 

He’s about to speak when Seokjin and Ji-eun stumble up, arm in arm. “Namjoon-ah! My best friend!” Seokjin exclaims drunkenly. He throws his long arms over Namjoon’s shoulders from behind, pink-cheeked and grinning. “I think I’m in love.”

“Oh, really?” Namjoon eyes his friend with a dry expression. “Who is she, then?”

He looks at Ji-eun blankly, then back at Namjoon. "Ah, well, her name isn't important. What matters is…I'm in love." Seokjin pokes a long finger into Namjoon’s cheek. “And I’m going to marry her.” 

“Oppa!” squeals Ji-eun, pulling him back toward her. “Really?” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll bet.” Namjoon’s gaze cuts in your direction. “Sorry. Normally he’s better at holding his liquor than this,” he whispers. “I should really get him home before he gets any louder – and gets us uninvited from future events.”  

“Same here,” you say apologetically. “If we can manage to split them apart again.” Seokjin and Ji-eun are once again furiously making out, hands in places you’re not even sure you’re supposed to be looking. 

“They’ll have to come up for air sometime. I think we might have a chance then. You grab yours and I’ll grab mine?”

“Deal.” The second Ji-eun pulls away from Seokjin to take a breath, you take her firmly by the arm and pull her toward the door of the reception hall, ignoring her protesting about being separated from the love of her life, while Namjoon tugs Seokjin along behind you. There’s a line of people outside already waiting for taxis, given that you’re in the middle of the city, so you join the queue behind another couple, still trying to prevent Ji-eun and Seokjin from devouring each other whole on the sidewalk. 

“Nicely done,” says Namjoon, the dimple in his cheek reappearing alongside his grin, while he maintains a firm grip on Seokjin's arm. “I take it you have experience with this?”

“Only every Saturday night since university.” You chuckle. “Between the two of us I’m definitely the responsible one.” 

“Eonni!” whines Ji-eun. “Don’t tell him that! He’ll think you’re boring!” 

You plant an elbow firmly into the side of her ribs, sending her into silence. 

"That's okay." His smile doesn't waver. "I'm a little bit boring myself, so what's one boring person to another?"

Boring? you think. You're not boring at all. You’re passionate about what you love. You’re the first man to look at me that way: like I’m the most interesting person in the world to you, when really it’s the other way around. You’re sweet. You’re adorably awkward. You’re bad at flirting – but something about you draws me in anyway. And I know we’ve only just met…but I want to know everything about you. What makes you happy, what inspires you, what intrigues you…I want to spend hours listening to you tell me all about it.

The crowd waiting for cabs disperses until it's just you and Namjoon. "I guess this is it, then,” he says as a taxi finally pulls to a stop in front of you. “We should do this again sometime. Minus the drunk people, of course. Not that I don’t enjoy dragging a hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight around with me, but it does put a damper on things, doesn’t it?” 

“Yah, you bastard! I’m not that heavy!” Seokjin bellows, as he's struggling to stay upright, his words still slurring together. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that. Maybe we can actually finish that conversation we were having before we got interrupted.” You nudge Ji-eun, who seems determined to make herself as unwieldy as possible, not so gently into the cab, sending her tumbling into the backseat, and turn back to him. “By the way…I really appreciate it. You talking to me. It made me forget how totally out of place I was.” 

“Ah, it was nothing.” He ducks his head sheepishly. “As a fellow wedding crasher, I’m happy to have helped. Thanks for putting up with me rambling all night.” 

“Please.” You smile, waving your hand. “Nothing to put up with. I had a good time.” 

“Well…good night, y/n.” Namjoon closes the car door after you. “Get home safe. Until next time?”

“Until next time.” You look up at him. “Good night, Namjoon.” You sit back in your seat, allowing the flutter of excitement that’s been slowly building in your stomach to take flight. This guy…he likes you. He really likes you. You’re going to see him again. And for the first time, in a long time, if not ever…you’re excited. Really excited. Your hand goes to your mouth, barely concealing the grin that’s forming on your lips. 

As your taxi pulls away from the curb, a hand suddenly appears in the half-open window, causing it to jerk to a stop. Namjoon appears next to the car, shaking his hand ruefully and wincing. "Damn, that hurts. Guess that'll teach me, won't it?" He leans down, bringing his face closer to yours. "Sorry about that. You were just about to disappear when it dawned on me that I forgot to ask you for your number, and I knew I had to do something before I lost you."

“Oh! My number.” Your heart flutters again. “Yeah, you’re going to need that, aren’t you?” 

Namjoon watches as you tap your number into his phone. “Good thing I remembered when I did. That could have been a disaster.”

“A disaster, huh?” you ask, handing his phone back to him.

“Catastrophic.” He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “How else would we have found out if we were meant to be if we didn’t go on an actual first date?” He gazes down at you with a teasing grin. “Anyway – I’ll call you?”

“Soon, I hope.” You smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll try not to keep you waiting too long.” Namjoon’s eyes meet with yours momentarily before he turns away, letting out an awkward chuckle. “Well…good night, y/n. I mean it this time. Really.” 

“Good night,” you say, stifling a giggle. “Get home safe.” 

The taxi finally pulls away from the curb, and you can’t help looking out the window after him as he walks back toward Seokjin. He’s handsome, even from behind. Ji-eun flops against you, and you shift her to a more comfortable position against your shoulder. “I knew dragging you along was a good idea. Did I call it, or what?” she mumbles proudly. “You know, I saw the way you were looking at that guy just now.” She pokes teasingly at your arm, eyes half-closed. “Like you wanted to dive right in and take up residence in his dimples. And sparks like a fireworks show. It’s so obvious! You are smitten.” Ji-eun sing-songs the last part.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, pressing your lips together to hide your smile. Ji-eun might not have introduced you to the love of your life – but it’s the first time in a while that you’ve felt this way about anyone – and you suppose you do have to thank her for that. 

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, it's enough cardio for a week." He smiled as you felt heat rush into your cheeks. "Let's all drive over to the barn, and go from there."

The two other newbie volunteers hopped into the back, and you were about to join them when Yoongi called your name.

"Ride in the front with Joon. I'll explain to my crew." He held the door open.

"Ah, ok." Came your quiet reply.

The idea seemed sudden and kind of startled  you, but you were glad not to be sat in the rough bed of the truck. As the engine growled to life, Namjoon reminded you to put on your seat belt. Then the wheels began to turn as you were driven forward.

"So, uh, how long have you been doing this?"

He smiled, grateful that you spoke first it seemed, "I actually work in the city, but one of my young friends, him and his family run the farm. They needed some extra help, so I started helping about 7 years now." Regret tinged his ears a red shade as he said, "Sorry. I tend to ramble."

"It's ok. I don't think you rambled too much." You gave him a genuine smile.

"Eyes on the road, Joon!" Yoongi called.

Once the first stack of hay bales were secured onto the truck, the darker haired man left with the other two. Namjoon and you were left alone to get the next stack ready for their return. His muscles rippled with every yank of heavy straw that you pushed towards him. No trace of the goofy and shy man you had rode with 15 minutes before.

"What made you join this year?" He drank a bottle of water he must've left here. "I recognized Rosé from last year. She looks good with pink hair."

You nodded and refused the bottle as you weren't thirsty...for water at least, "Yeah, I just wanted to do some work outside of my house and she signed me up for this."

"What's your usual job?"

"Oh, it's--OW" You pulled your leg back and saw a black spotted cat paw leading to your attacker.

"Wasabi! That's not how you treat guests!" He scolded the cat who now purred around his ankles. "She just had babies, so she's a bit protective. Sit."

You automatically dropped to sit on the block of hay you had let go. Namjoon went to a box on the wall with a red cross on it to get a small bag from it. He knelt in front of you.

"May I?"

You nodded and replied, "Mmhmm."

He lifted your foot to rest on his thigh and dabbed at the scratch with a wipe. You gave a sharp inhale, and he giggled.

"It's not even that deep."

"Still hurts." You pouted.

With a gentle rub, the too big bandaid covered the injury.

"I could sue you for this." You teased.

"If I kiss you, could we call it a proper settlement?" The question came out so smoothly you couldn't tell if he was serious.

Your eyes got wide. The sound of an approaching car pulled both of your attentions towards it. You quickly stepped back and Namjoon grinned at the ground.

"Sorry." He said before moving towards the door.

With a swift movement, he took up the straw you had dropped at Wasabi's scratch and you looked at the mama cat who meowed. It was if she was teasing you for not taking the chance. Yoongi came in to give her pets and asked where her babies were. She leapt down and took us to an old closet with a pile of discarded clothes inside on the floor.

"Awww, so cute! I want one~" The short red haired girl who was a part of Yoongi's group said, wanting to approach, but you put your arm in front of her as the mother hissed.

"We'll see." Yoongi replied and then spoke to Namjoon. "Just keep clear of them for now. We can make due with a few less bales."

"Gotcha. See you in a few."

The two quiet boys and the tiny red head left again.

"So, what do we do?"

"We'll kinda fence them in. Make sure no one else gets too close." He began to push a bale towards the area.

Following suit, a small barrier now separated Wasabi and crew from the rest of the barn. Looking around, most of the hay was on the second floor.

"You want me to go up there and toss 'em down?" You asked, spotting a ladder.

"Yeah. That's better than you catching 'em." He held the ladder sturdy, "Just be careful."

"If not, I'll just have to ask for more kisses." And up the ladder you went, not thinking too much of how cute his shocked expression was.

Several tons later, it was time for lunch. Namjoon helped you down off the ladder, letting his hands linger around your waist before blushing, "We should hurry before the corn gets cold."

Even though you had the option of leaving after the meal, you convinced your ride to stay until you were done with the maze. You went back to the barn, but volunteers had to leave at sunset. Namjoon didn't say much during the meal to you, but it was ok since you weren't a socialite anyways. Also, seeing how familiar he had been with the other regulars, the Farm family's son Tae, and his dog which now joined you, was nice.

"You really have been helping out for 7 years." The words left your lips before you could even think.

"Yeah. I know everyone pretty well. Enough to know that Tae's got a little crush on you." Namjoon wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, allowing you to see his glistening abs in the afternoon sun.

You couldn't help but bite your lip, "Is that so?"

"Yep." He met your gaze. "You interested?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you interested in being with the farmer's son?" The way he asked sounded like it was more than one question.

How many in total? You didn't know, but you did what you did best. Told the truth.

With a firm shake of your head, you sat on the edge of the loft, "No. I'm not interested in him. He's sweet and all, but I don't have eyes for him."

"...I see. Any hay left up there?"

You looked behind yourself, "None that's like all together. Hey, what's this?"

"What's what?" He looked up to see your ass filling out the overall shorts you had worn today.

"Come up here and take a look." You replied.

So Namjoon climbed up the ladder to come see what had caught your attention and was pulled forward to be on top of your own nervous but eager form.

"Now that we're here, are you gonna kiss me or not?"

"You're the one who got us here. Can't ya kiss me first?"

"I wanna make sure it's mutual. Anyways, I can only be so bold, Namjoon."

A cheeky chuckle left his lips as he settled on top of you, looking into your eyes as they closed and waited for the heat of his lips made contact with yours. There was no way either of you could stop now as you grabbed onto each other as if you'd disappear if you let go for even the slightest moment. His left hand was on your hip while his right snaked up to the latch of your overalls.

"Is it ok? Can I--"

"Go ahead." You replied breathlessly.

As shaking hands fumbled with each, you couldn't help but laugh and help him out. A grateful grin was given before making out ensued once more. Namjoon wanted this to last forever, but knew this time would have to be quick. Before Yoongi and the two volunteers came back. Still, he'd be remiss if he did not properly prepare you, so he slid two fingers inside of you. Without realizing, your hips rolled into his hand and a string of moans left your mouth. The grip you had on his forearm flexed.

He watched you through all of it, noticing your blushy reaction of looking away. However, Namjoon kissed your neck as the sweetest punishment. You squealed and bucked your hips as fingers spread your needy hole.

"Hurry." Came past your lips in a whine as the last thing you wanted was to be caught by the others in such a situation.

"Wait." Namjoon took his fingers out of you and reached into a spot in the corner.

There seemed to be a box that he looked through as you ground your hips onto nothing. Yet you needed to move just for any slight sensation. He mumbled to himself.

You pouted and called out his name, "Namjoooon~ Hurryyyyy~"

The large man turned around and revealed an unmistakable box of condoms and a small bottle of lube.

He smiled and then bit his lip at the sight of your disheveled form, "They're not expired."

"Then fuck me already!"

Namjoon's dick jumped at the desperate plea and quickly obliged, lubing you up and rolling the rubber on. You wanted it inside you so badly, but he waited.

"You look so pretty." Honest words reached your ears.

Your cheeks warmed even more at the compliment and you couldn't look at him, all the bravery from earlier all but gone.

Then he leaned over you, hands on either side of your head as he growled into your ear.

"You'd be prettier with my cock inside you, though." And thrust into you.

The scream of pleasure which came out of your throat surprised even you. And though you tried to cover your mouth, Namjoon pinned your hands down.

Between grunts, he uttered, "Don't. Don't hide from me. I wanna hear it all. Oh fuck. Please. Let me hear how badly you want this."

As his own moans trickled out, you looked at his furrowed brows and the new layer of sweat forming on both of you. You groaned and moaned out his name and loving words of support.

"You're so great, Namjoon. Oh, oh, oh my God. You're doing so well. Ahhhhh, more!"

"Yes! Yes! Oh Y/N. Oh fuck!" His curses were a whisper, contrasting how he screamed your name like a prayer.

"Namjoon, yes. Harder. Fuck, yes!" You felt him twitch inside of you and moved your hips upwards to meet his.

He whimpered and began to suck on your nipples, giving them tiny nibbles here and there. Namjoon's breathing became thick as he made love with you. He looked up at you, brown eyes dark and glittering in the golden hour of the world.

"Y/N, I can't--I'm gonna."

You held his face in your hands, "Cum for me."

He released as soon as the door opened, and you had to kiss him to muffle his scream of ecstasy.

"Namjoon? Y/N? Is this the last of it?" Yoongi asked.

Namjoon replied, "Yeah. If you can take it all on one go, that'd be great." in a voice that was clear for someone finishing up an orgasm and was still bucking inside of you.

You couldn't help but twitch, making him look down at you with your own hands muffling your own moans and eyes filled with tears. Right on the edge. You were right there, but you couldn't get there with the other man so close to catching on. The seconds passed by in the form of endless hours as Yoongi was quiet for no reason.

"So, you gonna go?" The thick chested man asked.

"Yeah. Alright, we'll start loading the truck. Wanna help out, Joonie?"

The man on top of you whispered, "Fuck." Before clearing his throat, "Nah. Kinda busy."

Yoongi's voice held a smile in it, "Oh, I see. I'll tell V you wanted to give the volunteer a tour." He then left.

You hid your face into Namjoon's shoulder. You wanted to cum so badly. The barn door closed and Namjoon began to pound into you after a sigh of relief. He was hard again. Did he like the idea of getting caught that much? It was a fleeting thought as the sound of a truck driving off allowed you to moan again. Your body convulsed as the ranch hand abused your g spot now that he found it. You gripped his arm, wrist, whatever you could hold onto as your orgasm finally reached its peak.

Heavy pants as Namjoon pulled out and lay next to you. He kissed your lips once more and you curled up into his side.

"That’s such a great settlement." You let an airy chuckle out.

Joon looked over at you, only able to laugh at your comment. The two of you decided to hurry and get dressed, and he walked you to the bus taking the last bit of city folk back. He called out your name before you went on, picking a piece of straw out of your hair and sticking it into his mouth.

“Namjoon you are the best friend I could ever ask for. What would I do without you?”

Ah, there was that word again. Friend. Every other time he heard you say that it hurt. It was a reminder that his feelings for you were one sided, and that things would never move farther than that between you two. However this time, it started something within him. He was tired of just being your friend. He wanted you to see him as more. This was the day he had decided he was going to try his best to make you see him as more than just a friend. He wanted you to see how much he cared for you, how much he loved you in a romantic way. He couldn’t sit around any longer, not wanting to risk some other guy coming in and sweeping you off your feet. 

You are 4 hours into your study session, trying to cram before a test you have tomorrow. You hear a knock on your door, you have no idea who it is at this hour, whatever hour it is. To be honest you completely lost track of time. All you knew was that is was late based on how dark it was outside. You go to your door and open it, only to find there is no one there. You glance down both sides of the hall, before looking down and seeing a bag of food sitting there with a note on top. You pick up the note and read it and smile, immediately recognizing Namjoon’s handwriting. 

I know you are studying late so I wanted to get you some food to make sure you eat. You always forget to eat when you get absorbed in your school work. As if on cue your stomach growls loudly. Good luck with your studies! Not that you’ll need it, you’re incredibly smart. The smartest person I know so you’re going to do great tomorrow. Fighting! -Namjoonie 

Your smile widens as you look in the bag and see he’s brought your favorite meal along with some snacks. You pull out your phone and send him a quick text. 

Bless you Kim Namjoon what would I do without you? 

Starve. 

Probably. Why didn’t you stay?

Didn’t want to distract you from your studies. How about if I take you out for lunch tomorrow after your exam to celebrate the A I know you’re going to get.

That sounds perfect. Thank you so much! 

You lock your phone and place it back on the table as you resume studying. A few hours later and you feel your eyes are drooping closed. You glance at your phone and see it’s nearing 2 in the morning. You decide to stay awake for maybe another 30 minutes, however your mind seems to have other plans as before you know it you are face planted into the book. 

You don’t remember falling asleep. But sure enough you are woken up by the sound of knocking on your door. You panic slightly, thinking you over slept for your exam until you look at the clock and see you still have an hour to spare. You sigh in relief before you hear your lock clicking open. 

“Wow. You look horrible did you sleep on the table all night?”

“Hello to you too, Namjoon. Because ‘you look horrible’ is the first thing someone wants to hear when they wake up.”

“I didn’t- I mean..” 

“Relax. I’m just messing with you. What have you got there?”

“Um.. coffee. And breakfast. I know I said I would take you out for lunch and we can still do that! But I know you overdo it when you are studying and I figured I would stop by to make sure you didn’t oversleep and bring you a little pick me up.” Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t get more than 5 hours of sleep, or maybe it’s because Namjoon is just that sweet but you feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You quickly wipe them away and sniffle before making your way over to him and hugging him tightly. 

“Thank you. Seriously you are the best. I feel so lucky to have you in my life and I just want you to know I’ll never take this for granted.” You pull away and smile at him, taking your coffee and breakfast and happily sitting at the table. Namjoon snaps out of his daze as he was admiring you and sits at the table. 

“Want me to quiz you on anything?”

“I think I got it down just fine. I spent hours studying so I hope I will do well.”

“I know you will. You’re really smart and determined so I know you will ace that test.” He gives you an encouraging smile and you see his dimples form on his cheeks. You’ve always found them adorable and couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out and poking one. He chuckles but doesn’t bat your hand away like he used to. He lets you rest it there for as long as you want to. His gaze becomes too much for you and you let your hand drop and look away. 

“I uh.. should probably go get ready now.”

“Of course! Do you want me to drive you? Then you won’t have to rush through getting ready you can take your time.”

“You’ll be late to your class though...”

“Ah it’s fine. I haven’t been late or missed a class yet I think the professor can let this once slide.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” 

“Goodness you’re an angel. I feel like nothing I say or do will ever be enough to thank you.”

“Just stay by my side with that beautiful smile on your face that’s all I need.” You blush and turn away quickly and rush into the bathroom. You splash cold water on your face as you realize there are butterflies in your stomach. You brush away the thoughts buzzing around in your head quickly, chalking it up to just nerves before your exam. You finish getting ready for the day and step into the living room to find Namjoon sitting there looking at something on his phone. He laughs at whatever it is and you feel that weird feeling in your stomach again. Oh gosh am I...? Before you can focus on your internal crisis any further Namjoon notices you standing there.

“Ready to go?”

“Y-yeah let’s go.” You quickly grab your bag and head out the door. On the way to class, you find yourself staring at Namjoon more than usual. Had he always been this handsome? Of course he had been, you were just now starting to realize you were developing feelings for him so everything was hitting you hard. 

“Ya know if you take a picture it’ll last longer.” Namjoon teases you with a chuckle. You blush and look away before steeling your nerves. You pull out your phone and do just that. Namjoon blinks rapidly, feeling rather surprised that you actually did. 

“Now I can see your cute face whenever I want to. Maybe I’ll make it my new lock screen.” He nearly slams on the breaks when you say this but he collects himself, deciding maybe he had finally gone crazy and just imagine this whole thing. He is approaching your building now anyways. “Thanks for the ride Namjoonie!” You lean over and peck his cheek before running out of the car and into the doors. He stares after your retreating figure, hand placed to his cheek where the feeling of your lips is still present. 

“Yeah. Definitely gone insane. There’s no way y/n just kissed me nope. Definitely not.” 

He’s in a daze the rest of the day after this, not fully focused on anything and he feels like he should have just went back to his apartment since he wasn’t even paying attention in class. When the lecture is finally over he checks his phone and sees there are a few texts from you. 

I think I did really well! I remembered almost everything I studied yesterday so I think I at least got a B. Did you still want to grab lunch, love?

“L-love?! Ah I swear y/n is trying to kill me, what is this?” He continues mumbling to himself as he texts you back, ignoring the odd stares of people walking by him.

Yes I would still like to grab lunch. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up. 

You let him know you are still at the building where you took your exam and he heads over there to you. When he does and you get into his car the first thing you do is kiss his cheek again and he stops functioning for a second. He doesn’t even realize you are talking to him until you flick his forehead. 

“Ah! What was that for?”

“I’ve been talking to you for the last 30 seconds and you haven’t said anything. Were you even listening to me?”

“No. I’m sorry I zoned out.” 

“What were you thinking about so intensely just now?

“Um.. nothing. I just uh was trying to remember if I turned the oven off before I came here.” He mentally face palms at the lame excuse he just came up with but you seem to buy it as you turn back towards the front and look out the windshield. You also seem to zone out for a few moments and now he finds himself feeling curious. Usually you are very talkative but so far you’ve just been staring out the window. 

“Now what are you thinking about y/n?”

“Mmm, I don’t know you wouldn’t tell me what was on your mind so why should I tell you?”

“Because... I want to help you if something is bothering you.”

“Well, nothing is really bothering me I was just deep in thought.”

“About what?”

“You.”  His mind blanks for a moment. 

“M-me? What about me?”

“Just that you’re really handsome you know? And kind, and funny, trust worthy, to be honest you’d be the perfect boyfriend.” 

“B-boyfriend?” You nod like what you said was just the most natural thing in the world. To him it was mind blowing that you just openly said these things to him. He’s sure he’s blushing and his suspicions are confirmed when you giggle. 

“And plus I like making you flustered. You’re cute when you blush.” Namjoon pulls the car over and looks at you incredulously. 

“Y/n are you flirting with me?”

“Um.. y-yeah I was. If it’s too weird and I was reading this all wrong and you want me to stop please tell me and I will.”

“Wait a minute.. reading what wrong?”

“You’ve been extra nice to me lately and have been complementing me an awful lot. I thought maybe you were flirting with me. Oh gosh this is so embarrassing I am such an idiot. Of course you weren’t. You just see me as a friend and I just messed everything up.” Your breath quickens and Namjoon can hear the fear in your voice. He places a hand on your cheek and turns your gaze towards him to help ease your nerves.

“Y/n you didn’t mess anything up or read anything wrong. I was trying to get you to see me as more than a friend because I thought I never had a chance with you otherwise.”

“W-what?! That’s ridiculous of course you would have a chance with me! Granted at first yes I did still see you as a friend but I think it was because I was too afraid to come to terms with my feelings. I really think I started to like you since the first day we met but I just buried those feelings for fear you wouldn’t ever like me back.” Namjoon lets out a huff at that.

“Of course I like you! How could I not? You’re the most important person to me in my life and you are everything I could ever want.” He notices your gaze drifting down towards his lips. He sees your tongue run across your bottom lip and that’s all the cue he needs before he leans in and presses his lips to yours. You lose yourself in the kiss, feeling fireworks explode in your stomach at the feeling. Your hand grips his thigh tightly as you deepen the kiss until you are both breathless. You pull away, breathing heavily and slightly out of breath before you start giggling. Namjoon can’t help but join you and soon you both are laughing fully. 

“Can’t believe we waited that long to do that. That was... wow.”

“Yeah.. wow.” Namjoon leans in and pecks your lips again. 

“So um.. so this mean we’re together now or? I mean we can take it slow too, it’s no rush!” 

“Y/n I have liked you for so long now I don’t think it’s possible to consider this as rushing. Do you want to be with me?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s all we need to know right?” You smile brightly at this.

Another night. 

You ask the hotel room ceiling, though you are new acquaintances; why am I sleepless, again?

Giving up, you pull a shirt on, your feet hitting the cold marble floor.

Your hair is still damp from the shower you took before bed. Limp but curling at the edges, almost like your patience, that which has been tied onto strings,  and still rapidly fraying.

This is the nth night you wake up, more brokenhearted than usual.

The old, familiar ache is always creeping like vines at the edges of your consciousness. There are less and less days between every time you push it down, trapping the swell beneath your bones where it can't mess with your heartbeat, though it makes you cold.

The moon is out tonight.

The balcony doors squeak but give when you push them back; your wrists and hands pale under the moonlight.

The wind is as frigid as your insides, nipping at your legs.

The cars below are taking people to places you've either been to, or will never see.

Time and space, it can stretch all it wants.

Farther and farther, it can drag you.

No matter how many planes he takes to get away from you; no matter how many days you bury him behind, certain things will always bring you back.

Catching a scent in a crowded place.

A similar height, a familiar gait. Almost his voice, but not quite. Dimples.

The old shirts at the bottom of your closet. Almost ten years old, soft and still your favorites. Memories of his fingers near the sleeves. The warmth of his kiss at the collars.

The way the light sometimes hits the ink on your handwriting; like the spaces between your lines are just waiting to be filled. All the words that used to be pillow nonsense and whispers into your ear, now songs tied into melodies floating down a sea of streams.

Strangers singing sentences that used to mean different.

You used to mean different.

You ask your pillow sometimes, because holding your own head, all those sleepless nights, perhaps it would know best -

if he still thinks about you?

It's pathetic, how many times you try to dream about him.

You get your answer indirectly. These are the bits and pieces the universe gives you; carried by the wind, half the world away.

A similar melody. Familiar words. Almost your name, but not quite.

Staring into the camera, like he's looking at you;

talking to strangers on TV, but they're never you;

lyrics about someone, and it could be you.

You're not sure.

But sometimes, it is you.

Even though you're not in each other's present;

you were, once.

Even though you aren't home anymore,

you were, once.

Even though he isn't yours and you aren't his;

you were, once.

Thumbing through your phone, a long scroll down, your old playlists are still waiting for you.

They help, for a while. A mix of his old songs and the ones you used to replay.

Back then, the tracks he made sounded so different. You used to laugh at them, and he let you; he agreed that he sounded so different. Sounded like someone else. Him, but trying. Still trying to find his voice. But you always believed in him,  even when he didn't.  

"You'll find it," you'd whisper, kissing his dimples. But you didn't know it would take him away from you.

Listening to your old songs is you trying to crawl back into the skin of who you used to be. Trying to load an old save file of, you know.

When he loved you.

You could call him.

The thought hits you like a punch to the gut, but suddenly you're obsessed with it.

Like every other time, it's not an impulse you can control. Technology has made it too easy to be selfish.

You try to dissuade yourself by recalling the disaster site of your last phone call. You were the pathetic one.

He'd never heard you cry like that before. You've never heard yourself sound so lost. Even after the long silence that followed him picking up, you broke it;

"I just wanted to hear your voice," you begged. Sad, irritated, disappointed in the world, hurt and looking for someone who could never let you down, because you made sure he'd never get the chance to. Trying to compress the universe into a line, and hoping someone else was on the other end of it.

"You called," he says, voice breathless. "Hi."

One syllable, and you were in tears.

Then you hung up.

He never calls back.

And he'll never call you, on his own. He was always respectful, even when you were at your most selfish.

'Don't call me,' you'd said.

But every time you call him, he never mentions it.

Sometimes he just sounds grateful, and you don't hate yourself for it until a day after you hang up.

Anyway this time you aren't fresh off a breakdown. This time your anxiety levels are under control.

This time, you're stable.

Just kind of sad.

Tonight, he picks up on the third ring.

Your name in his voice feels like the first breath after being underwater.

"Hi." Your voice isn't shaky tonight, thank the universe. "Am I holding you up?"

Said simply; like these aren't the first words you've exchanged in almost a year.

What you meant was, Am I holding you back?

Usually the both of you skirt the circumstances. Afraid to break the fourth wall. But he's always been quick on the uptake; faster than you, now, though you used to always be ahead.

"No. On the contrary. I look foward to these pocket universes where I can hear your voice without the usual consequences."

You nod, even knowing he can't hear a nod; struck dumb by how real he sounds.

"I was wondering when you'd call next." Teasing. No trace of sleep in his tone, unlike you, voice scratchy like an old record. A trace of life throbs in your chest. A tickling sensation.

"Amazing how guilty that still makes me."

He laughs; and your heart hurts. He sounds so happy. So light. So free.  You know a long time ago, when you broke up with him, you said, you couldn't wait for him while he chased his dream.

Liar, liar. You were a bad liar. Are a bad liar.

You just didn't want to get left behind.

Or, now that you're a little sober to what you were actually doing;

you'd just wanted the inevitable to happen on your own terms.

"I loved the mixtape," you confess, breathy.

It's not about me. It's not about me.

"Really? Which song was your favorite?"

You answer him, your fondness leaching into your tone. He can hear it. He hears it. Still, you stall, building up barricades. It's not about me. It's not about me.

"I wrote that for you."

All your walls fall crashing down.

"Namjoon," you whine, tears pricking.

"Sorry, baby. You had to know."

"You've made it. I watch you. You've found it. Your voice. You don't... You don't need to think about me."

He hisses, interrupted by a thud in the background; voices, intermittent. Your heart stops, then keeps going. You press your ear closer to your phone, as if you could strain to hear any better.

A door closes in the background. Your breath catches; suddenly he sounds closer. Like he could be right next to you.

He didn't hang up.

"Still there?"

You don't miss a beat. "H-here."

He exhales, a tired sound. You did that. You stressed him out. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I'm sorry I called-"

"Don't hang up. Please."

"Okay. I won't." Eager to please. Then a burst of belligerence hits you, and your tone rises again. "But don't say things like that. It isn't fair."

"Fair?"

"I don't want to fight," you whimper, but he rolls right over you.

"We're not fighting. We're disagreeing."

"Okay."

You try to sigh, but it doesn't all come out. Something is always trapped.

You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to be small. "Where are you?"

"In my studio. Always working, these days. Fixing up the album and we leave for tour soon."

Concern laces your words; concern for strangers, concern for lives you're no longer a part of. "Isn't it too soon to leave again?"  

"...It's fine."

"I'm sure they miss you," you continue, a masochist.

Thankfully, he doesn't twist the knife. But something else does.

You should've checked the time before you called. You always forget.

The voices in the background violently throw you from your fantasy, hitting you like a car.

"Daddy, who is that? Is that mommy?"

"No, sweetie, mommy's with your uncles. Go tell her I'm coming back soon." 

You can never go back. 

You made the mistake.

You made the call.

Kim Namjoon, idol, artist, producer. Brother, friend.

Husband.

Father.

The shame washes over you. The guilt. Weak, disgusting, dirty, selfish. Human. You can't even cry, you're too terrified of yourself. Who you've become.

"Namjoon, I can't call again. Ever."

"Wait. Don't..."

"I'm so sorry. This is the last time. I just wanted one last time."

Namjoon's words come out in a rush; loud, unsteady, shaky. He's yelling into the phone. "Wait, don't do this again-"

You quickly hang up, fingers shaky. You jump when your phone rings, dropping it; the vibration knocking your bones together. He's calling back. He never calls back. He's calling back.

You can't let him.

Half already grieving; a little bit insane, you pluck up the courage to pick the thing up from the floor and pitch it into the city below you.

If you were gonna do that, you should've done it a long time ago.  

Fuck.

Below you, the lights don't go out; the cars don't stop, the people don't slow down. Life goes on. So does yours. So does his. 

You were too late, anyway.

--

I was flipping through my old playlists when I wrote this. And yes, I suddenly missed someone I used to call, but I can't call him anymore. I'd like to hear his voice again, but we don't often deserve to revisit the little disasters we leave behind. You know? Or nah?

Listen to:

We Won't - Jaymes Young, Phoebe Ryan

2 Yrs Late - teddybear, BLANKTS, Tulsa

Tokyo - RM ⭐

Talk to me, I'm nice 😂