#reverse harem bts

Sure, your job was amazing. Being able to speak 3 languages alone was a feat in and of itself, but at the end of the day, you felt lacking. Your social life had dwindled, something your family had been worried about since the second month of your working career, and although you thought it a nonissue at first, the loneliness built until it was something you could hardly stand to endure, but it was also inescapable.

You didn’t have the initials and birthdate of your soulmate etched in black ink on your left wrist, as everyone did at birth; instead, you had 14 letters and 28 numbers. The long sequence of characters had earned you confused looks from doctors at your yearly check-ups and a lack of social life. You’d had them memorised by heart. 

K.S.M.Y.J.H.K.N.P.J.K.T.J.J The stutter in the last two letters irked you to no end. And the numbers were a complete mind-fuck. 

12.4.92.3.9.93.2.18.94.9.12.94.10.13.95.12.30.95.9.1.97. What any of it meant was a fucking mystery to you and everyone around you. You were an enigma.

It wasn’t an existence you were keen on, and you know that it was a huge chunk of your family’s worrying. But you’d accepted long ago that you weren’t going to have a soulmate, that you’d either have to find someone else who was as misfortunate as you, or just settle with being alone save for one-offs and porn. It wasn’t like you weren’t living damn close to those truths now. 

You can still vaguely hear your mother chastising you for having such a full schedule. “You’ll never find your soulmate if the only thing you care about is your work,” she’d told you, thinking the overabundance of black on your wrist was a clerical error, and your lesser-than history of romance was a result of you not looking for them hard enough. It took everything in you not to break down at her harsh words, but you mustered a weak, “I’ve found them already, Mom, my work is my soulmate,” and left her townhouse. That was 6 months ago, and you’d not seen her since. You still stuck by your words, because even if you were lonely, you were beyond appreciative for the job you had, soulmate be damned. 

But sometimes the loneliness was deafening, and it left a question ringing in your head like a church bell. Was the writing really worth it?  

Friends from college couldn’t keep up with your hectic lifestyle of needing to be ready to board a plane at any given moment for an immediate press conference or high-profile interview your boss had scored you. You couldn’t have a pet out of fear of never being home to care for it, and your family couldn’t pause holidays because you’d have a layover flight that day. 

So, long story short, yes, your job was amazing and had definitely provided you with some of the best moments of your life (it’s not every day that you get to ask Hideo Kojima about Death Stranding,) but it’d also enhanced the evergrowing emptiness of your solitude, and piled on your shoulders round-the-clock work hours. 

“Y/N! Thank god you’re here,” your co-worker, Elle, greets you. She’d been the one person you could rely on the most since your first day. She’s a pretty girl, a few years younger than you, her colorful pencil skirts and chiffon button-ups always brightening your day as soon as you walk into the office. 

“Good morning to you, too, Elle.” You tell her, shocked when she quite literally hugs the breath out of your body. “What’s gotten into you this morning?” You ask her, stepping back to look into her eyes. 

“I had a few too many cups of coffee…” She smirks, “But, you’ll be proud of me! I got your interview with BLACKPINK edited, and it’ll be fresh on the press and on YouTube within the next few hours or so.” 

“That’s great! Thanks, Elle. You do need to be careful with your caffeine intake this early in the morning, though. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.” 

She cringes at the reminder, vividly recalling the day she’d forgotten to eat and passed out when she’d gotten a papercut opening her Secret Santa gift. It’d cost her a week’s pay in medical bills once she’d been released from the hospital with a few stitches she’d scored from landing on her face in the office’s rec room. 

“Point taken,” she grimaces. 

You chuckle, nudging her shoulder as you work your way into your office, Elle on your toes the whole time. Your focus drifts as she tells you about her late night and early morning, because this is routine for the two of you now. You’re both free to chat amongst yourselves if you’ve finished your current assignments, something you’re grateful for, until your boss either emails you or makes her way into your office to assign you your next task. 

“Y/N?” Elle asks you, dragging your jaded attention from the swirling of the hot chocolate she’s readied on your desk, back to her face. 

“Huh?” You ask drowsily. 

“I said, did you hear that the Bangtan Boys are going to do a mini-tour around Seoul, Daegu, and Busan before they go on a break?” She says, exasperated by your lack of interest in her earlier monologues. 

“I actually hadn’t heard of that, yet.” You reply lightly, interest piqued, “is anyone from our office covering the tour yet? I know Andrew speaks some Korean, albeit not as fluently as I do.” 

“I haven’t heard anything in the office yet,” she answers. “But, that leads to the question, er, well, favor I have to ask of you.” 

You eye her questioningly, already cautious. 

“It’s just, I know that you’re sometimes allowed to bring a tagalong when there’s big stories like this to cover, so I don’t know… I was wondering if maybe I could be your plus-one if you get the story?” 

“Ugh, Elle, you know we don’t really get to choose the stand-in reporters for those trips,” you groan.

“Andrew told me that when he’s been given big stories that he always takes Cam with him,” she whines. “And I’ve never been out of the country, let alone the continent. It’d be an amazing opportunity for me to be able to leave New York for once.” 

She pleads at you with her eyes, full pink lips puckered and trembling. 

“If- and I mean if,” you emphasize, seeing how her pout turns into a near-blinding smile, “if I get the story, because honestly, we don’t even know if there is one; then I might consider asking Mrs. Powell if you can assist me as a co-writer.”

“Yes!” Elle shrieks, jumping up and down, chiffon bouncing and blonde hair waving across the room wildly. “I knew I could count on you! God, you’re so awesome.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you huff, checking your email. “Powell wants me to write a follow-up on the BLACKPINK interview, so I’m going to start on that. I’ll find you around lunch so we can discuss what I summarize,” you tell her, “oh, and Elle?” You say, stopping her in the doorway of your office before she leaves. “Remind me to kick Andrew’s ass later for being such a mushroom.” 

Elle laughs, stepping out of your office with a skip in her step. 

You didn’t exactly hate Andrew, but you trusted him about as far as you could throw him. He was ruthless in his interviewing and even more so in his everyday life. Beyond that, you guys had the same working position, prospective head reporter for M-Buzz, an up-and-coming Manhattan news source, and both you and Andrew wanted the head reporting position that only one of you would get. 

Four hours, three cups of coffee, and two bathroom trips later, the follow-up is written; the 4,000 words glaring at you from the computer screen. You type in Powell’s email address and hit send, letting out a sigh as you watch the check mark change from grey to green. 

Your mind, the persistent bastard, decides to wander back towards the dreaded soulmate topic, and although you weren’t too keen on staying in the mindset, you can’t shake it. 

At 21 years old, you’d never met another individual with a lack of ‘the signature,’ as most Americans referred to it. You’d moved cross country a multitude of times, studying various current events that arose, and interviewing until your mind was numb, but you’d not once encountered anyone with the same blank canvas that your wrist housed. 

You’d seen the way some people would glance at your wrist, nosy tendencies flaring, and then the way they’d raise their brows in shock, looking to you like you were some sort of circus animal. The pity in their eyes was acidic and made you want to vomit. 

You’d also have witnessed the irritation that would swell in your chest when you saw people treating their soulmates poorly, or ignoring their existence altogether. 

Cam and Elle could deny it all they wanted, but they were, in fact, soulmates. No amount of repression and cold insolence would change fate. They couldn’t deny their cosmic attraction forever, just like you couldn’t deny your cosmic solitude. 

There’s a small knock on your door, and then Elle is peeking her wide-eyed face through a crack, looking sorry for interrupting your train of thought. 

“Mrs. Powell just asked for you and Andrew to go to her office,” she tells you.

“Wonderful,” you quip, standing up and straightening your pencil skirt, not at all excited at the uncomfortable situation you’d be in once you entered your boss’s office. 

“I really think it’s about BTS…” Elle says shyly, walking alongside you towards the elevator. 

“It most likely is. She’s probably going to have us kill each other for the story.” 

“You were always a scrapper,” your friend jokes. 

“Don’t give me too much credit, Elle. I grew up in Washington. The closest thing to a fight I’ve been in was trying to squeeze into a bus with ten other people during a rainstorm.” 

“I’ve seen how you get when you want a position,” she tells you as the elevator doors start to slide shut, “you’ll knock 'em dead.” 

Her face disappears behind the metal panels, and the elevator rises. 

You could go for the job, yank it out from under Andrew’s nose, and enjoy Seoul, you hadn’t been to before, and you did very much enjoy traveling. Or you could simply stay home and watch Friends reruns, edit another reporter’s papers, and drink champagne. You could buy some Ben and Jerry’s and take some sick days, go to a spa, and just relax. 

The latter wasn’t you, though. You were driven, adventurous, and properly bored with New York. You needed a change of scenery, even if it were only for a few weeks, and if you could take Elle, that’d only make Seoul more enjoyable. 

With your mind set, and the doors to the elevator opening upon arrival to the thirtieth floor, you step out and walk with purpose towards the office marked “Powell.” 

“Thanks for finally joining us, Y/N,” Andrew mutters as soon as you’ve stepped foot into the room. 

“Nice to see you, too, Andrew.” You smile, masking irritation with friendly courtesy. 

“Cool it, Klein,” Powell huffs, eyeing Andrew coldly. “Go ahead and have a seat, Y/N,” she motions towards the chair opposite where she’s sitting at her desk, and you take it, avoiding the glare Andrew sends your way as you sit to his left. 

“I’m sure you’ve both been bombarded with notifications throughout the day about the ‘Persona’ tour taking place in South Korea later this month?” She asks, smiling, when you both nod. “Great, well, I had Margaret over on the tech floor set us up with better alerting algorithms last month, and they’ve worked magic for us today. We managed to book a two-person reporting gig for the entirety of the tour-”

“You’re sending me with Y/N? Doesn’t that seem a little redundant, given we’re both going for the same job?” Andrew groans, running his hand over his pointed face.

“Let me finish, Andrew,” Powell snaps, “I was going to say that you guys could pick who, amongst yourselves, would go with an apprentice, but given your outburst, I am choosing to send Y/N. We’re sending a reporter to interview the band and review the tour, not fight amongst coworkers.” 

You hold back a laugh, shocked that you’d gotten the job without having to lift a finger.“But- I didn’t mean to” 

“But you did,” Powell states dryly. “And now Y/N will be going to Korea for three weeks while you continue covering the President’s tweets.” 

That, you do laugh at. “At least you’ll have a lot of content,” you joke. 

Andrew huffs, grabs his coffee from the end table between your chairs, and leaves the room swiftly, jaw locked and scowl present. 

“So,” Powell shifts her gaze from the slightly slammed office door to your still-shocked expression, “your trip is pretty much all set up, you leave in three days, and the tour starts in five. The hotels will be paid for, of course, I just need to know who you’d like to bring along with you and whether you’ll be needing a spare room or just one with two beds when we book your stays.” 

“Oh, just one room will be fine,” you tell her, “I’ll bring Elle along with me, she does a spectacular job of helping to revise my articles already.” 

“Sounds great, I’ll just let HR know who’s being sent and fill out some paperwork, and you guys should be set. Your first interview with BTS will be the night you land, so you’ll have to get situated in the hotel quickly. From there on, I’ll continue emailing and calling with updates and schedules. Pretty smooth sailing, all and all.” 

“Just how I like it,” you smile, shaking her offered hand and leaving the room. 

You don’t expect Andrew to be waiting for you at the elevator, but there he is, in all of his angry-man glory; face red and temper very obviously still flaring. 

“Andrew, I really don’t thi--”

“No, you listen here,” he stops you, voice low and threatening. “I’ve worked my fucking ass off to be where I am today and I will not have my career ruined by some up-and-coming 20 year old floozy. You hear me?” He shouts, finger waving in your face as sweat beads on his forehead. 

“I don’t understand why you even-” 

“I don’t care if you don’t understand! My point is, watch your fucking back and stay the hell out of my way.” He spits, pushing past you and towards the stairs on the opposite side of the hallway. 

What the fuck? 

“He said what?” Elle asks, shoving another forkful of ramen into her mouth.

“The man’s fucking insane,” you tell her, twisting your own noodles with your fork, “it’s not like I targeted him as soon as I walked into the office! I literally just sat there and listened. Didn’t have to utter a peep.” 

“I can’t believe he called you a floozy. Is he stuck in the ’60s?” She mocks. “Listen, I know you’re upset, and after a situation like that, no one can blame you… But, Y/N, look on the bright side. We’re going to have so much fun in South Korea. I can’t thank you enough for letting me come with you. I really can’t.”

“Buy me lunch once a week for the next two months and we’ll call it even,” you joke.

“Deal,” Elle replies instantly. “You’re the only person I know who will eat noodles every day with me and not get tired of them.”

“It’s good food,” you reply, “people are just ungrateful.” 

It’s almost as if you’ve blinked and you’re getting off the plane in Seoul. The last few days passed by in a blur as you and Elle attended a few meetings, going over company policies and general rules of thumb. No sexually explicit questions, no touching the interviewee, be on time for the interviews, dress appropriately, etc.

“It’s colorful here,” Elle exhales, stepping to your side as you wait for a taxi. “Kind of exhilarating.” 

“It’s pretty breathtaking,” you agree, smiling at a taxi driver who finally acknowledges the two of you and pulls to the curb. You give him the hotel address once he’s situated your luggage in the trunk, and you rest your back against the leather interior as the car begins to weave through traffic. 

“Where do you wanna go first?” Elle asks after nearly half an hour of silence, “We could go to a local restaurant? Cam told me about a few places he’s been to that have completely ruined American cuisine for him.” 

“Well, first we have an interview.” You placate her, “food, after. Maybe we could walk the streets later and sightsee?” 

“Mmm, fair enough.” Elle smiles. “Thank you, Y/N. No, I really mean it,” she says, shrugging off the interjection that’s ready to roll off your tongue. “I know people usually say thank you just to serve their own egos, but I really mean it. You’re a good friend, and I appreciate that.” 

You blush, not quite knowing how to respond. 

“We’re going to have a great time,” Elle adds, filling the silence, “this will be the best work trip either of us has ever been on, I swear it.” 

“Alright, you’re getting sappy,” you chuckle, nudging her shoulder. “Save it for when we reflect on the trip a few months down the line, huh?” 

“You’re not very emotive, are you?” She jokes. 

“Hey, I can be emotional. I just choose not to act on my emotions in front of other people. I promise you, inside- very deep inside my body, my psyche is curled in the fetal position and crying from just how you’ve moved me.” 

“Shut up,” she scoffs, shoving you lightly. Her eyes light up as she glances out of the passenger window from her back seat. “Is that it?” 

You follow her gaze to the gargantuan building ahead of the taxi, and your mouth gapes. “That’s it…” You breathe, completely taken aback by how luxurious the hotel looked. 

“Wow…” 

“You can say that again.” 

You pay the taxi driver and bow, thanking him in Korean. Elle is already out of the small vehicle, pulling her luggage out of the trunk with a few grunts. You couldn’t hold off your work forever, despite how nervous you were growing. You could do this. You knew you could. Turning to the nearest bellhop and signaling him over, you begin to pull your suitcase out of the trunk.

“We have roughly 2 hours before we’re supposed to be downtown to meet with BTS for the interview,” you tell her. “So that gives us an hour to get ready. Powell said Big Hit offered a driver to us during the tour.”

“A driver? But we’re interviewing them, not the other way around,” she replies, following you and the bellhop as he escorts you to the front desk inside the massive building to retrieve your key. 

“I guess they really appreciate American media covering them,” you tell her, “maybe they’re considering another U.S tour sooner rather than later,” you shrug. 

“Your keys, Miss L/N.” The bellhop tells you, handing you the golden objects on a ring. Room #901, that’d put you pretty high up. 

“Thank you,” you tell him, smiling widely. “Would you be able to lead the way and get our bags up there? We’re on a time crunch,” you tell him in his native tongue. He nods his agreement and grabs a silver luggage cart from behind the front desk. 

You’re shocked that M-Buzz has put you and Elle on the top floor, not quite expecting the obvious pampering. 

“This is just so exciting!” Elle chirps, nearly scaring the poor bellhop. You offered him an apology for her outburst and huff. “I mean, the top floor? Cam has never mentioned being treated to a top-floor suite.” 

“It’s not what I figured we’d be getting, that’s for sure.” You mumble, “Maybe there’s some sort of catch? An extra 50,000-word write-up? Deducted pay?” 

“Oh, give M-Buzz some credit, Y/N.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, I do, and I’m not complaining in the slightest. I just didn’t expect it. We’re only going to be in Seoul for a week or so anyway. We have two other major cities to go to after.” 

“You have a point,” Elle agrees, “but I don’t think they’d dock our pay. The write-up seems more realistic. But you have gifted fingers, it’ll be a breeze for you.” 

“Magic fingers?” You question her, cheeks blazing.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Y/N. Everyone around the office calls you Magic Fingers because of how quickly you can pull a five-star article out of your ass.” 

You send her a pointed glare, this time verbally apologizing to the bellhop for her crudeness. You only had ten floors to ascend, and then you’d be free from the claustrophobic confines of the elevator and the awkward social setting looming inside of it.

“I just write whatever pops into my head, I don’t overthink it…” You explain, feeling completely self-conscious, breathing out a sigh of relief when the elevator doors finally open, revealing a large hallway with only one door on either wall. 

“Penthouse 901,” the bellhop announces, shoving the key into the lock and pushing the door open for you and Elle.

“Holy crap,” Elle squeaks. 

“Thank you,” you tell the bellhop, handing him a 10,000 won tip, hoping it’ll cover the cost for Elle’s loose lips. He bows and exits the room, leaving you and Elle to gape at the extravagant room alone. 

“This is kind of amazing,” you whisper, eyeing the white marble floors and granite countertops in the massive kitchen. 

“Kind of amazing? It’s fucking incredible, Y/N,” Elle corrects you. “They even sent us a bottle of champagne.” 

“For a reporting job?” You wonder aloud, still not quite grasping the intricacy of the penthouse you were situated in. 

“Who knows?” Elle answers, “I’m not complaining.” 

You shake the slight unease you feel, and start to unpack your belongings, makeup bag, and toothbrush, some of the first things you grasp. “I’m going to find a bathroom in this castle and get ready. You should do the same,” you chide, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail. 

“Meet you back here in an hour?” Elle shouts, already at the opposite end of the mini-mansion. 

“Sounds good!” You holler, pushing open a door and gasping at the bedroom in front of you. Satin sheets, dark maroon walls, wall-length mirrors, and a massive television screen glaring at you with purpose. “Wow,” you whisper, openly admiring the intricacy of the carpet and bedding. “Later, Y/N,” you order yourself, refocusing your whirling mind on getting ready for the interview mere hours ahead of you.

You had drafted a multitude of questions for said interview while on the flight, thankful that Elle had drifted asleep for the entire duration you were in the air. God knows you would’ve gotten nothing done had your coworker been awake. 

Aside from clothing and a tad bit of makeup, you were ready. Beyond ready, in fact. So why were nerves still prickling at the back of your psyche and rendering you a shaking mess right now? 

You want to break down and have a good cry, but you know that’ll serve you no good. You have a job to do here, and you weren’t going to let M-Buzz and Elle down. Maybe if you did a great job you’d have more extravagant trips to look forward to, Elle included. 

You splash your face with water from the connecting bathroom, and look at your face in the mirror. Nerves definitely had done their work on you, your pupils were still slightly dilated from your strange near-panic attack and you had cold sweats.

Thankfully, you had packed your favorite lavender body oil, which always seemed to soothe your anxiety when huge work or life obstacles such as this clouded your mind. A pat of the scented liquid against your throat and wrists, a natural makeup look completed with a mauve lip, and your new black pencil skirt paired with your pastel pink blouse and a high bun had you feeling rejuvenated and even excited for the interview. You didn’t even trip once in your nude Miu Miu heels on your way from your bedroom to the living room. 

Elle waited, as she said she would, in the entryway of the luxurious penthouse. “I thought you said Powell was going to hook us up with a one-bedroom?” 

“She did,” you tell her, “can you please not use the phrase ‘hook us up with’ in a sentence, please?” You groan. “It sounds like you’re talking about us fucking the room.” 

“You are especially frisky today, Y/N what’s gotten into you?” She asks, wiggling her brows suggestively. 

“Nothing has gotten into me, Elle,” you huff, “I’m just excited to do the interview, that’s all. I wanna bring up astrology signs and stuff,” you explain, “it’s going to be fun!” 

“For you,” Elle quips, leading you out of the room and into the elevator. “Not everyone is as involved with astrology as you are, you know.” 

“I’m not involved with astrology,” you huff, “readers like to learn this stuff about their celebrity crushes. It’s not far-fetched,” you grumble. 

“I’m just teasing you,” she laughs, nudging you. “I’m sure the interview will be fun. I know you were brainstorming our questions and topics the entire flight.” 

“Wha-”

“You type loud,” she shrugs. “It’s good to be prepared, don’t be embarrassed.” 

You want to argue with her for the sake of your ego, but you know she was right. She’d embarrassed you, not necessarily a hard feat for her, given how well she’d come to know you. 

“Powell wants me to try and interview them in mainly English, but she said that if I think it’s easier to do it in Korean, that would work, too.” You tell Elle, kicking at the elevator floor as it continues its slow descent. “I don’t like it when she leaves me to make the big decisions.” 

“Oh, Y/N. You always do this.” Elle groans, rubbing her hand against her face.

“Do what?” You ask, slightly defensive.

“Psych yourself out before the interviews you do. You second-guess everything, and then the second we walk into the interviewing room, you completely shift. It’s like you were never worried in the first place, you just… go with the flow?” She explains, “it makes the worrying you do beforehand incredibly frustrating. Especially knowing how confident and driven you are outside of interviews and work.” 

“I’m sorry…” You say, sad that you’d made her even an inkling upset. 

“Don’t be, it’s very you. I’m not frustrated you experience it, just frustrated you don’t seem to credit yourself enough on how spectacular of a job you do all in all. And as far as the English or Korean topic goes, the guys have been learning more English from what I’ve learned, so they might surprise you and make the decision for you.” 

“I appreciate that,” you tell her, because truthfully, you do. “I’ll try my best not to be a mope the rest of the tour, I swear!” You hold out your pinky, grateful that she doesn’t leave you hanging as you lock in your promise. 

The elevator finally dings, and the two of you step out, crossing the lobby quickly and hopping into the black SUV that waits outside of the hotel with your name in the passenger window. The driver greets you, quickly explaining his job at Big Hit, which literally consists of driving interviewers and members of Big Hit to and from locations during tours and press conferences. 

“We appreciate you driving us,” you tell him in Korean, leaning towards the front seats so you can see him better, and noting his slight blush and the creases that form at the corners of his eyes as he takes your compliment. 

“We will be arriving at the Big Hit building in ten minutes,” he tells you, “it’s a pretty short drive.” 

“That’s great. We’ll make it on time, then.” You smile, repeating his statement in English for Elle as she watches the night scenery flitter by her outside of her window. 

“Do you think they’ll be as beautiful as they are on screen in person?” Elle asks.

“More than likely,” you answer her, “but we aren’t here to pine over them. You’ve got a soulmate back home to worry about,” you chastise her.

“Yeah, but you don’t.” She replies dryly after a few minutes pass, “and I am still single, you know.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave her off, “you and Cam have both made that abundantly clear.” 

“Shut up,” she mumbles, pulling her cardigan tighter around her body while she sulks. “It’d be weird if we got together.” 

“Why?” You ask her, interest piqued, “Because you work together? Don’t give me that.” 

“No, because I dated his brother in high school.” 

You were not expecting that. Whatsoever. 

“You dated his brother?” You ask incredulously. 

“Yes, his brother. Adam.” She snaps. “Didn’t end all too well.” 

“I’m sorry, Elle,” you tell her honestly, “I didn’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t joke about it.” 

“It’s okay, there are reasons Cam and I don’t bring it up.” She shrugs. “Oh, look!” She points, and you follow her finger, seeing the mostly-glass-constructed building that’s lit up down the expansive driveway you’ve turned onto. 

“That’s a lot of windows.” 

“Nice assessment.” Elle laughs. 

“Thanks. It was exhausting to make.” You joke back, pulling your notebook you kept with you during interviews, out of your purse. 

“I can’t believe we’re going to meet them,” Elle smiles, “I’ve been listening to them since 2 Cool 4 Skool was released.” 

“I listened to Wings when it was released, but aside from that, research is my extent of BTS knowledge.” You tell her. 

“Wait, what?” She asks, taken aback.

“I just kinda stopped listening to music and paying it any attention after my dad passed away in high school.” You shrug. “They released that in my senior year, so I gave it a listen. It was good, but I don’t know. I didn’t want to listen to music like I did when my dad was around, I guess.” 

The car comes to a stop before Elle can reply, and your driver steps out to open your door. You bow, thanking him and heading towards the Big Hit worker who waits for you and Elle at the front door to the Big Hit establishment. 

“Y/N?” The young woman asks. 

“That is me.” You answer kindly, shaking her offered hand. 

“The boys are waiting for you and your co-writer in the main room. I am Mai, and I will be guiding you there and staying on hand for any questions you may have during the interview.” She tells you.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you.” You answer her, following her and signaling for Elle to do the same as she leads you over the threshold and into the marvelous entryway of the building.

“This way,” she directs you, stepping down a small flight of stairs and into a ridiculously well-lit room, every piece of furniture and decor white, save for the three chairs and two sofas that are burgundy. 

You can feel sets of eyes on you as you enter the room, but you wait until you’re sat in the lounge chair that Mai directs you to stand in front of to raise your chin and look the boys in the eyes. 

To say they’re gorgeous is quite possibly a disservice to them. They’re ethereal, otherworldly. 

“Hello,” you address them, your voice surprisingly steady given your inward disarray from simply looking at them. “My name is Y/N L/N, I’m a reporter from M-Buzz, an up-and-coming news source in Manhattan, New York.” 

Some of the boys are glancing at you with confused expressions on their faces, and you can swear that two of them look at you with complete shock and bewilderment. You save yourself a lengthy self-analysis and repeat your introduction to them in Korean.

“Woah! Are you fluent in Korean?” One with a giant smile, black hair, a yellow Gucci crewneck, and an exuberant voice asks you. 

“Hoseok, we haven’t even introduced ourselves,” another rebukes the man who must be Hoseok, his voice a velvety, rich sound that nearly has you blushing. 

“I’m so sorry!” Hoseok rushes, bowing to you, “My name is Jung Hoseok, or JHope! It’s nice to meet you.” 

You smile gently at him, “It’s nice to meet you, too, Hoseok.” 

“I’m Kim Namjoon, or RM,” the one with the rich voice tells you, bowing as Hoseok did. He’s very well defined and the tallest of the bunch. His lips are drawn up in a smile, but you can tell that they’re shapely. You absentmindedly notice his hands, the size of them, and the muscles that shift in his arms as he plays with his hands in his lap. 

“Don’t keep her all to yourselves,” another voice rings out. You glance at the owner of the new voice, pleased with what you see, though you’d never say that aloud. His lips are full, eyes bright, and hair a butterscotch blond. “I’m Kim Seokjin, but ARMY calls me Jin, or Worldwide Handsome.” 

You smile, returning his bow. 

“I’m Kim Taehyung!” A man with a bandana tied across his forehead to keep back his chocolate brown hair smiles, eyes bright and boxy-smile infectious. “ARMY calls me V.” 

“I’m Jeon Jungkook!” The muscular figure next to Taehyung introduces himself, his smile wide and cheeks flushed as you shift your gaze to him. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” He smiles even wider, a feat you thought impossible. 

“I’m Park Jimin!” The next introduces himself, his smile sweet, but something lying beneath his eyes tells you that sweet is something he can be far from. His hair is a light pastel pink, his eyes crinkle as he smiles at you, bowing. You recognize that he’d been one of the men to look at you in shock.

You look to the last figure, sensing his eyes still on you. They are. He looks to you with the same expression Jimin had prior to the introductions, eyes serious as they take you in. “Min Yoongi,” he says simply, nodding his head towards you. 

You smile at him, slightly uncomfortable with the way he and Jimin seem to be fixated on you. 

“It’s nice to meet all of you. This is my co-writer, Elle.” You motion towards your protege. “She doesn’t speak Korean.” You explain. 

“Ah,” Namjoon speaks up, “they aren’t all fluent in speaking English yet, but they’ve been practicing and understand most of it. We can do the interview in English and then translate what needs to be translated into Korean. If that works?” 

“That’s great!” You answer him, breaking into English to explain the conversation to Elle. You smile when the guys all introduce themselves to her in English. The beginning of the interview goes about how all interviews ever go. 

The cameras are set up, you redo your introductions, and you ask the basic questions. Favorite colors, favorite songs on their current album, favorite songs of theirs in general, celeb crushes, etc. 

You’re excited when the first thirty minutes pass and the interview opens up to the part you’re most hyped for. Astrology. This had been fun to come up with. 

“So, for this next part of the interview, I’d like for us to talk about our astrology signs in order from oldest to youngest. The fans are really excited about this.” 

“Dinosaur Jin!” Taehyung shouts, earning guffaws of laughter from everyone but Jin. 

“You won’t be laughing when you’re 26 and exhausted,” he pouts. 

“So, Jin-hyung is the oldest. When’s your birthday?” You ask, preparing your notepad. 

“December 4, 1992.” He tells you, and your brain momentarily comes to a stop. 12.4.92 plays on a loop in your mind. “That makes you a Sagittarius,” you tell him, “your sign is an archer! Your element is fire, your birthstone is topaz, and your ruling planet is Jupiter, the biggest one.” 

“As it should be.” He quips, wiggling his eyebrows at his bandmates. 

“Who’s next?” You ask, nerves building. 

“Suga!” and “Yoongi” are immediately shouted out, and the man in question tears his eyes from you to look at his members. 

“Huh?” He asks.

“You weren’t paying attention again, hyung! You have to tell Y/N when your birthday is,” Mai interjects from her director’s chair.

“Oh, sorry.” Yoongi mumbles, turning back to face you, gaze heated. “My birthday is March 9, 1993.” 

You freeze, more of the code on your mind ringing in your ears. 3.9.93. 

“That makes you, uh…” You trail off, thinking. “Pisces! That’s it. Yeah, your sign is two koi, your element is water, your birthstone is amethyst, and your ruling planet is Neptune!” 

“Cool,” he answers emotionlessly, still gazing at you, looking nothing short of perplexed. 

“Next?” You call.

“Hoseok!” Namjoon tells you, looking at his friend proudly.

“My birthday is February 18, 1994! I think I was already told that I’m an Aquarius!” He explains happily. 

You’d love to reply with enthusiasm, but the numbers are rolling in your mind, and now you’re tying the letters into them as well. Jin’s birthday was the first set of numbers on your wrist, but his initials were S.K? Wait, no. If you used Korean, as you should, his initials were K.S.

Your feet lift you out of your seat and out of the building without a second thought, and you race for the car, already asking the driver to take you back to your hotel immediately. He looks concerned, but acquiesces, pulling out of the driveway swiftly. In your haste, you’d left your notebook and Elle, but you’d shoot her a text or call her once you got back to the penthouse. You’d needed to do some research and figure out if you were right on this.

Because there was no way in hell that BTS, in its entirety, was your soulmate(s).

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Kim Seokjin. December 4, 1992. The name and birthdate correspond perfectly with the first set of initials and date. You could chalk it up to coincidence, but looking more into it had your heart threatening to leap from your throat. 

Min Yoongi. M.Y. The second set of initials, another match. March 9, 1993. Another flutter rose in your chest.

Jung Hoseok. J.H. February 18, 1994.

Kim Namjoon. K.N. September 12, 1994. 

Park Jimin. P.J. October 13, 1995. 

Kim Taehyung. K.T. December 30, 1995. 

And Jeon Jungkook. J.J. The stutter at the end of your frustratingly long list of numbers. September 1, 1997. 

You’d need a massive bottle of vodka to wash down the events of this evening. The Big Hit driver, Shei, you’d learned his name on the drive back to the hotel, had asked you numerous times what was happening. You couldn’t blame him; you’d essentially shoved him back into the SUV and ordered him to take you back to the hotel as if your life depended on it. 

He didn’t hesitate; you’d figured that wasn’t in his code of conduct. He obliged immediately, peeling out of the Big Hit Entertainment driveway without a care to give. 

He did want answers, as any person under the amount of stress and complete confusion you’d forced onto his shoulders would be. But how were you supposed to explain that during the most pivotal and important interview in your career to date, you’d discovered and found that not only did you have a soulmate, you had seven! And to make a confusing situation even more confusing, all of your soulmates made up one of the most sensational boy groups ever? Shei would probably make a U-turn on the freeway and take you to a psychiatrist, which, now that you think about it, could be helpful. 

“You left me!” Elle shouts through the phone, “I had to wing the rest of the interview, and the boys all got really quiet after we finished the astrology skit!” 

“Wait- finished it? How?” You question her, momentarily forgetting about the inner soliloquy. 

“You left your notebook in your chair! I told them about your horoscope and then mine.” She huffs. “That’s not what matters, though! Don’t try and get me sidetracked. You left me alone, and I didn’t know what to do! I just listed out your questions like a robot!” 

“You told them my horoscope?” You choke out, breathing becoming more difficult with each passing second, she doesn’t answer.

“What the fuck, Y/N? Weren’t you going to? The notes said to compare and contrast our horoscopes with theirs!” 

You mentally slap yourself, angry with yourself that you’d forgotten your notebook and that you hadn’t prepped Elle better, for her own sake, before the interview.

“I’ll make it up to you, I swear…” You sigh. “I just… I had to come back to the hotel.”

“Why?” Elle argues, and you feel the bitter pang of guilt well in your chest. She’d never spoken to you so harshly, and what hurts more is that you know she’s not in the wrong. You were unprofessional. “What was so important that you left me and BTS hanging? You know, we’re going to have to speak to HR about this?” 

Fuck. You really didn’t think your actions through at all.

“I can speak to HR,” you reassure her. “There’s no excuse for leaving the interview like that. I know that much. I just- I don’t know! Have you ever had a fight or flight instinct kick in?” 

“What? No?” Elle answers. “I don’t understand what that has to do wi-”

“I had to leave, Elle.” You explain, exhaustion and jet lag sinking in and catching up with you. “I just-I went into a weird shock and I needed to leave.” 

Elle remains silent for a few minutes, and you almost check the call to make sure she hasn’t hung up on you. “Okay…” she sighs. 

“Thank you-”

“No, no, no. Don’t shove the thank you’s onto me right now. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, still. I’m not completely stupid or oblivious, Y/N.” You can hear her grimace through the phone line. “I saw the way that the guys froze up when I told them your birthday.” 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“And I know for a fact that Yoongi and Jimin looked at you like you’d shocked them with tasers when you gave them your name!” 

“Elle-”

“No! Don’t ‘Elle,’ me. Explain to me what’s going on!” 

You grip the phone tightly against your ear, afraid to say what you know is most likely the truth. The words are about to slip out of your mouth, but a sob emerges instead, shocking you and most likely scaring Elle.

“I just- there’s so much going on and I don’t know what to do.” You stammer out, shaking on the loveseat you’re curled into. “I can’t even begin to tell you what’s going through my mind right now.” 

“Holy shit, it’s that bad? Did one of them hurt you?” She asks, and you can vaguely hear her asking, no, more like ordering, someone to drive her to the hotel.

“No!” You shout, “No! They didn’t hurt me. I’ve never met any of them before.” 

“You swear?” She asks, voice slightly wobbly with worry. 

“I swear on my life,” you reply instantly. “It’s just way too much to explain over the phone, can’t I just tell you when you get back?” 

She hesitantly obliges, but forces you into staying on the line with her until she gets off the hotel elevator onto your floor. You can tell she’s been worrying her ass off when she walks into the living room of the penthouse, eyes wide, pupils dilated and breathing labored. 

“Now,” she breathes loudly, “care to explain what the actual hell is going on?” 

You scooch over, patting the cushion next to you, and Elle sits down, gaze worrying at your teary eyes and confused face. 

You bite your bottom lip, wondering if showing her would be easier than explaining. You know she’d seen the lengthy piece of ink on your wrist before at work, but you’d explained to her that you were just an error in the universe’s system. Certainly, no one in existence, even someone with the largest imagination, would deduce that you had seven famous soulmates. 

“Just- look.” You breathe out, deciding on ‘fuck it,’ and shoving your armsleeve up to your elbow. You twist your wrist, giving Elle a very clear view of the long list of numbers and letters. She takes her time, eyeing all of the black print before looking at you, still confused. 

“Kim Seokjin,” you point towards the first set of initials, “born on December 4, 1992.” You point to the corresponding date. She knits her brows together, refocusing on the puzzle on your arm.

“Min Yoongi,” you point again, “March 9, 1993.” 

“Jung Hoseok,” she whispers in awe. “Kim Namjoon, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Jeon Jungkook… Holy shit.” 

“And now you see my dilemma.” You conclude, cocooning further into the giant hoodie you’d shrugged into once you got back to the suite. “I always thought that this,” you wave your left arm around dramatically, “was just a sign that I was pretty much condemned to isolation. But, nope! I’ve got seven fucking soulmates and they’re all ridiculously famous. How the hell is any of that supposed to work?” 

“Wait,” Elle stops your monologue, “does this mean that they’re all each other’s soulmates? Or is it just your initials and birthdate on their wrists? Or…” she starts, “maybe nothing of yours is on their wrists.” 

“Well-”

“No! Because Jimin and Yoongi looked like two fish out of water when you told them your name, and the rest of them looked the same after I’d told them your birthday.” She explains. 

“So we can assume that my initials are on their arms?” You question aloud. “I don’t know if I want to jump to that conclusion yet.” You huff, “This all just seems so… ridiculous? I don’t understand how I’d end up with BTS as my soulmate, or is it soulmates? I didn’t think you could even have more than one!” 

“It’s not unheard of,” Elle tells you. “My great-grandmother had both her first husband’s and second husband’s initials and birthdates.” 

“Yeah, but those are two people,” you say, remembering when she’d told you of her great-grandmother. It’d been on a work trip some months back, if you remember correctly. “I have seven people tattooed across my wrist. And I didn’t plan on marrying seven times.” 

“Maybe you don’t have to.” Elle reasons, “We don’t know how their relationship works. We don’t know if they’re just working together or if they’re something more. We don’t know how many initials they have on their arms. They cover them with makeup before every public appearance they make.” 

“I guess you’re right…” You grumble. “I just don’t understand. Why me?” You ask no one in particular. 

“Maybe you’ve got enough moxie for seven guys,” Elle jokes, nudging you playfully. “C’mon, Y/N. You’re hot! A complete catch. Why shouldn’t you have seven devastatingly attractive men pining for your affections?” 

You roll your eyes, groaning at the thought of seven fully grown men trying to get your attention. “It’s a headache waiting to happen,” you tell her, rubbing your temples. 

Both of you jump when Elle’s phone rings. You look at her, confusion running amok through your mind. She shrugs, answering the call with a smooth ‘hello.’ 

“Oh! Hi!” Elle chirps, mouthing ‘Big Hit’ to you. “Ah, that’s so generous of them!” She smiles, “Yes, of course. Nerves can get to anyone,” she points a glance at you. “Tomorrow? That works!” Pause. “Thank you so much, I can’t express how much we appreciate this opportunity.” 

She taps off the call, turning to you immediately with a blinding smile. 

“The boys worked their magic and have told Big Hit not to file a complaint over your work manners,” she laughs, “and they’d like to meet up again tomorrow for a rerun. At a restaurant they’re having rented out!” She squeals.

“They’re renting out a restaurant?” You cough out, completely taken aback. “And they stopped a formal complaint from being filed?”

“They’re your knights in shining Gucci tuxedos.” Elle laughs.  

“Not funny…” You snap. “That’s too much to expect from them…” you sigh.

“You didn’t expect anything,” Elle reasons, “they’re being nice, and honestly? They might be trying to break the ice.” 

“What ice?” You groan, offended at her cliché wording.

“You know, the awkwardness that today probably blew up like a helium balloon. You did literally sprint out of the interview after Hoseok mentioned being an Aquarius.” 

You blush crimson at the reminder, “Thanks for that.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who turned into Usain Bolt during an astrology reading. Not me.” 

“Fuck off!” You shout, throwing a couch pillow at her and hitting her directly in the face.

“Uncalled for,” she whines, hitting you back with it. “You have to go see them.” 

“No, I don’t!” You argue, “I have options. I could flee the country, or the continent! Go home, pack my little townhouse, and move to Alaska.” 

“Alaska?” Elle asks, exasperated. “Really?” 

“It’s far enough away.” You shrug.

“Don’t pull this! You should at least meet with them and see what they think of everything. I’m sure they’re as confused as you are.” Elle chides. 

“Fine!” You shout, standing from the couch and heading for your bedroom, “but don’t be shocked if I’m in a shitty mood in the morning!” 

You hear her laughing as you seclude yourself into your room, the events from the day rendering you beyond exhausted. You let out a big sigh, climbing into your bed and under the covers. You’d be meeting up with the boys for the second time within 24 hours tomorrow. 

You honestly couldn’t tell whether you were excited at the nearing reunion, or completely fucking terrified.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You bolt straight up, cold sweat dripping off your body. You’re confused initially, remembering very vividly how you were drowning a second ago. It takes a few minutes for your body and mind to adjust, the realization that you were dreaming slowly resounding in your mind, slowing your breathing, and calming your racing heartbeat. Your fingers loosen their vice-like hold on the silken sheets beneath your trembling body.

You were in Seoul, and you’d landed, you glance at the clock on the bedside table, roughly 7 hours ago. The number ‘7’ lights up in bold script behind your eyelids. 7 soulmates. BTS.

Your mind whirls through the damn near delusional happenings of the day before, trying to piece together some sort of explanation or resolution to your dilemma, but you come up empty handed. You scoop your phone off the bedside table, immediately opening ‘Google’ and typing in what you assume you should type given your… predicament. 

‘What does it mean to have more than one soulmate?’ glares at you, the brightness of the phone screen only adding to the discomfort you feel when researching such a topic at 5 AM. You turn the blinding graphics down, making a sound you can only compare to a car engine failing to start, as the only search results that pop up are for people who have anywhere from 2-4 sets of initials and birthdates. 

Okay, having 4 was probably frightening, too. You couldn’t be too harsh on Google or the human race for not having dealt with your specific situation. 7 soulmates? You’d never even considered the possibility of such a pairing. 

The same questions Elle had the night before race through your mind as you sit in the hotel bed, at 5 AM, in Seoul, alone.

What if they didn’t have your initials on their arms? What if not all of them had your initials on their arms? What if they were going to make you choose between them?

You felt sick. Sick to your stomach. Not wanting to soil the expensive bed sheets in your room, you rush to the connected bathroom, kneeling pitifully in front of the toilet and emptying your stomach into the porcelain bowl and water below. 

You rest against the cool tile of the floor once the heaving has stopped, hair sticking to your forehead, and your head aching. You reach lamely for a courtesy bathrobe that’s tied to the bathroom door, wrapping it around you like a blanket, and use a pile of hand towels as a makeshift pillow, before falling asleep on the bathroom floor. 

“Are you okay?” Elle shakes you awake, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and eyes wide and worried as she looks at you.

“M’fine.” You grumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Just had a bad dream.” 

“So you fell asleep in the bathroom?” She asks you, confused.

“No, I felt sick when I remembered what happened last night…” You breathe out. 

“Ah,” Elle sighs, “yeah, I can’t imagine what’s going through your head right now.” 

“Too much,” you answer her, slowly sitting up. 

“I’ll make you some breakfast!” She chirps. “That gives you time to get ready for the meeting with the boys later!” 

“Shit, I almost forgot about that. Why’d you have to remind me?” You groan, standing up and grabbing your toothbrush. 

“You need to at least talk to them, Y/N. They saved our asses from possible suspension at work and they clearly want to speak to you about the whole… situation.” She mumbles. “Plus, maybe they’ll tell you some stuff we can use in our articles.” 

“Tell me?” You question her, toothpaste spilling out of your mouth and onto your pajamas. “You’re going with me!” 

“Uh, no. I’m not.” Elle shrugs at your shocked expression, “I don’t need to be there, and frankly I shouldn’t be there. They asked to meet with you, they didn’t ask for me by name as well; and there’s some pretty, er, intimate things they might want to ask you.”

“What?!” You choke, the toothbrush falling from between your lips and into the sink. 

“I don’t mean it like that,” she laughs. “Although that’d make for an interesting read.” She jokes, “I mean, they might want to get to know you personally. Me being there would make things incredibly awkward.” 

“Can’t you at least wait for me close by? You could be my savior if I need to get out of there quickly…” You explain, spitting your toothpaste into the sink and rinsing your mouth. 

She looks ready to protest, but you silence her by placing your hand over her mouth. “I brought you on this trip with me, Elle. Not as a coworker, but as a friend. It’d mean more to me than I could possibly begin to explain if you’d be on standby for me while I’m talking to them.” 

She rolls her eyes at you, but nods her head in agreement. “You owe me, big time.” She scoffs, “Now take a shower, and I’ll make you some breakfast.” 

The woman is true to her word. Once you’re out of the shower, smelling fresh, and dressed decently enough (a cream colored sweater and a new pair of jeans you bought before the trip), she places a massive plate of waffles in front of you. 

“Eat.” She orders, sitting next to you at the kitchen bar, and digging into her own plate.

“I’m nervous,” you explain, poking at your food, but taking a large bite when she eyes you. 

“I don’t blame you at all. Just try not to hyperfocus. Their wanting to meet with you and helping us avoid trouble yesterday speaks volumes. They more than likely just want to talk. Nothing extreme.” 

You nod at her reasoning, thankful that she’s there to at least try and keep you level-headed. 

“I’ll be just a few blocks down,” Elle tells you, the Big Hit driver, Shei, had put up the partition in the SUV, allowing the two of you what little privacy you could have.

“Thank you,” you tell her earnestly, meeting her friendly gaze.

“You’ll be fine,” she reassures you, “they’re really nice guys from what I saw last night.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I feel so stupid.” You groan, curling in on yourself in embarrassment. 

“So you don’t want to hear about how worried they were when you split?” She asks you. You peek through the sleeve of your hoodie, interest rising. “Ah, looks like I’ll have to explain later.” She smiles, “We’re here.” 

You drift your gaze out the window, noting the bodyguards and Big Hit employees trying to blend in with the outside world. The restaurant, as previously discussed, has clearly been rented out. Upon seeing the SUV, one of the Big Hit employees, a woman you haven’t met, sends a signal to Shei. He seems to understand immediately and turns into a nearby alleyway. It takes you a moment to realize that you’d be entering through the back of the eatery. 

“I feel like a sack of drug paraphernalia.” You mope, getting unbuckled and ready to squirm your way out of your seat. You turn to Elle, nerves bubbling. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done here.” You tell her, meaning every word. 

“Sure, sure. Just get in there before a fan sees you and bombards you.” She laughs, nudging you out of the door that Shei has opened for you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble to him, allowing another employee to lead you through the back door. The restaurant itself smells absolutely amazing, you couldn’t even begin to fathom how amazing the food would taste once it touches your taste buds. A few kitchen workers bow to you, and you return the kind gesture, feeling extremely out of place in the pristine kitchen. 

Soon enough, tile floors turn to wooden panels, and you look up to meet some of the eyes you’d run from the night before. Namjoon’s gaze is gentle on you, Jin’s is approving, taking in your figure as you stand before him. Taehyung and Jungkook are too busy playing some sort of napkin game they’ve created to acknowledge your entrance. Hoseok waves enthusiastically, a massive grin split across his bright face. 

Jimin, beautiful as ever, smiles his eye-crinkling smile that has your stomach doing cartwheels within the confines of your body. Yoongi’s eyes are serious on yours, hands fidgeting atop the table they sit at; his hair is hidden beneath a beanie that makes him look more boyish than he did yesterday. 

“Er- hi.” You say awkwardly, waving slightly at the men once you stand in front of their table. 

“Ah!” Jungkook jumps, dropping the napkin-ball once your voice hits his ears. 

“Ha!” Taehyung whoops, jumping in his seat excitedly, “you lost, Kookie!” 

“Can’t you two be normal for once?” Jin asks, shaking his head disapprovingly, but affectionately, at the two youngest members. 

“That’s a ridiculous request, hyung.” Jimin smiles, nudging Jungkook lightly. “Besides, weren’t you playing table football with Kookie and V last week?” 

Jin blushes a rosy red, clearly embarrassed he’d been outed. 

“It’s okay,” you rush to reassure him, not quite understanding your sudden need to alleviate his discomfort, “I still play Nintendogs on my DS.” 

Jin raises his eyebrows at you, along with most of the members, save for Yoongi, who still looks at you with a nervous expression. 

“Isn’t that the game where you can have a Shiba?” Taehyung smiles, “I’ve always wanted one.” 

“That’s the one,” you reply, feeling your own embarrassment flare up as the ridiculously attractive men all keep their gazes on you.

“My friends in school would play those games all of the time,” Jimin smiles, pulling a chair at the head of the table out for you before returning to his seat. “Do you like to play games, Y/N?” He smiles a toothy smile, and if you weren’t a reporter whose life consisted of reading subliminal messages, you wouldn’t have caught the sensual innuendo beyond the question.

“Jimin-ah, let’s not talk about games right now,” Yoongi speaks up, flickering his impassive glance from you, to Jimin, to you again. 

“Yoongi is right,” Namjoon nods. “We were worried last night that you wouldn’t show up.” He explains as you take your seat, keeping your hands in your lap so you don’t fidget too much or too obviously. “Some of us were worried we’d scared you off before we’d even had the chance to properly introduce ourselves. It’s safe to say we’re relieved you’re here.” 

You smile, somewhat consoled, knowing that they’d been nervous, too.

“Is there anything you’d like to eat?” Jin asks, “We’ve ordered 8 servings of rice and vegetable stir-fry already. The chef said it’d be a half hour or so.” 

“Rice and stir-fry sounds great,” you answer him, “could I get a cup of water?” You ask, your throat feeling dry from your ebbing nerves. 

Jin nods his head and goes to retrieve a pitcher of water and some glasses from the kitchen. He pours your drink gingerly, long fingers holding the pitcher with exceptional care.

“From your exit during the interview, we’re assuming you know why we invited you?” Namjoon asks, eyes kindly analyzing your posture.

“I, uh- yeah. I assume it’s about this…” You lift your left hand atop the table and push back the cream-colored fabric, revealing the numbers and letters that haunted you your entire life.

Two of the three maknaes smile once they eye the black ink on your wrist. Taehyung and Jimin looked to be far more comfortable in the situation than Jungkook, who still resembled a deer caught in the headlights. 

Hoseok makes a noise similar to a pelican, rounding the table and showing you his wrist. The letters and numbers are all the same as yours, save for one. Where you had his initials and birthdate, he had yours. 

“Show her,” Hoseok chastises his team, waiting for them all to mimic his actions. 

They do. You’re shocked as you realize with finality that you had 7 soulmates, and so did they. 

Whereas most people had another half, or third, and rarely a fourth, of their soul waiting for them inside someone else, you and the seven men in front of you had each other.

“I can’t believe we’re finally meeting you,” Taehyung smiles, hugging you to him. 

“Taehyung-ah, give her a minute.” Jin orders. 

You’re thankful he does. You weren’t disappointed in the men huddled around your dining chair, far from it, in fact. You did, however, feel the room closing in on you. 

“I just need a second…” You explain, rising to your feet, “Excuse me.” You bow to them, excusing yourself to the bathroom. 

Hardly recognizing the pale woman who stares back at you in the mirror, you douse your face with cold water from the sink, appreciating the relief it provides your heated and muted skin. You give yourself a while, not wanting to overexert your emotions and head back into the room quite yet. 

The air is cooler in the bathroom, anyway, and easier for you to breathe. You pull your phone from your back pocket, ready to text Elle and ask her to pick you up, but you glance at yourself in the mirror again, seeing the way that color is returning to your face and your breathing has regulated itself. You could do this.

Shoving your phone back in the confines of your jeans, you push the bathroom door open. The boys wait for you at the table, all of them quiet and anticipating your return. Taehyung catches your eye, his expression regretful and dejected. 

“I’m sorry I hugged you like that,” he tells you, voice radiating his honesty like a heater, “I just got so excited to finally know that you were real.” He explains, “The thought of you being uncomfortable didn’t occur to me. I’m so used to having the hyungs around, and being able to express everything that I forgot you didn’t have any of us to express yourself to growing up.” 

“It’s okay, Taehyung,” you tell him, meaning the words from the bottom of your heart. “I just get very anxious when new things blindside me.” 

He smiles at your acceptance of his apology, boxy features warming your heart. 

“So, how long have you all known about this?” You ask, pointing to your wrist.

“Since we banded together,” Namjoon answers. “It’s actually one of the main reasons we decided to debut.” He shrugs, “When I met Yoongi-hyung at a BigHit meeting and he saw my wrist, it was like I wasn’t alone anymore.” 

Yoongi smiles a gummy smile, looking at Namjoon. “I felt the same way,” he agrees, “growing up was difficult. I was ashamed of my marks and hid them. I thought they meant I’d never have a successful relationship. But when I saw Joon at the meeting, and he had his sleeves rolled up without a care to give… I just saw my initials and the rest we share, and I didn’t feel empty anymore. There was someone I could connect to.” 

“And then Hoseok showed up, loud and energetic,” Namjoon laughs. The man in question smiles, blush creeping its way onto his face. “We were both shocked,” he signals to Yoongi. “The chances of us meeting each other were slim enough, but a third showing up? It was crazy.” 

“You guys would have been lost without me,” Hoseok groans, “you’re both so messy.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes, and Namjoon laughs. “Once Jin signed on, we kind of just let the rest play out. Figured that if luck stayed on our side, we wouldn’t need to look for ourselves.” Namjoon explains. “It was pretty smooth sailing for a while. Jungkook signed on, and then V. Jimin was last.” Jimin smiles at the mention of his name. “We only had one more person to wait for.” 

“After ‘Wings’ was released, we kind of lost hope,” Jin adds. “We thought maybe you weren’t real. We’d met people with your initials, but when we asked when their birthdays were, we got nothing.” 

You nod your head, “I grew up in Washington, went to college in California, and then moved to New York for work.” You tell them, grateful that they provide you with their undivided attention. “You know where I work, so there’s no need to explain that. There’s actually not much to explain, really. I move around a lot for reporting gigs, so I don’t have time for friends and stuff.” 

They look saddened by that, and your heart pangs in response. “It’s okay,” you reassure, “my life has been full of amazing experiences and opportunities because of my work.” 

“It sounds like it’s held you back, too…” Jungkook says, voice heavy with concern. 

“Only socially.” You reply, “I have a decent home and enough money to keep me going.” 

“Have you dated?” Jimin asks.

“Jimin-ah!” Jin scolds him, flicking his forehead. 

“It’s okay!” You tell him, “It’s a fair question. I haven’t seriously dated anyone. I’ve casually dated, though.” You explain. “Once it turns towards serious conversations and ‘what are we’s,’ I book it.” 

Jimin thinks over your answer, enamored by the casual way you gave it. 

“If we had known, we would have reached out,” Namjoon confesses, turning the conversation back towards the elephant in the room.

“If anything, I’m to blame,” you laugh. “You guys are globally famous, your names are everywhere, so are your birth dates. If I had paid more attention, we might have met sooner…” You trail off.

“Don’t blame yourself!” Hoseok consoles you, eyes unwavering as they convey his sincerity to you. “We’re meeting each other now, and that’s good enough for us.” 

You smile at his reassurance, appreciating how wholesome and bright he truly is with finality. 

“Thank you, Hoseok.” You tell him gently. 

He nearly transforms into the heart-eye emoji at you saying his name, his features softening immensely and leaving a dopey grin on his face. Jimin pats Hoseok’s shoulder, shining his crinkly-eyed smile at the older man.

“How are you feeling about all of this?” Yoongi asks, big brown eyes looking at yours with concern, the first discernible emotion you’ve seen on him since entering the room. It nearly knocks the wind out of you. The softness of his face mixed with the molten emotion beyond his eyes renders you wordless. 

“Erm-” you gape. “I, uh- I’m definitely still shocked, but I feel more at ease now,” you manage to push the words out of your mouth. “It’s way more comforting knowing that I’m not just a glitch in the system.” 

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I always thought that I was meant to be alone,” you shrug. 

“But you have the mark,” he cocks his head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen someone with my extent of it.” You explain, “typically people have one or two initials and birth dates on their wrist. I have seven. I figured that maybe I was just a reject.” 

He looks saddened by your explanation, “Well, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, Y/N! You’re not alone.” Jimin smiles. 

“You have us,” Taehyung adds, putting an arm around Jimin and Jungkook each.

“I also live in America,” you remind them, sipping at the water Jin had poured you earlier. “I can’t just leave my job and my home to come to Korea.” 

“Would you ever be open to the idea?” Namjoon asks.

You sit on the question for a minute, deliberating in your mind the pros and cons. The cons were intimidating. You would have to leave the job you worked so hard for, you’d leave behind your family, you’d leave behind Elle, and you’d be starting all over on a new continent. The pros, however… You could rebuild, make a new family because you weren’t around your biological family much anyway, you could still visit Elle and FaceTime her every day…

But you were getting ahead of yourself.

“I might consider it some day,” you answer Namjoon, noting the relief that fills every single member’s eyes. “But that’d be down the road a ways,” you add, “it’s not something I could just do at the drop of a hat.” 

The men nod, understanding and appreciating your answer. You don’t bother asking them the same, you know their love for their country and the people in it. It was visceral, unwavering, and stronger than any fan-artist connection you’d seen, ever. It’d be selfish to ask them to leave their livelihoods. They could still make music in America, but the emotions behind the music? The reason for making it? The heart of BTS would always remain in Korea. 

“We have another question to ask,” Jimin speaks up. You look at him and nod, giving him the go-ahead. “Well, you see, we were wondering if any of the initials on your wrist look different to you? Like maybe one seems thicker or darker?” He asks.

You furrow your brows, confused, but raise your left sleeve again and really look at the bold lettering. The food arrives as you examine your wrist, the waiter delicately placing your meal on the table in front of you.

Sure enough, a lettered pairing does stick out from the rest. You’re at a complete loss as to why you hadn’t noticed it before. You’d spent hours upon hours of your life glaring at the ink. How were you only just realizing the imperfection permanently etched atop your skin now that Jimin mentioned it? 

“Yeah…” You breathe out, looking at Jimin's waiting gaze. “I’ve never noticed it before.” 

“It’s pretty microscopic,” Namjoon explains. “It’s only really noticeable once someone addresses it.”

“That’s strange…” You murmur, looking back at your wrist. The letters only seem to have grown bolder, nearly looking italicised now that more time has passed. “It looks more bold now…” You explain, meeting the eyes of the man the bulkier text belongs to. 

He looks back at you, eyes softening as they look into yours. 

“Are mine thicker for you?” You ask him. 

“They are.” He replies. 

“What does it mean?” You ask Namjoon. 

“Well, we hunted down a woman in Daegu, she calls herself a ‘reader.’ She was pretty difficult to find, but Big Hit helped us. She specializes in the marks, has books upon books on them. She told us that there have only been a handful of cases like ours,” he tells you, “and that the bold initials are present every time. She said that the bold initials signify the strongest bond within the soulmates. For me, my strongest bond is with Hoseok.” He looks to the cheery man beside him. “As his is mine.” 

“What does that mean for you and the others?” You ask him, taking a bite of your stir-fry. 

“We’re all still soulmates,” he answers. “Nothing will ever change that. Hoseok and I just connected on a deeper level. It doesn’t mean we’re more intimate with each other, it doesn’t even mean we love each other more than we love any of you,” he motions towards everyone at the table. “It just means we’re closest with each other on a spiritual level. He’s like my twin flame. I think that’s what Americans call it sometimes.” 

You’re not unfamiliar with the terminology, but you never considered it true. You thought it was just an excuse for people to seek other relationships when they had a soulmate, or an excuse for some soulmates to be excessively smitten with each other. 

“Do you all have twin flames?” You ask the remaining members. They all nod. 

“Mine is Kookie,” Tae smiles. 

“And mine is V,” Jungkook replies. 

“Mine is Jimin,” Jin tells you. Jimin nods, “and mine is Jin,” he adds. 

“And you’re mine,” Yoongi tells you, eyes still soft and warm on yours. You flush under his direct gaze, turning into a melting pot of emotions. 

“How long have my initials been bold?” You ask him, voice wavering from the force of emotion that’s threatening to crack you open. 

“Since our debut,” he replies, taking a drink of his water. Full lips pressing against the fogged glass of the cup sinfully. He takes your ogling as a mere loss for words, “you’re here now, though. That’s all that matters.” 

You snap out of your reverie and realize that had you not been smitten by the way he drank his water, you most definitely would have been apologizing for taking so long to show up. 

“Even so, I’m still sorry for taking years to find you guys.” You tell them all, tearing your gaze from Yoongi’s soul-stirring one to address the rest of the members, your soulmates. “I do have a question, and I don’t want it to come off as rude.” 

“I’m sure it won’t,” Namjoon reassures you.

“Well, I was just wondering why you guys hide your marks? Elle said you guys cover them for interviews and public outings.” 

“We do,” he answers, “we didn’t want to go public with anything unless we had to, at least, not until you were here. We didn’t want to make any decisions unless we all had a say in them, especially given our careers.” 

You nod thoughtfully, appreciating his answer and the meaning behind it.

“That’s thoughtful of you all,” you say, smiling as you look to each of them. “Thank you.” 

They smile back. 

“If you guys want to go public with it, I’m fine with that. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” You explain.

“Are you sure?” Jungkook asks, eyes and voice full of concern.

“We could cover your initials for now,” Jin suggests, “you are the youngest of us, so it wouldn’t be a hassle. And we could uncover it once everything’s more secure? For instance, if you move here?” 

You run over the option in your head, seeing no direct harm that could come from doing so. 

“That might be a better option,” you agree, “would that make you uncomfortable, Yoongi?” You ask him, concerned that it might cause your twin flame even an ounce of discomfort. 

“No,” he answers, and you can tell from the look in his eyes that he means it. “As long as you’re safe and happy, we’re fine with doing whatever we need to.” 

You melt at his words, finding immense comfort in them. It’d only been an hour of you being with them, and you’re already feeling an immense relief. Was this what it felt like to be around your soulmates? Was this what you’d been missing out on? 

You couldn’t even begin to fathom the difficulty Elle and Cam had when they were around each other. BTS had been in your company for not even a day, and you could already feel a gravitational pull towards them, anchoring you to them in a way that left you feeling complete. 

“Thank you,” you tell Yoongi, grinning at the flush that spreads across his full cheeks at your praise. “Thank you, all.” You tell the rest of them, your appreciation seeping through your very pores. “I can’t begin to express to you how much it means to me knowing you all support me so much already.” 

They smile at you, taken by your words. You can feel the mood in the room lift substantially, and you thank the heavens above for allowing this brunch to go so much better than originally planned. 

The rest of the food is devoured quickly by the eight of you, and it feels like all of 10 minutes have passed before the food is gone, and Elle is calling you nonstop. You reluctantly tell them you have to go, heart aching at the drop in their expressions at your announcement. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow! At the show!” You tell them, texting Elle to have Shei come get you. Their expressions brighten slightly, but you can still see that they don’t want you to go.

“How about this? I’ll give you guys my personal number, and we can start a group chat. Plan some hangouts and see where that takes us?” 

They nod enthusiastically, pulling their phones out and quickly inputting your information into their contact lists. You can feel your phone vibrating in your back pocket at least 10 times as you say your goodbyes and thanks. 

You bow to them, following the waiter out of the restaurant through the kitchen and into the back alleyway. Elle and Shei are waiting in the SUV, and Elle pounces on you as soon as you step foot into the large vehicle. 

“You are telling me everything when we get back to the hotel.” She orders, you’re about to object, but she covers your mouth with her hand, “Nope. That’s my payment for not getting a single update from you in two and a half hours.” 

You roll your eyes and mumble a ‘whatever,’ but her hand blocks out any sense you might have made. She laughs at you, finally pulling her hand away. 

“Did you have a good time at least?” She asks.

“It actually went really well.” You answer, blush rising. You turn towards your window, watching the scenery pass by, when you receive another text. 

You pull out your phone, unlocking the screen and entering your texting app. 

8 unread conversations greet your eyes. 7 singular text chains, and one group text. 

The first text you’d received in the restaurant is a simple ‘hi’ that’s signed ‘Jungkook.’ 

The next is longer. 

‘Hello, jagiya! It’s Taehyung!’ A purple heart sits at the end of the sentence. 

‘Worldwide Handsome here, checking in on his beautiful soulmate. Xxx Jin’ The next reads.

‘Y/Nie! It’s Hoseok! Text us when you get to your hotel safely! We had fun today :)’ 

‘Hello, Jagi!!!! Jimin here ;) We miss u already xxx’

‘Hi, Y/N. It’s Namjoon. Make sure to save our numbers so you don’t think we’re strangers texting you all the time. I’ll set up a group chat after I send this. :-)’ 

‘Hey, it’s Yoongi. Your twin flame.’ You smile at that, noting that he’s sent another since then. ‘You obviously know that, please disregard that message… oh, and check the group chat.’

You do as you’re told, and smile at your phone. There are introductions, but what sticks out most to you is the picture of you and Yoongi gazing at each other at the table. Judging by the angle, Jungkook or Taehyung must have taken it. It’s flattering and captures the ambience of the early afternoon. 

You hug your phone to your chest, emotion flowing through you hotly. You reply to the texts and follow Namjoon’s advice and save their numbers. The group chat goes crazy after you reply, Taehyung and Jin spamming it with animated gifs, and Jimin sending a few selfies. 

You don’t miss the pointed glance Elle sends your way as she watches your face dance with happy emotions during the car ride home. 

Typically, you’d snap at her in embarrassment, but the happiness and complete full-feeling you’re experiencing now prevent you from feeling anything short of euphoric.

English had gotten you through school. Japanese had gotten you your first internship. Korean had gotten you promoted.

It turned out Americans loved international stars right up until a translator entered the room. Then suddenly the interview lost its spark, its rhythm, its intimacy. Executives hated that. Your boss had seen that. She’d looked at your résumé, all but salivated over the “fluently speaks three languages” bullet point, and hired you before the coffee in your paper cup had gone cold.

So yes, your job was glamorous. It paid well. It gave you stories no one in your family could even pretend not to be impressed by.

It also ate your life alive.

Your friends from college had stopped asking if you were free months ago. Holidays happened without you. Your mother had started looking at your schedule like it was something terminal.

“You’ll never find your soulmate if the only thing you care about is your work,” she’d snapped six months ago, standing in the doorway of her townhouse with her arms crossed.

You’d laughed because crying would’ve been worse.

“I found them already, Mom,” you’d said. “My work is my soulmate.”

A lie. A good one, though.

Because the truth was uglier.

Everyone was born with their soulmate’s initials and birthdate inked on the inside of their left wrist, neat black script like fate had signed its name. Some people had one. Rarely, two. Once, in an article you’d hate-read in a waiting room, you’d seen a woman with four.

You had seven.

Fourteen letters. Twenty-eight numbers. A miserable, impossible string you’d memorized by the time you were ten and learned to resent by twelve.

K.S. M.Y. J.H. K.N. P.J. K.T. J.J.

12.4.92. 3.9.93. 2.18.94. 9.12.94. 10.13.95. 12.30.95. 9.1.97.

Every doctor who’d ever seen it had gone quiet.

Every date who’d ever noticed it had stared too long.

And every year that passed without an explanation made it easier to believe the same thing: that you were some clerical error in the universe. A cosmic typo with a press badge.

“Y/N! Thank God.”

Elle practically body-checked you the second you stepped into the office Monday morning.

You stumbled, laughed despite yourself, and caught her by the elbows. “Good morning to you too, psycho.”

She grinned, all bright lipstick and caffeine-fueled chaos. “I finished editing your BLACKPINK interview. It’ll be live in a couple of hours.”

“That’s amazing.” You slipped your bag from your shoulder and gave her a pointed look. “How much coffee have you had?”

Her smile widened. “Enough.”

“Terrifying answer.”

Elle followed you into your office anyway, chattering while you booted up your computer, set your coffee down, and tried not to think about the ache that always followed weekends. She had a gift for filling silence, for making your life feel inhabited even when it wasn’t.

That was probably why her next sentence hit you harder than it should have.

“Did you hear BTS is doing a mini-tour before their break?”

You glanced up. “No.”

“Well.” She rocked back on her heels. “No one’s been assigned yet, but if the office covers it…”

You narrowed your eyes. “Elle.”

“If you get sent, will you ask Powell if I can go with you?”

There it was.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “You know we don’t always get to pick our co-writers.”

“Andrew does.”

Of course Andrew did.

You rubbed your temple. “If there is a story, and if I get it, and if Powell lets me choose, I’ll ask.”

Elle made a noise so high-pitched it probably cracked glass somewhere on the twenty-sixth floor.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you warned.

“Never,” she lied.

Four hours later, after one finished follow-up piece, three coffees, and an entirely unnecessary email from Andrew copied to half the editorial staff, Powell called you upstairs.

Andrew was already in her office when you got there, sitting stiff in his chair with the expression of a man prepared to be deeply irritating.

“Thanks for joining us,” he muttered.

You smiled thinly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Powell ignored both of you. “M-Buzz has secured coverage for BTS’s Persona tour in South Korea. Interview access included.”

Your pulse kicked once, hard.

Andrew straightened. You sat still.

“We only need one lead reporter,” Powell continued. “Initially, I considered letting the two of you decide who that would be.”

Andrew made the fatal mistake of opening his mouth.

“With all due respect,” he said, “sending Y/N with me would be redundant.”

Powell looked at him for a long moment.

Then she turned to you.

“Pack a bag. You leave in three days.”

Andrew’s jaw went tight so fast you almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, you folded your hands in your lap and kept your face neutral while Powell continued rifling through the stack of papers on her desk like she hadn’t just detonated the room.

“You’ll be in Seoul for one week before the tour moves on to Daegu and Busan,” she said. “Hotels are covered. Transportation is covered. Big Hit has offered on-site assistance for all press obligations. You’ll do one sit-down interview the night you arrive, then coverage from there.”

You nodded once, the logistics settling over you slower than the reality of the trip itself.

Seoul. BTS. Three weeks.

Andrew let out a sharp, disbelieving breath through his nose. “You’re serious.”

Powell looked up over the rim of her glasses. “Very.”

“With respect, I’ve been covering political and entertainment crossover pieces for the past year. I’m the better fit.”

“No,” Powell said. “Y/N is.”

It was the casual certainty of it that made something ugly flash across his face.

You stood before he could say anything else. “I’ll do the job well.”

“I’m counting on it,” Powell replied, then waved one manicured hand. “You can bring one junior staffer. Pick someone competent.”

That part came easy.

“Elle.”

Powell nodded. “Fine. HR will send the itinerary by the end of the day.”

The meeting was over, but Andrew clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.

He waited until you were out in the hall, until Powell’s door shut behind you, until the elevator dinged uselessly at the far end of the corridor.

Then he stepped into your path.

“What exactly is your problem?” you asked, because his expression had crossed too far over the line from irritated coworker to actively unhinged.

“My problem?” he echoed, laughing once without humor. “You waltz in here at twenty-one with your little genius act and suddenly everyone thinks you’re the future of the company.”

You stared at him. “I waltzed in?”

He ignored that.

“I’ve spent years building credibility here.”

“So have I.”

“No,” he snapped. “You’ve built novelty.”

That one landed harder than you wanted it to. Not because you believed him, but because it was the kind of insult people only used when they’d run out of cleaner ones. Girl. Young. Languages. Pretty enough to be memorable on camera. To men like Andrew, that all translated to gimmick.

You crossed your arms. “If you want to complain, do it to Powell.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“Well, that’s your first mistake.”

His nostrils flared.

For one ridiculous second, you thought he might actually get louder in the middle of the thirtieth floor hallway like a cartoon villain with a press badge, but when he spoke again his voice dropped instead.

“I worked my ass off for this position,” he said. “I’m not letting some up-and-coming little floozy ruin that for me.”

The word sat between you both like something rotten.

You blinked once.

Then twice.

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

Andrew stepped back, as if he’d surprised even himself, but whatever shame might’ve followed never made it to his face.

“Watch your back,” he muttered. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Then he turned and stalked toward the stairwell, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.

A beat later the elevator doors slid open behind you.

“Did I miss murder?” Elle asked as she stepped out holding two iced coffees and an expression of pure nosy delight.

You turned slowly to face her.

“I got the BTS assignment.”

The coffees shook in her hands. “Shut up.”

“And Andrew just called me a floozy.”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I need both more and less information immediately.”

By lunch, she’d extracted the entire story from you over ramen, gasping at all the right parts and loudly vowing to key Andrew’s car despite not knowing what his car looked like.

You laughed in spite of yourself, and that was the end of your composure for the day.

Because once the shock wore off, the work started.

Three days to prep for an international assignment.

Three days to build questions, review tour materials, go over performance coverage, coordinate with HR, ignore your mother’s three missed calls, and figure out how to spend nearly a month in another country without losing your mind.

The busyness should’ve drowned everything else out.

Instead, late that first night, long after the office had emptied and the fluorescent lights had started to hum overhead, your attention drifted back to your wrist.

K.S. M.Y. J.H. K.N. P.J. K.T. J.J.

The letters looked no different than they had that morning.

Still foreign. Still impossible. Still there.

You’d made peace with the possibility that they didn’t mean anything years ago, or at least something close to peace. A wary truce. You worked, you traveled, you ignored the looks people gave you when they caught sight of the ink, and in return the universe left you alone.

Mostly.

But that night, for reasons you couldn’t explain, you found yourself tracing the letters with your thumb.

K.S.

M.Y.

J.H.

It was stupid, you told yourself. Pathetic, even.

There were millions of people in the world. Initials repeated. Birthdays repeated. Fate, if it existed, had a sick sense of humor.

Still, you pulled your laptop closer and opened the folder where you’d started compiling background notes on BTS.

Just in case.

You hated yourself a little for it.

Two days later, you and Elle boarded a flight to Seoul.

She was insufferable from the second you hit your seats.

“I’m serious,” she said, already halfway through the airline’s complimentary wine. “If Jimin makes eye contact with me, I may actually pass away.”

“You say that like it would inconvenience me.”

“It would. I’m your co-writer.”

“You’re my liability.”

She clutched a hand to her chest. “Cruel.”

You smiled faintly and opened your notebook, grateful when the cabin lights dimmed enough to discourage conversation.

By the time you landed, your eyes burned from lack of sleep and your neck ached from the angle you’d spent ten hours pretending was comfortable. You’d managed some rest, but not enough to feel human, and the combination of jet lag and nerves made everything feel half a second removed from reality.

Seoul hit you all at once anyway.

The lights.

The traffic.

The sharp coolness of the air outside the airport.

The sense of being somewhere fully alive.

“It’s beautiful,” Elle breathed, staring out the taxi window as the city rushed past.

“It is,” you admitted.

And it was.

Seoul looked electric. Sleek glass and neon, narrow streets opening into wider avenues, signs you could read flickering by in a rush of color. If you hadn’t been running on caffeine fumes and professional dread, you might’ve let yourself enjoy it more.

The hotel made that difficult too.

“This is not a hotel,” Elle said reverently as the taxi pulled up to the curb. “This is a threat.”

You snorted.

But she wasn’t wrong.

The building rose up in polished glass and gold-toned accents, all expensive restraint and quiet power. Inside, it was worse: marble floors, enormous floral arrangements, staff who looked like they’d been trained never to blink too hard in the presence of wealthy people.

You and Elle rode the elevator up in silence, too tired and too stunned to fill it.

Then the doors opened onto the top floor.

There were only two doors in the hallway.

Your room was the one at the end.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Elle whispered as you stepped inside. “There is no world in which M-Buzz paid for this out of pocket.”

You didn’t answer right away.

The suite was obscene.

A real kitchen. A sitting room bigger than your apartment back in New York. floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. White marble countertops, pale walls, dark wine-red accents, a dining table set for four for no apparent reason.

And one bedroom.

One.

You turned slowly to look at Elle.

“She told me one room, two beds.”

Elle opened a door, then another. “Well. She technically got the first half right.”

The bedroom beyond was all dark walls and silk bedding and a bed the size of a small country.

You laughed once in disbelief. “What the hell?”

“We’re sleeping diagonally and respecting nothing.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And correct.”

Ordinarily, the absurdity of it all would’ve loosened the tightness in your chest.

Instead, it only made the next part feel sharper.

Because you had barely an hour before your first interview.

You showered quickly, changed into your black pencil skirt and pastel blouse, smoothed lavender oil at your throat and wrists to quiet your pulse, and reapplied your makeup with the kind of focus that bordered on ritual.

By the time you emerged from the bathroom, Elle was sitting by the door in a fitted cardigan and skirt, one leg bouncing.

“You look incredible,” she said.

“So do you.”

“That won’t save me if I embarrass myself in front of seven internationally famous men.”

“I’ll list you as a workplace casualty.”

“You’d miss me.”

“Deeply. For at least six business days.”

She grinned, but it faded the second she got a good look at your face.

“You’re doing the thing.”

You stilled. “What thing?”

“The pre-interview spiral.”

“I am not spiraling.”

She raised a brow.

You exhaled. “Maybe lightly corkscrewing.”

“Y/N.”

“I know.”

It was annoying that she knew you this well.

Worse that she was right.

You always got like this before interviews that mattered. It didn’t matter how many you’d already done, how many major names sat in your portfolio, how often people told you that you were good at this. There was always a point beforehand where confidence curdled into nerves and your mind went from sharp to carnivorous.

What if you asked the wrong question.

What if your Korean slipped.

What if your English came off too stiff.

What if you overprepared.

What if you underprepared.

What if—

“You’re going to walk in there,” Elle said, stepping closer, “and turn into Interview Y/N, who is terrifying and charming and annoyingly good at getting people to talk. So enough.”

You looked at her, then smiled despite yourself.

“You’re bossy.”

“You brought me because I’m useful.”

“That is not why I brought you.”

Her expression softened.

You glanced away first. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

The SUV outside the hotel had your name printed on a card in the front window.

Your driver introduced himself in polite Korean, and you thanked him in the same language, which earned you a quick surprised smile in the rearview mirror.

“The Big Hit building is not far,” he told you as he pulled into traffic.

You translated for Elle automatically, then fell quiet as the city slipped by.

The sun had fully gone down now. Seoul glowed.

A thought came to you then—unwanted and strange.

If your soulmates existed, if those letters on your wrist meant anything at all, then statistically speaking they could be anywhere. In this city. Back in New York. In some tiny town in Norway. Dead, even. Married. Lost. Missing you without knowing they were.

The feeling that followed was so sudden it made you sit straighter.

Grief, maybe.

Or anticipation.

You couldn’t tell.

“Do you think they’re as hot in real life?” Elle asked, because of course she did.

You snorted. “Astounding professionalism.”

“I’m asking as a journalist.”

“You’re asking as a menace.”

She didn’t deny it.

The SUV turned down a broad drive lined with glass and light.

“There it is,” Elle whispered.

Big Hit rose ahead of you, all clean lines and reflective surfaces. It looked less like an office building and more like something designed by people who wanted the future to feel expensive.

Your driver opened the door for you. You stepped out, smoothed your skirt once, and followed a young staffer through the entrance and down into a waiting room bright enough to expose every flaw a person had ever had.

Then you saw them.

Seven men scattered across chairs and couches in jewel tones against a washed-white room.

And for one completely idiotic second, your brain offered up nothing.

Not because you hadn’t prepared.

Not because you didn’t recognize them.

Just because they were, inconveniently, unfairly beautiful.

One of them—black hair, bright smile, sunshine practically radiating off him—straightened immediately.

Another, broad-shouldered and composed, watched you with sharp intelligence.

A blond man with full lips and perfect posture leaned forward with open curiosity.

A pretty one in a bandana looked delighted before you’d even spoken.

The youngest-looking among them smiled so wide it nearly undid you on impact.

The pink-haired one looked at you like he knew something.

And the last—

The last sat slightly apart, dressed in darker colors, his gaze steady and unreadable and somehow the hardest one to meet.

You swallowed.

Then you smiled.

“Hello,” you said, because thankfully professionalism could survive almost anything. “My name is Y/N L/N. I’m a reporter with M-Buzz out of Manhattan.”

A few of them looked politely blank.

Right. English.

You repeated the introduction in Korean.

That changed everything.

It was subtle at first. A lift in posture. A flicker of surprise. Interest sharpening into something much harder to name.

“Woah,” the sunshine one said immediately, grinning. “You’re fluent?”

“Hoseok,” the broad-shouldered one murmured, though he looked amused more than reprimanding.

You smiled. “Enough to embarrass myself less thoroughly.”

That got a laugh.

The introductions began after that, and you were grateful for the routine of it. Names. Bows. Smiles. The familiar rhythm of meeting public figures in a controlled environment.

Hoseok was warm first.

Then Namjoon, all measured charm.

Then Seokjin, handsome and aware of it.

Taehyung, bright-eyed and curious.

Jungkook, shy under the confidence.

Jimin, sweet-faced and harder to read than he wanted people to think.

And finally Yoongi, who only dipped his head slightly and said his name like you were supposed to do something with it.

The interview started clean.

Favorite songs. Tour nerves. Creative growth. What they were hoping fans took from this era of music. You eased into it the way you always did, nerves burning off in the face of momentum. Your questions found their pace. The members relaxed. Elle settled into note-taking beside one of the cameras.

It was good.

Better than good.

And then you made the mistake of feeling comfortable.

“For this next portion,” you said, glancing at your notes, “I thought it might be fun to go in age order and talk a little about your astrology signs. Fans always love hearing how groups fit together personality-wise.”

That earned immediate reaction.

“Dinosaur Jin,” Taehyung said under his breath.

Seokjin looked offended on principle. “I’m twenty-six.”

“Ancient,” Jungkook agreed solemnly.

You laughed, and Seokjin pointed at you like this was somehow your fault.

“Fine,” he said. “Me first.”

You lowered your pen to the page.

“When’s your birthday?”

“December fourth, 1992.”

Your pen stopped moving.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to clock it.

Just enough for you to feel it.

12.4.92.

The numbers appeared in your mind so clearly it was like someone had written them against the backs of your eyes.

No.

No, that meant nothing.

Lots of people had birthdays. Lots of people existed. You forced a smile.

“So you’re a Sagittarius,” you said, and your voice sounded almost normal. “Fire sign. Ruled by Jupiter.”

Seokjin grinned. “As it should be.”

Everybody laughed.

You looked back at your notes.

The letters on your wrist burned under your sleeve.

“Who’s next?” you asked.

“Yoongi-hyung,” someone supplied.

Yoongi was already looking at you.

Not casually.

Not curiously.

Looking.

You tried to ignore the way it sent a warning shot straight through your ribs.

“And your birthday?” you asked.

A beat.

Then: “March ninth, 1993.”

The room blurred at the edges.

3.9.93.

Your fingers went cold.

The sound of the cameras. The lights. The scrape of fabric as someone shifted in their chair. It all seemed to pull farther away from you at once.

No, no, no.

That still didn’t mean—

Hoseok.

You needed Hoseok.

He was next in age. He had to be next.

If he gave any other date, this whole insane flicker of panic would collapse in on itself and you could laugh later about how jet lag had almost made you lose your mind during a BTS interview.

You looked at him too fast.

He blinked, smile faltering slightly.

“Hoseok?”

“My birthday?” he asked.

You nodded.

“February eighteenth, 1994.”

The air left your lungs.

J.H. 2.18.94.

You heard yourself make a soft sound, not quite a gasp, not quite a word.

Nobody said anything.

Nobody moved.

Your heartbeat slammed so hard it hurt.

The letters on your wrist.

The dates.

The years you’d spent convincing yourself they were meaningless.

The looks from doctors. From strangers. From dates. From family.

The horrible private grief of wondering if you’d been made wrong.

And now—

Now seven men sat in front of you beneath studio lighting and polite smiles, and at least three pieces of the impossible had just turned real.

“Y/N?”

The voice came from far away. Elle, maybe. Or Namjoon.

You stood up so quickly your chair dragged against the floor.

Every head in the room turned.

“I’m sorry,” you heard yourself say, though your mouth felt numb around the words. “I need—I need a moment.”

“Are you alright?” Namjoon asked, already half-rising.

But you couldn’t answer him.

Because if you stayed another second, you were either going to throw up, pass out, or start asking seven members of BTS to roll up their sleeves in front of God and everybody.

And there were cameras.

And your notebook.

And Elle.

And none of that mattered.

You were moving before your brain caught up, out of the chair, past the startled staffer by the door, down the hall, through the lobby, out into the night air that hit you like a slap.

The driver looked up sharply from the SUV when he saw you.

“Hotel,” you said in Korean, too fast, too breathless. “Please. Right now.”

“Miss—”

“Please.”

Something in your face must have convinced him, because he opened the back door without another question.

You climbed in and only realized once the car had already pulled away from the curb that you’d left your notebook behind.

And Elle.

And half an interview.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your mouth and stared blindly at the city lights outside.

There was no way in hell.

No way in hell.

No way in hell that BTS—all seven of them—could possibly be written on your skin.

The ride back to the hotel felt longer than the drive there.

Not because of traffic.

Because now every passing second had room to think.

You sat curled into the corner of the backseat, one hand braced against the door, the other locked so tightly around your phone that your knuckles ached. Seoul moved outside in streaks of white and red and gold, traffic lights smearing across the glass when you blinked too slowly.

K.S.

M.Y.

J.H.

You could not stop seeing them.

Not the letters themselves, but the way they’d slotted into place in your head with nauseating precision the moment Seokjin and Yoongi and Hoseok gave their birthdays. Like tumblers clicking inside an old lock. Like a combination you’d had memorized your whole life without knowing what it opened.

Your driver glanced at you once in the rearview mirror.

Then, politely, looked away.

He’d asked if you were alright exactly one time. You had said yes with enough force to make it clear that you were lying and also that you wouldn’t be elaborating. After that, he left you alone.

By the time the SUV slid up to the hotel entrance, your pulse had not slowed even a little.

You were out before he could come around to open the door. The lobby blurred. The elevator took years. The suite door clicked shut behind you with a soft, expensive sound that nearly made you laugh.

Because this was insane.

The room was still obscene. Still beautiful. Still full of marble and warm lamplight and clean, expensive silence. And you were standing in the middle of it trying not to hyperventilate over a boy group.

No. Not a boy group.

Seven birthdays. Seven initials. Seven impossible answers to a question you’d spent your whole life hating.

You stripped your blazer off and threw it over the back of the couch. Then your heels. Then your earrings, one of which bounced once on the coffee table and skittered to the floor. You didn’t go after it.

Instead you crossed the room, shoved your sleeve up to your elbow, and stared.

K.S. M.Y. J.H. K.N. P.J. K.T. J.J.

The letters looked exactly the same.

Which was somehow worse.

Because if they’d glowed or shifted or moved under your skin, you could’ve blamed stress. Fatigue. Hallucination. Some dramatic break with reality.

But they just sat there.

Neat. Black. Patient.

You crossed to the kitchen island, grabbed the hotel stationery and a pen, and began writing out what you knew.

K.S. — Kim Seokjin — 12.4.92 M.Y. — Min Yoongi — 3.9.93 J.H. — Jung Hoseok — 2.18.94

Your hand froze halfway through the third line.

Your stomach turned violently.

You barely made it to the bathroom.

By the time the worst of it passed, your knees were on cold tile and your hair had fallen half out of its bun and there were tears on your face that you had not consciously agreed to.

“Great,” you whispered hoarsely to no one. “Awesome. Love this for me.”

It was too much. Not because you were afraid of them. Not even because you were afraid of the marks being real. You were afraid of what came after real. Because if those three lined up, then Namjoon’s probably would too. And Jimin’s. And Taehyung’s. And Jungkook’s.

And if all seven of them matched, then the thing you’d built your life around—that careful, lonely acceptance, that hard-edged independence, that identity forged around never expecting to be chosen by fate at all—would split clean down the middle.

It would mean you hadn’t been wrong. Just waiting. And that was almost worse.

Your phone started ringing from somewhere in the living room.

You ignored it.

It stopped.

Started again.

Stopped.

Then, after a pause, buzzed with the relentless machine-gun rhythm of incoming texts.

You stayed on the bathroom floor for a full minute longer before finally forcing yourself upright and stumbling back toward the couch.

Elle.

Of course it was Elle.

There were three missed calls and six texts, each progressively less polite.

Where are you??Y/N pick up your phoneWhat the hell happened?You LEFT MEI had to finish the interview ALONECall me right now before I lose my mind

You stared at the screen, then hit call. She answered on the first ring.

“You left me!”

The volume of it made you wince and hold the phone a fraction away from your ear. “I know.”

“No, don’t ‘I know’ me,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea how insane that was? You stood up in the middle of the interview and vanished like someone had yanked you out with a stage hook. I had to freestyle thirty minutes of questions at BTS while trying not to look like I was also being abandoned by God.”

Despite everything, a hysterical little laugh almost made it out of you.

Elle heard it. “This is not funny.”

“I know,” you said again, quieter this time. “I know. I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suspiciously: “Are you crying?”

You wiped at your face and discovered fresh tears there. “No.”

“That sounded like a yes.”

“It sounded like jet lag.”

“Y/N.”

You sank down onto the couch. “I’m at the hotel.”

“No shit.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that like it’s useful.”

You covered your eyes with one hand. “Elle, I’m sorry. I just—something happened.”

Her tone shifted immediately, anger fraying at the edges into concern. “Did somebody say something to you?”

“No.”

“Did somebody touch you?”

“No.”

“Did one of them—”

“No,” you said more firmly this time. “Nothing like that. They were fine. Everyone was fine. I’m the one who wasn’t fine.”

Another pause.

When she spoke again, she sounded wary. “Then tell me what happened.”

You looked at your wrist. Looked at the sheet of hotel stationery with three names written in your rushed, ugly handwriting. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

How did you say this out loud without sounding insane?

How did you tell your best friend that midway through an astrology icebreaker you’d realized the seven names and dates on your wrist might belong to seven globally famous men currently wondering why an American reporter had fled their building like she was being hunted?

You just couldn’t.

Not over the phone.

“Can you just come back?” you asked instead, and hated how small your voice sounded. “Please.”

Elle went quiet for two long seconds.

Then: “I’m already in the car.”

The relief that hit you was immediate and humiliating.

You curled into the corner of the couch and waited.

When the suite door finally opened, Elle came in looking like she’d been prepared to either kill someone or perform triage. Her hair had started to fall from its clip. Her cardigan was half-buttoned wrong. Her eyes went straight to your face and widened.

“Oh,” she said, all the leftover anger in her voice dying at once. “You look awful.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean.”

She kicked her shoes off and came to sit beside you, close enough for your knees to knock together.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then she held out her hand.

“Show me.”

You frowned. “Show you what?”

“Whatever made you run.”

The room seemed to sharpen around you.

You looked down at your lap. At your sleeve.

Then, very slowly, you shoved the fabric up your arm and turned your wrist over between you both.

Elle stared.

She’d seen it before, obviously. At work. Over lunch. In cabs. In bathrooms while the two of you touched up lipstick before events. The mark wasn’t new to her. But context was.

You used your other hand to point.

“K.S.,” you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Kim Seokjin.”

Her face went still.

You dragged your finger to the first date. “December fourth, nineteen ninety-two.”

She didn’t blink.

You moved to the next set.

“M.Y. Min Yoongi. March ninth, nineteen ninety-three.”

Her mouth parted.

Then:

“J.H. Jung Hoseok,” she finished for you, her voice just as quiet now. “February eighteenth, nineteen ninety-four.”

You nodded once.

Neither of you moved.

Then Elle stood up so fast you startled.

“No.”

You watched her pace two steps away, turn, and pace back.

“No, absolutely not. No. That is not—” She broke off, pointed both hands at your wrist, then at you. “That is not a thing that gets to happen to a person in real life.”

“That is exactly what I said.”

“Oh my God.” She pressed both hands to the top of her head. “Oh my God.”

“Yep.”

“No, because hold on.” She crouched in front of you suddenly, snagged your wrist more gently than the movement suggested, and scanned the rest of the letters. “K.N. Kim Namjoon. P.J. Park Jimin. K.T. Kim Taehyung. J.J.—Jesus Christ—Jeon Jungkook.”

You gave a weak nod.

Elle sat back on her heels and just looked at you.

Then, because she was still Elle even in the face of cosmically rude revelations, she said, “This is actually the funniest thing that has ever happened.”

You stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, immediately covering her mouth. “I know you’re having a crisis. I am too. But from an outside perspective this is absurd.”

You laughed once, helplessly, and it came out halfway to a sob.

That did it.

Elle moved back onto the couch and pulled you into her side without a word. You let her, too wrung out to pretend otherwise.

For a while the only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator and your uneven breathing evening out against her shoulder.

Finally she said, “They know.”

You pulled back enough to look at her. “What?”

“At least some of them.” Her expression had shifted again, sharper now, replaying the night with the kind of precision you usually brought to interviews. “Yoongi and Jimin looked weird the second you introduced yourself in Korean. I thought maybe they were just surprised you were fluent. But then once I told them your birthday—”

“You told them my birthday?”

She winced. “It was in your notebook.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands.

“I know. I know. But hear me out,” she rushed on. “The second I said it, the whole room changed. Not in a bad way. Just—frozen. Like everyone had suddenly had the same horrible thought at once.”

You lowered your hands slowly.

“They know,” Elle repeated. “Or they suspect. There is no way they don’t.”

The words sent a fresh wave of panic through you.

And, under it, something stranger.

Relief.

Because the worst part of the last two hours had been the loneliness of it. The old loneliness, but sharpened into something frantic. The sense that you’d stumbled into a private apocalypse no one else could see.

But if they knew too—

Then you weren’t alone in it.

That realization should’ve calmed you more than it did.

Instead it left you blinking at the far wall, mind racing ahead into terrifying new territory.

“What if I’m wrong?” you said finally.

Elle turned to you so fast her ponytail slapped her shoulder. “Y/N.”

“I know how it sounds. I know it all matches, but what if—what if this is some insane statistical disaster and not what I think it is? What if only three of them match? What if the others don’t? What if I’m reading too much into it because I’ve spent my whole life wanting this mark to mean something?”

“You did not sprint out of a BTS interview because of statistics.”

“That is not the comforting sentence you think it is.”

She ignored that. “You know what I think?”

You looked at her, motioned for her to continue.

“I think you recognized it because some part of you has been waiting to.” She glanced down at your wrist again, softer now. “And I think the reason it hit you like a truck is because you’ve spent years making peace with being alone. So now that the universe has apparently decided to be dramatic about it, you don’t know what to do.”

That was close enough to the truth to hurt.

You looked away first.

Elle squeezed your knee. “So. New plan.”

“There’s a plan?”

“There’s always a plan. Mine currently involves finding alcohol in this ridiculous penthouse and forcing you to tell me whether each member was hotter in person.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That is not a plan.”

“It’s phase one.”

By the time she came back from the kitchen with two miniature champagne bottles she’d found chilling in a silver bucket, the knot in your chest had loosened by an inch. Not much, but enough.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, still in your interview clothes, and did the thing you’d been dreading.

You finished the list.

K.N. — Kim Namjoon — 9.12.94 P.J. — Park Jimin — 10.13.95 K.T. — Kim Taehyung — 12.30.95 J.J. — Jeon Jungkook — 9.1.97

Seven matches.

Seven.

You and Elle stared at the paper in grim silence for a full ten seconds.

Then she took a very deliberate sip of champagne and said, “So. Congratulations on your seven soulmates.”

You made a strangled sound into your own bottle. “Don’t.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being insane.”

“I’m adapting.”

That was one of the reasons you loved her. She let you have the panic without drowning in it too. Let it be horrifying and absurd at the same time.

Eventually, when the champagne was gone and you’d changed into one of the hotel bathrobes because the pencil skirt had started to feel like a punishment, the practical concerns finally crept in.

“What happens now?” you asked.

Elle tucked one leg under herself on the couch. “Well, tomorrow either you avoid them for the rest of the trip and spend the next decade wondering, or you talk to them.”

“That is a maliciously simple way to frame that.”

“It’s still true.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead. “I cannot talk to them.”

“You absolutely can.”

“No, I can interview them. That is not the same thing.”

“They’re still people.”

“Very famous people.”

“Still people.”

“With my life apparently tattooed on their arms.”

Elle considered that. “That’s fair. Slightly worse than people.”

You pointed at her. “Thank you.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you knew she was right.

Avoidance had always been your best skill outside of writing.

Not dealing. Delaying. Deflecting. Keeping your life moving so fast nothing could corner you in it.

Work helped. Travel helped. Loneliness, in a strange way, had helped most of all. It was easier to be alone than uncertain.

But this—

This was already uncertainty.

And whether you liked it or not, you had opened the door.

You barely slept.

When you did, it came in broken flashes. A tangle of dreams full of camera lights and unfamiliar hands and crowded rooms where everyone had your initials written on their skin except you. At one point you woke gasping, convinced you were underwater. At another you stared up at the ceiling for so long the dark outside the windows began to turn gray.

By five in the morning, you gave up entirely.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, wrapped in your robe, and opened your laptop.

Your search history within the hour became deeply humiliating.

multiple soulmate marks meaningseven soulmatessoulmate initials different thicknesscan soulmate marks be wronghow rare are multiple soulmates

The internet was insultingly unhelpful.

Most articles dealt with one soulmate. A few with two. Three if fate was feeling especially adventurous. Anything beyond that slipped quickly from science into spirituality and from spirituality into women named Celeste selling consultations out of strip malls.

At six-thirty, after finding one forum thread in which a woman claimed she and her four soulmates were all accountants in Ohio, you shut the laptop and put your head down on the kitchen counter.

This was your life now.

At some point Elle joined you, took one look at your face, and wordlessly started making coffee.

“You look like roadkill,” she said ten minutes later, setting a mug in front of you.

“You already used that joke last week.”

“You have seven soulmates now. Sue me.”

That got a snort out of you.

The rest of the morning passed in a strange, suspended hush. You showered. Changed into a cream sweater and jeans. Tried on three different jackets and hated all of them. Ate two bites of toast and nearly gagged. Then forced down more when Elle glared at you until you did.

Around ten, her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, then at you.

“Big Hit.”

Your stomach dropped all over again.

“Answer it.”

She did, switching immediately into the polished professional tone the office mostly never got to hear because she preferred chaos on principle.

You watched her expression change as she listened.

Surprise first, then relief, then something more thoughtful.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. That should be fine.”

A pause.

Another.

“Thank you,” she said warmly. “We appreciate that very much.”

When she ended the call, you were already halfway out of your chair.

“What?”

Elle held up both hands. “Before you panic: they’re not filing a complaint.”

You froze.

“What?”

“They’re not filing a complaint,” she repeated. “Apparently the members asked that the incident not be escalated. Their team said you seemed overwhelmed, and they’d prefer to reschedule rather than make it formal.”

You sank slowly back into your seat.

The relief was so sudden it made you dizzy.

Then Elle smiled.

“And,” she added, “they’ve asked if you’d be willing to meet them again. Privately. At a restaurant they’ve rented out this afternoon.”

You stared at her.

“They rented out a restaurant?”

“That was also my first question.”

You looked down at your coffee, and then looked at your wrist. Looked back up.

“No.”

Elle folded her arms. “No?”

“No.”

“You are not moving to Alaska.”

Your head snapped up. “I didn’t say Alaska.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking Iceland, actually.”

“Worse.”

“I need distance.”

“You need therapy.”

“Probably!”

“Still not Iceland.”

You dragged both hands down your face.

There was a long silence.

Then, quietly: “What if they don’t want me? What if only some of them do?”

Elle’s expression changed.

All the teasing dropped out of her voice when she answered.

“Then you find that out,” she said simply. “And it hurts, maybe. And it’s messy. And you survive it. But hiding from it won’t make it less true.”

That sat between you. Heavy. Inevitable.

You hated when she was wise before noon.

Death was an abstract thought to you. Never quite reaching past the periphery of your psyche. Your attention always danced across other topics; grades, books, what you’d have for dinner that night. Never did you think you’d need to concern yourself with your mortality, especially at such a young age. Before you’d even lived.

Despite all of that, you couldn’t imagine a better reason for your departure from this earth. Dying for them could be peaceful, you supposed. Heroic, even.

If dying right here- right now- was necessary to keep the seven of them safe; why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t you bite the bullet and sacrifice yourself for them? Your life was miniscule in comparison to theirs. They could move on, grow past your demise; but you would not move on from theirs. They were everything to you now. Their presence is as vital to your existence as breathing.

The hunter tilts his head, eyeing you up hungrily from across the long room, and your stomach drops in response.

If you’d never come to Forks, you’d be safe. That, you knew. You’d be at your apartment in Portland, sipping tea from a mug in your kitchen; watching the birds fly around outside as they always had in the early mornings. And though you were terrified, your blood running cold through your veins, you can’t bring yourself to regret your decision. When you’ve lived your life to the fullest- regardless of the time crunch- you can’t grieve when it comes to an end.