Top Posts Tagged with #rm fic

halcyon days #2 | knj

title: halcyon days (m) pairing: knj x reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; canon idol! au , age-gap au (reader is 26, namjoon is 31); idol & art enthusiast! namjoon x art curator!reader au summary: halcyon days – described as a past period that was happy, peaceful, and prosperous, often viewed with nostalgia. this may be a story of such a time. you, an art curator grounded in these seoul gallery walls, meet RM, an idol of top group BTS, whose world moves to an entirely different rhythm. Two lives on diverging paths. But when those paths somehow cross in the arts, something unexpected begins. love that unfolds slowly, like brushstrokes on canvas, brief and fleeting. note: this is part two of a one shot initially 34k words! happy birthday namjoon! warnings: language, dialogue heavy, art talk, decision to leave movie spoilers, a lot of smut in many positions (explicit and anecdotal), drinking, smoking, posessive namjoon, protected s*x, cunn*lingus, finger*ng, blowj*b, b*ckshots, riding of course, sasaengs, grotesque harassment, heavy angst, some canon and noncanon events drop date: September 11th, 2025, 8:00am pst word count: 14.7k part 1 | spotify fic playlist | crossposted on ao3 here

It’s been a week since the event. A week since Namjoon called you across a rooftop and took you home like he couldn’t wait another second. Since then, he’s been texting you every day–sometimes with a photo of his lunch, sometimes a tired selfie in the studio, sometimes just a “thinking of you.” It’s not excessive. It’s intentional. And it makes you smile every time. He doesn’t have to do that since you understand his situation, but it’s cute to see him trying to make amends for his lack of communication just because he loves you… a lot.

You finally wrap up a major exhibition project at Kukje for Frieze Seoul, freeing up your schedule just enough to carve out a day for him. He’d invited you to the HYBE building–casually, but not carelessly–and now you stand across the street from the towering glass facade in Yongsan, adjusting your oversized blue oxford shirt over your white camisole and wide-legged jeans. Clean, understated. Not a fashion statement, not anonymous either. Just you.

You cross the street, dodging a cluster of girls and women loitering near the park next to the building, eyes glued to the entrance like something might emerge from its depths at any moment. Some hold cameras with telescopic lenses. A few glance your way with bored disinterest, but one–Korean, in her twenties…thirties maybe–squints her eyes at you, scanning you head to toe like she’s trying to figure something out about you.

You don’t linger. You don’t meet her stare. You’ve worked in public-facing industries long enough to know better than to provoke idle curiosity.

Inside, the lobby is sleek and expansive, echoing footsteps bouncing off polished floors. You approach the reception desk with a quiet confidence, pushing your ID across the counter.

“I’m here to visit RM… for an art concept discussion. For his next solo album,” you say, tone even.

The woman at the desk nods, typing something into the system. It’s not a total lie. You had discussed his next album–how he’s thinking about intimacy, isolation, and urban nature as themes–and you’d even thrown out a few visual references. Whether it becomes anything official is unknown. It might take some time to get that released too, as the priority right now for the next year or so is group projects. But it’s enough to get you a guest pass.

“4th floor, practice wing,” she says politely in Korean, sliding the laminated badge toward you.

You thank her and make your way to the elevator, scanning your pass to access the upper levels. The building feels clinical and high-tech, a strange fusion of corporate order and creative energy. The kind of place where you know legends are made behind closed doors. You glance at your phone. A message from Namjoon: [joonie 🐨] Already here? The members and I just took a practice break. Just walk in when you get here. Practice Room B.

Muted bass echoes faintly from down the corridor. You follow the sound past gray walls, training rooms, and framed abstract prints–some you recognize from Namjoon’s Instagram, likely pieces he personally curated–until you reach a matte black door labeled Practice Room B.

You gently push it open.

The room is dim but spacious, with high ceilings and black walls that absorb the light pouring from recessed LEDs along the upper trim. At the far end, the mirrored wall reflects a mix of movement and stillness–six men scattered across the glossy floor, catching their breath, sipping water, checking their phones.

Then, a seventh figure turns. Namjoon.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm as he walks toward you.

The others follow his gaze. Jungkook, seated on the floor with a water bottle in hand, perks up. Jimin’s eyes widen slightly before he grins. Hoseok leans back on his hands, eyebrows raised with interest. Yoongi stands by the sound system, watching quietly. Taehyung lounges near the mirrored wall, head tilted. Jin, by the door with a towel over his shoulder, is the first to speak.

“Oh! You brought someone?” he asks Namjoon, arching a playful brow. “And she’s not a delivery person?”

Namjoon chuckles. “Nope. She’s definitely not that.”

You try to smile, suddenly hyper-aware of the way seven of the most famous men in the world are watching you. Your palms feel clammy. You smooth them on your jeans.

“Hi,” you say, voice a little breathless. “Sorry to interrupt. It's a pleasure to meet you all. I'm Y/N.”

“Wow, she’s pretty,” Jimin says outright, nudging Jungkook with a grin. “Woah…” Jungkook says with awestruck as his big round eyes stare at you, ignoring Jimin’s nudge. He eyes you thoughtfully, like he’s trying to read your intentions in real-time. It definitely made you a bit more nervous. The guys introduce themselves, even though they realize you probably already know them. Wouldn't be entirely wrong, but an intro is always nice.

Taehyung hums. “Very on-brand for you, hyung.” Namjoon chuckles lightly.

“I heard you two met at a museum?” Jungkook finally speaks more, tone musing, but there’s a weight behind the way he looks at you–analytical, not unfriendly. He’s been very nice, but he’s just cautious. Like he’s making sure you’re a good fit for someone he respects deeply. You’re sure the other members are the same.

Namjoon nods, then glances at you before turning back to the group.

“Well,” he says, slow but steady, “since you’re all already speculating…”

He reaches for your hand. You blink, surprised, but let him take it.

“I wanted you to meet her because she’s important to me,” he says. “We’re… seeing each other.”

Silence ripples through the room like a dropped pebble.

“Wow, Seriously?” Jin says first, eyes darting between the two of you.

Namjoon gives a quiet smile. “Yeah.”

Yoongi snorts lightly but it’s not unkind. “Damn. So you’re actually admitting it…after swerving some of our suspicions, huh?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide her,” Namjoon says. “Just wanted to be sure before I brought her into this part of my life.” The vibe seems a bit tense, and kind of scary.

Taehyung is the first to move. He walks over and extends his hand to you, gaze softer than before.

“Welcome, noona,” he says with a small smile. “If hyung’s serious about you, then we are too.” The noona honorific is a bit dramatic since you’re definitely younger than him, but you’ll ignore it for now.

Jimin cheers dramatically. “Our Namjoonie’s in love~”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“But really, we’re happy for you,” Hoseok says genuinely, grinning. “It’s good to see you glowing again, bro.”

Jungkook rises and walks closer, expression now more open. “I get it now,” he murmurs to Namjoon. Then to you, “You seem cool. And grounded! He needs that! Please protect our hyung from his clumsiness too.” You start giggling, making Namjoon rolls his eyes. He’s not that clumsy anymore, he thinks.

Yoongi just nods in your direction. “Don’t break his heart too,” he says. “He acts tough but he’s not.”

“He’s literally a golden retriever.” Jin jokes, which makes everyone else break out laughing.

Your chest warms at the way the tension lifts, the way the group shifts from guarded to accepting.

Namjoon squeezes your hand. “Thanks, guys.”

As the moment relaxes into scattered banter and practice resumes in the background, he leans down toward you and whispers, “You okay?”

You smile, finally able to breathe. “Yeah. More than okay.”

You take a seat near the mirrored wall, legs crossed, trying not to look too stiff as the boys start gathering around again during their break.

“So, you’re from the US?” Jimin asks, plopping down across from you with a bottle of water pressed to his cheek.

“Yeah, California,” you say. “Grew up in San Francisco.”

“Ohhh~” Taehyung stretches the vowel out like it’s a fancy French wine. “We were staying in LA not too long ago for our song camp. But San Francisco… isn’t it foggy there?”

You laugh. “Most of the time, yeah.”

“Your Korean is really good,” Jungkook notes, now sitting next to Taehyung and leaning forward with curiosity. “Did you study formally, or…?”

You nod. “I started in college. But I think watching K-dramas without subtitles kind of helped. Eventually I did an exchange semester in Seoul and forced myself to keep improving. Still make mistakes though.”

“You sound almost fluent,” Jin chimes in, eyes narrowing. “So you’re either naturally good at languages or just really stubborn.”

You grin. “Little of both, maybe.”

Yoongi raises a brow. “What did you major in?”

“Art history,” you answer, then gesture to Namjoon with a small smile. “So you can probably see how we ended up crossing paths.”

“I knew it!” Hoseok says, pointing at you like he’s just won a bet. “You have that calm, gallery curator energy.”

“Really?” you blink.

He nods. “Like the kind of person who talks about color palettes and philosophical metaphors in front of a painting that somehow makes you cry.”

The whole room laughs.

They’re funny, you think, but also so much more grounded than people give them credit for. The conversation flows easily now–less like an interview, more like you're slowly being folded into something soft, warm, and loud.

Soon, Namjoon rejoins the circle briefly to grab a towel, cheeks slightly pink from exertion.

“Alright,” he says, “we should wrap this break. Back to rehearsal.”

You lean back against the wall as they move back into position and start running the choreo to one of their comeback album songs again–intense, intricate, exhausting. You watch as they slip into that hyper-focused mode, barely glancing at one another yet moving with perfect synchronicity. Each step is sharp, the momentum breathtaking. Even when sweat drips, even when someone stumbles and lets out a soft “fuck” under their breath, they keep going.

You feel a genuine awe bloom in your chest.

No wonder Namjoon gets so in his head sometimes. The pressure. The eyes. The standard. And still–there's joy here. And god, he looks so good right now. Hair damp, brows furrowed, shirt sticking to the curve of his back. You’re trying not to stare, but it’s impossible not to.

Eventually, Namjoon slows the track and wipes his face again, catching your eyes in the mirror’s reflection.

He walks over, breath still heavy. “I’m heading to the showers, then up to the studio,” he tells you quietly. “You should go ahead. The door’ll be open. There’s tea in the cabinet if you want to unwind.”

You nod. “You okay?”

He smiles softly. “Now I am.”

Then, with a shift in tone, he takes your hand. And before you can register it, he lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

It’s subtle. Gentle.

But loud enough.

“Oooohhh~” Jin sings from across the room, followed by a mock-gasp from Jimin.

Taehyung clutches his chest dramatically. “Ahhh! This is straight out of a sageuk drama.”

Namjoon groans as the teasing grows louder.

“What a big simp he’s being,” Yoongi mutters with a smirk.

Namjoon just shakes his head. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

You can’t help but laugh as you back toward the door.

“See you upstairs,” you say, feeling the echo of his lips still warm on your skin.

And as the door clicks shut behind you, you feel like you’re floating a little–lifted by more than just the elevator heading up sixteen floors.

Namjoon's studio is a quiet world of its own. Dim but cozy, filled with soft ambient lighting, it smells faintly of cedarwood, leather, and something herbal–like his favorite tea. Books line the shelves, stacked in uneven towers, and vinyls sit half-pulled from their sleeves near his record player. The sofa in the corner is slightly worn in, hugged by a warm throw blanket and a floor lamp that casts a gentle glow over your open book.

You sit curled up at one end, legs tucked under you as your eyes move over the page of 정확한 사랑의 실험 (The Exact Experiment of Love), a book Namjoon recommended a few days ago. It’s cerebral, thoughtful, and layered with questions you hadn’t asked yourself before: Is love really just action, or is it shaped by the stories we’ve been told? Can we even love someone without unknowingly copying what we’ve seen in movies?

You pause on a highlighted sentence near the bottom of the page: “To love precisely is not to control–it is to witness, again and again, the evolution of a person, and still remain.”

It makes your heart beat a little harder.

The door to the studio opens quietly behind you.

Namjoon steps in, fresh out of the shower, his hair slightly damp and pushed back casually with his fingers. A black oversized shirt hangs loosely over his frame, tucked lazily into grey joggers. His skin glows under the warm studio lighting, and there's something disarming about seeing him like this–unpolished but impossibly grounded, exactly where he belongs.

“You’re reading it,” he says with a soft smile, toweling the back of his head as he approaches.

You nod, closing the book partway. “It’s making me think too much. In a good way.”

“That’s why I liked it.” He bends slightly, brushing his lips against your temple. “It doesn’t tell you how to love. Just… shows you all the messy ways we try.”

You hum, the corner of your lips tugging up.

He walks over to his desk setup and taps the screen to life–colorful audio waveforms lighting up. He scrolls through a few files, then glances over his shoulder at you, a hint of shyness in his voice.

“Come sit with me. On my lap,” he adds, eyes flicking up to yours, more boyish now. “Wanna work through a few things, and I want your feedback.”

You raise a brow, playfully skeptical. “You sure I won’t distract you?”

He scoffs under his breath, but he’s already holding out his hand for you. “You will. But I’m willing to take that risk.”

You laugh softly and set the book aside, making your way over. He pulls you gently onto his lap, one arm looping around your waist securely while the other hovers over the keyboard. His thighs are solid beneath you, his body warm against your back. He rests his chin on your shoulder for a moment, exhaling like this is exactly what he needed.

“I’ve been working on something for the new project,” he murmurs, fingers dragging a few files into the DAW. “Nothing final, just similar to sketches.”

Namjoon queues up a rough sketch for his new project, melancholy piano layered over soft percussion, his voice low and raw, like it was recorded in a single breath. You sit still, letting it wash over you. The lyrics speak of wanting to be seen fully, even while uncertain of how you're perceived. When it ends, you tell him it feels honest, vulnerable without begging to be understood. He smiles against your shoulder, murmuring that you always say what he can't.

His hand, still wrapped around your waist, slips under the hem of your shirt–resting against the skin of your stomach, thumb moving slowly in gentle strokes. Not sexual, just grounding. Intimate. Safe.

“I like having you here,” he says quietly.

“I like being here,” you reply.

You glance over at the book still open on the sofa. Another line you'd focused on earlier comes back to you: “To be precisely loved is to not need translation.”

Namjoon doesn’t say it out loud. But in the way he holds you, listens to you, lets you into his world–even when it’s fragile–you know. He’s learning how to love precisely. And he’s letting you do the same.

After spending a few warm, quiet hours at HYBE, you finally decide it’s time to leave and head home. As much as you’d love to stay wrapped in Namjoon’s presence a little longer, you’ve got work to do. Kukje Gallery is preparing for several seasonal showcases, and one of the projects you’re spearheading involves incorporating private collection pieces into a curated exhibition. Namjoon’s collection has come up more than once in your research, and the idea of showcasing select works–perhaps ones he’s lent anonymously in the past–feels like the perfect creative bridge between your world and his. There are meetings to prepare for, wall texts to draft, and provenance documents to organize. It’s the kind of work that consumes you quietly, the way art always has.

Aside from that, Namjoon and his whole group are very locked in to their comeback preparations. You haven’t talked about it much, but they have a ton of big promotions planned for their long awaited return. A whole comeback live performance hosted by Netflix, all the billboard and big screen promos happening too and the entirety of Seoul is going full purple in events and city lighting as part of the promo. So yes, a little space to let them do their thing is also very necessary.

As you step out of the HYBE building and into the quiet darkening orange of the late afternoon, you spot a remaining group of loitering girls you saw earlier. There’s five or six girls huddled near the edge of the lot, dressed in head-to-toe black–bucket hats pulled low, black face masks hiding most of their faces, save for the eyes. They say nothing at first. But you can feel their stares.

You lower your gaze and keep walking, heart steady. You’re not new to this. You’ve read the posts, the cautionary threads online. You know exactly what this group is. Sasaengs. And attention–literally any attention–is the one thing they don’t deserve.

One of them steps forward.

“I know you…” she says softly in Korean.

You pretend not to hear her. Keep walking.

“You were at the Frieze Seoul afterparty,” she continues, just a touch louder now. “With Namjoon.”

You stop. Just for a second. It's involuntary. You should’ve kept walking. Why did you stop?

Her voice sharpens. “I knew it was you! L/N F/N, you’re a big foreign art curator living in Seoul.”

Oh, holy shit… they know you.

You turn your head slightly, jaw tense. Don’t respond. Keep your mouth shut. She doesn’t get to provoke you. But she already has.

"But why are you at the HYBE building?"

Her tone is full of false innocence, the kind that masks something far uglier beneath.

You inhale deeply through your nose, your fingers curling tightly inside your coat sleeves. Let’s semi-lie about this. It’s the only way you can hope to get them off your back.

“I’m collaborating with HYBE’s visual concept team on a project,” you say coolly, refusing to look her in the eye. “It’s internal. That’s all I can say. Please enjoy BTS’ comeback that’s releasing soon.”

You turn to leave. They shouldn’t be able to ask more from you right. Let’s leave it at that.

Another voice calls after you–another girl from the group. “I don’t believe that.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“I saw you both that night,” the first girl adds, stepping in closer. “You and Namjoon. At the rooftop. Talking to each other like no one could see you. But I did.”

You clench your jaw. How did those people get into that event. It’s incredibly exclusive.

“Are you seriously going to pretend that you’re here for work and that something else isn’t going on?” a third girl snaps. “That dress you wore? The way he looked at you at the event?”

They’re circling now. You can feel it. Like you’re prey being slowly surrounded.

“Don’t tell me you're dating,” someone scoffs. “Wow, that’s actually so funny!”

You glance up. That girl looks like she’s smirking from underneath her mask. Another one has pulled out her phone. Your stomach flips.

“I mean, come on,” the first one says. “You really think someone like you should date someone like him? Don’t you know idols are for fans’ only. They should never be with anyone.” Disgusted. Is this what some fans genuinely think about BTS? Never had you heard of things like this back in the states. Excluding Jungkook who’s the one left in his late 20s, BTS are in their early 30s… it’d be insane to even think that they wouldn’t be able to do things that people normally do at that age. Sex, dating, marriage, smoking, getting drunk. They aren’t allowed to be like everyone else according to them.

Another girl steps forward, her voice venomous beneath her mask. “You better stay the fuck away from Namjoon oppa and the other members. Seriously.”

“Imagine what would happen if everyone found out! You’re going to ruin the group if you continue to lurk around him, you disgusting witch!”

That’s it.

You stop walking and turn on your heel.

“What’s disgusting,” you say in a low, steady voice, “is stalking people and creating fantasies about strangers. You don’t know me. You don’t know him. And twisting facts to fit your delusions? That’s not fan behavior. That’s dangerous. You could get sued.”

There’s a silence. Even their breathing seems to stop.

“And since you clearly care so much about Namjoon’s image,” you add, “maybe you should brush up on South Korean defamation laws. False rumors, public harassment? That’s enough to ruin your own future.”

The lead girl shifts on her feet. You meet her eyes through the shadow of her cap.

You hold the silence just long enough, then turn around and walk away.

The burn in your chest doesn’t fade for blocks. You can’t tell if it’s adrenaline or fear or rage. Maybe all of it.

But you know now that something has shifted. They know you. They saw you. They’re watching.

And this isn’t the last time you’ll see one of their faces.

Another cycle of jam-packed schedules has Namjoon and the rest of BTS deeply immersed in preparations for a new group album and the upcoming world tour. You’ve kept your distance, careful not to distract him. You know how much it matters to him–this comeback, this tour after so many years. But that hasn’t stopped the two of you from keeping in touch. Your KakaoTalk thread is filled with sweet check-ins, candid selfies, and late-night voice calls just to hear each other breathe. On the rare nights when stars aligned, you found yourself either curled up in his arms at his place or sitting side-by-side at a tiny pojangmacha stall, downing soju shots and sharing plates of anju under the flicker of fluorescent lights.

Despite many chances you were with Namjoon, you never told him what happened that day at HYBE.

You didn’t want to burden him. Not when things were already so heavy. Years of experience navigating life in crowded cities–and even more chaotic industries–have taught you how to handle people like that. Unstable. Entitled. You chalked it up to nothing more than noise. Besides, you hadn’t seen them since that day… until now.

It started normally enough. You were at work, deep in conversation with a pair of museum partners collaborating on the upcoming exhibition featuring Namjoon’s collection. You were focused, flipping through condition reports and finalizing acquisition notes when Jiwon came rushing over.

“Y/N, there's a food delivery for you at reception.”

Your brow furrows. “What? I didn’t order anything.”

Jiwon shrugs, handing you the bag. “Maybe one of the artists or museum reps you’ve worked with before? A thank-you gift, maybe?”

That’s plausible. But something in your gut stirs differently. You want to believe it’s a kind gesture, maybe even from Namjoon. He has surprised you with a few meals before, knowing how often you forget to eat when you’re working. And he did ask if you ate earlier, to which you said, you hadn’t.

You shake off the unease and follow her to the front reception desk.

A brown paper bag sits there, neat and unmarked, folded closed with a tidy knot of string. There’s no logo, no note, no receipt. You hesitate for a beat before untying it and pulling out the food container inside. The wrapping is elegant, too elegant. It looks... staged.

Your pulse stutters.

Still, you open it.

The stench hits you like a slap.

Putrid. Sour. Rancid. Your hands fumble, and the container crashes against the desk with a grotesque splatter. You stagger back as your throat convulses.

You shake and try not to gag from the horrible smell.

“Y/N?! What’s wrong?!” Jiwon’s voice rises in panic as she and several staff members rush to you.

Your eyes are locked on the grotesque contents: a mess of maggot-infested kimchi fried rice and spoiled meat, decayed and slathered in something dark. And then you see it.

Written in thick, blood-red gochujang across the inner lid–

“꺼져.”

Leave.

Your throat clenches. A ringing in your ears drowns out the voices around you. You blink, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand how someone could be this insane.

Your hands shake, your breath ragged.

This time… this time it wasn't just some girl with a petty glare outside a building. This was a message.

A threat.

And someone knew exactly where to send it.

The staff crowds around you, horrified, their voices overlapping.

“Was this delivered by mistake?” Jiwon said.

“Could it be an artist upset over not being selected for the next show?” Another staff inquired.

“Maybe a horrible prank? Some people get off on shocking others.” Another staff followed.

You nod silently, eyes wide, face pale. You mumble something about it probably being a disturbed museumgoer. A coincidence. A sick joke. You’re convincing them, but not yourself.

Because deep down, you know.

Behind closed doors, they don’t know you’ve been fucking one of the museum’s most high-profile donors. They don’t know that you’ve spent nights tangled in the sheets with that same man who’s known to millions by three letters: RM of BTS. They don’t know his sasaengs have caught wind of something they were never supposed to see.

You excuse yourself before they can press further.

Shoving the food into the bag, you step quickly out of the gallery into the humid afternoon. The alley where the compost bins are kept is tucked just off the main road. You kneel and lift the lid, trying not to gag at the stench now leaking through the bag. You throw it in.

But something flutters.

A soft rustling sound.

You glance down.

A small notecard flutters to the ground. It must’ve been taped to the bottom of the bag. You reach down with trembling fingers and turn it over.

You wish you hadn’t.

Pasted dead center is a butterfly–its body intact, but its wings torn off and glued on either side like some grotesque collage. The symbolism makes your stomach turn. The wings–ripped from something delicate and beautiful–feel personal. Like a threat wrapped in mock poetry.

Scrawled across the card in thick, black Korean script:

“We warned you once. But you didn’t listen.”

“He doesn't need a witch like you. He only needs us.”

“Things will get worse. For you. And for him. If this arrangement doesn’t end.”

Your throat tightens. The corners of the card are stained, a waxy red smudged across the bottom. Blood? Paint? Sauce?

You don’t care.

Your first instinct is to rip it apart, throw it away, pretend it never existed.

But your fingers won’t move.

Because now, it’s not just about you.

It’s about Namjoon.

And if they’re threatening him, even indirectly…

Your heart races as you fold the note and slip it into your bag. You take one final glance over your shoulder, then rush back inside the building with your face composed, your steps steady.

But inside, you're spiraling.

And whether Namjoon knows it yet or not, this just became his problem too.

A week after the incident at the gallery, things start escalating.

You first notice her, a woman in a black cap, standing across the street from your building. At first, you think it's a coincidence. Maybe she's just waiting for a ride. But then she shows up again. And again. Sometimes she’s standing completely still for hours. Sometimes she pretends to scroll on her phone. Always watching. You try not to let it get to you, but the weight of her gaze burrows into your spine.

Then the flowers arrive.

Seven funeral wreaths are delivered to the gallery one morning. They’re massive, overbearing, and reek of rotting lilies. There’s no sender listed, no note. Just ribbon banners draped across each one like death sentences: Quit your job, Leave the country, You’re ruining his life, Burn the witch. Your coworkers stare. The gallery director demands answers you can’t give. You lie, continue to say it must be a mistake, a weird prank, but your stomach twists into knots the entire day.

The knocks start next.

Loud, angry banging on your apartment door. Always after midnight. Always followed by silence. You rush to the peephole each time, heart in your throat, but no one’s ever there. The building’s security cameras catch only a blurry figure disappearing down the stairwell. This happens eight times.

Then, the messages.

A DM from a burner account lands in your inbox. It’s a grainy photo of you and Namjoon entering Nine One Hannam late at night. The message that follows it. If you two don’t break up, we won’t hesitate to sell this to the media and expose you both. Ultimately, ruining your relationship and the group.

Your sleep suffers. You keep the lights on now, even during naps. You check the locks twice, sometimes three times. You change your commute. You stop sharing your location with friends. You start looking over your shoulder every time you walk outside.

And through it all, one thought loops in your mind like static: How much worse could this get?And what would it cost to make it stop? Would it mean giving him up?

You don’t want to answer that.

Not yet.

Another week passes after that, and you're at his place again, sitting upright at the dining table with your laptop open and a half-drunk cup of barley tea beside you. The glow from the screen casts tired shadows beneath your eyes. You’re finalizing the last details for the exhibition, confirming wall labels, editing the press release one last time, and reviewing the VIP guest list that Kukje’s comms team needs from you tonight.

Namjoon’s private collection–his pride, his soul laid bare–is about to be unveiled to the public for the first time. And you’ve done everything to make sure it’s perfect. Because you love him. Because you believe in the message behind his collection. Because he once said, “I want art to feel less like a velvet rope, more like a door someone left cracked open.” That stuck with you. You’ve carried that quote like a mantra, letting it guide every decision. Every label. Every image selection.

But God, you’re so tired.

Your shoulders ache. Your eyes burn. The harassment hasn’t stopped–it’s evolved. You still see the woman sometimes, posted by the bus stop outside your building like she belongs there. You’ve stopped answering unknown DMs. Your inbox is full of spam, and lately you've started receiving calls from international numbers you don’t recognize. Last night someone knocked on your window. You live on the third floor.

You haven’t told Namjoon about that either. What good would it do?

You keep telling yourself it’s manageable. You can push through it. You’re almost there. A few more days, maybe a week more of this chaos, and then it’ll settle down. The show will open. The gallery will shift their attention to the crowd. Maybe then you’ll disappear from focus. Maybe they'll get bored.

The front door clicks open.

You look up as Namjoon steps in, phone in hand, dressed in a black hoodie and cargo pants. He toes off his shoes, hangs up his keys, sets his phone facedown. His expression is unreadable–tired, maybe. You don’t ask. You’re not sure you want to know what kind of day he’s had. Something about his silence makes your stomach tighten, like you’re both pretending not to be burnt out for the other’s sake.

He approaches quietly, rounding the couch.

“Hey baby,” he says softly, hands reaching out for your shoulders.

You flinch–just for a second–but then exhale when you realize it’s him. You lean into his touch, the warmth of his palms grounding you.

“You good?” he asks. His thumbs move gently across the muscle where your neck meets your shoulders. “I see you’re working.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just trying to make the exhibition of your owned pieces successful. The world needs to know how much you love art–and how much you care about making it accessible.”

His eyes light up at that. That same quote from Art Basel–you’ve remembered it. You’ve made it a mission. His dimple shows when he smiles, arms sliding slowly around your middle.

“I fucking love you,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “And how hardworking you are.”

You sigh softly, melting just a little.

Then his hands trail lower, brushing the hem of your skirt.

“Do you…” he starts, voice dipping, “want to do anything tonight?”

The suggestion is obvious. His tone warm, a little playful. His lips grazing your neck now. You’d love to say yes. You’d love for him to erase the stress in your chest with his mouth and hands and all the love he’s too afraid to say out loud too often.

But deadlines still loom. You need to follow up with an installation technician, send one more message to the AV rental team, review the caption edits from the translator.

“I have to work, my love,” you say, turning slightly, hand cupping his cheek. He looks at you–still smiling, still soft.

“That’s not a problem,” he says.

And before you can ask what he means, he sinks to his knees.

Your brows lift in disbelief as he ducks under the table, settling between your legs like it’s the most natural place to be. His body large and slightly hunched beneath the small desk, knees spreading as he positions himself between your calves.

You laugh a little, incredulous. “Namjoon–what are you doing?”

But he doesn’t answer right away. Just runs his hands up your thighs, bunching the tight fabric of your pencil skirt up inch by inch. His fingers slide beneath the edge of your pantyhose, then your panties, tugging both down in one fluid motion. Your breath catches.

He looks up at you from between your knees, gaze warm and a little mischievous. “You’re working so hard, baby. Let me take care of you for a bit.”

And in that moment, all the noise–the harassment, the exhaustion, the weight of responsibility–pauses. Fades. The only thing that exists is the man kneeling beneath your desk like a prayer, ready to worship every inch of you.

And maybe, for tonight, you let him.

"Okay, babe. I'll keep on working," you say, though even as the words leave your mouth, you already know it’s going to be impossible.

Your voice is unsteady, breath catching at the end. Your thighs are parted under the table, pantyhose and panties tangled loosely around one ankle, your skirt hiked indecently high. And yet somehow, your fingers remain on the keyboard, trembling slightly as you attempt to finish a sentence about exhibition flow logistics.

The glow of the screen casts soft light over your flushed face.

Namjoon doesn’t rush. He kisses the inside of your knee first, soft and deliberate, then trails slow, reverent presses of his mouth up the sensitive skin of your thigh. You feel the gentle scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He’s not trying to distract you–he’s trying to worship you. And it’s honestly what you need right about now with all these things driving you nuts.

You blink hard at your screen, trying to keep typing. You tap out the next two words with stiff precision. His hands anchor your hips to the chair, thumbs rubbing light circles into the base of your thighs. Then he tilts his head and brings his mouth to you–warm, open, and utterly patient.

Your breath stutters.

His tongue parts you, slow and deliberate, and you’re gone. Your hands pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys, back arching just slightly as your thighs flex around him.

“Fucking h-hell..,” you whisper, barely audible, more air than voice.

He hums softly against you, the vibration pulsing straight through your core.

Still, you try. You type two more words, then three, but your legs are trembling now, your focus shattered. Every swirl of his tongue pulls you deeper from the present, deeper from the demands of work and the exhaustion of being someone strong for everyone.

Namjoon groans low and moves his mouth more purposefully, tongue circling in rhythm, lips pulling gently, tenderly. His hands never leave you. One grips your knee, the other slides around to cradle your hip.

“Joon–” your voice breaks, pleading.

Above the table, the cursor blinks in the middle of an unfinished sentence.

Below it, he pulls you closer to the edge of the chair with a firm tug, never once breaking rhythm. You reach blindly for the edge of the table, gripping it for balance, for something to hold onto while he undoes you inch by inch. You can feel his breath, feel how achingly focused he is, how much he means this.

He doesn't care that you're trying to be composed. He knows how much you carry. He knows you're holding the entire show together–your career, his exhibition, the weight of his reputation–and he just wants to give you something in return. Even if it's just this.

Your head drops back. “I’m not gonna be able to finish this,” you whisper.

From beneath the table, his voice is dark with affection, almost teasing. “Then don’t.”

And for once, you don’t. You stop typing. You close your eyes.

And you let yourself feel everything.

But just as you start to think you might lose all control, Namjoon shifts slightly, his fingers finding a new, impossibly sensitive spot. The heat of his mouth intensifies, tongue flicking expertly, coaxing a breathless gasp from deep in your chest.

Your back arches without thought, hips pressing downward, desperate for more contact, more of the way he makes you feel–seen, wanted, alive.

Then, suddenly, that subtle, deliberate pressure–the one you didn’t even know you were holding out for–comes.

It’s enough to shatter your restraint.

“F-Fuck me..!”

Your jaw clenches hard as a shudder crashes through you. One hand shoots up, pushing against the side of his head, trying to slow the whirlwind he’s set loose. Namjoon chuckles, “I will after we move to another spot.”

“F-Fine, let’s do that and I’ll get to this later t-then,” you manage between ragged breaths, voice shaking with the effort to keep control.

You slam the laptop shut with a sharp snap, the sudden silence almost as electric as his touch.

Forgetting everything else–the emails, the guest lists, the harassment, the exhaustion–you revel in the moment.

The man beneath you, kneeling like a worshipper, eyes dark and steady, hands ready to hold you through every tremor.

You don’t want this to end.

It doesn’t take long before your body betrays you completely. “N-Namjoon!” Warm waves pulse through your core as you come undone, breath hitching, fingers curling into the edge of the table to steady yourself.

You make a mess, and you don’t care. And neither does he.

You’re a huffing, trembling mess, breath shallow and uneven as Namjoon’s lips finally lift away, his tongue retreating but not before he eagerly consumes every drop of your release. He looks up at you, eyes dark and gleaming with that familiar, wicked smirk.

Your mind’s a jumble, but one clear thought surfaces and loops–bed or couch? The couch. It feels more spontaneous, less planned, like it matches the wildness of this night. Namjoon’s expression shifts, as if he’s reading your thoughts.

With a slow, deliberate push, he nudges the chair forward to slip out from beneath the table. Standing now, he towers over you, a striking contrast of height and warmth. His hands reach out, cupping your hips with gentle authority. Before you can say anything, he lifts you up effortlessly.

The walk to the couch is a blur of fluttering heartbeats and tingling skin. He lays you down carefully, eyes never leaving yours as if memorizing every inch.

Then his hands move to your crisp white collared shirt, fingers deft and confident, unbuttoning it with a patience that makes your skin itch in anticipation. The fabric slips away, revealing the curve of your bra beneath. His hands trail lower, sliding the straps off your shoulders, peeling it away like it’s something sacred.

Namjoon’s lips descend eagerly, no longer gentle but claiming–pressing hard enough to leave dark, unmistakable marks against your bare skin. One hickey blooms just below your collarbone, then another trails lower, tracing a fiery path along your chest. His mouth works with purpose, each bite and suck leaving a bruise full of desire.

You gasp, breath catching as his hands slide around your sides, pulling you closer. Without breaking contact, he shifts his weight, moving on top of you, the heat of his body pressing down. Your heart hammers in your chest as the weight of him anchors you–both comforting and overwhelming.

Namjoon pauses briefly, eyes dark and burning as he looks up at you. His breath fans over your skin, warm and intoxicating.

“Do you know how much I want you right now?” he murmurs, voice low and husky.

“Not as much as I want you, that for sure,” You laugh, but your body trembles under his weight and touch.

And god, does he love that response.

His hands roam up to cup your breasts firmly. Without hesitation, his mouth descends on one nipple, sucking and nibbling on it with slow, deliberate pressure that sends sharp jolts of pleasure through you. You swear you’re levitating from his actions. Then he switches, teasing and swirling his tongue around the other, leaving a wet, bruising trail. You’re going to be in a lot of pain later on.

In this position, with him on top sucking your tits, you feel every ounce of power and desire between you. It’s raw, magnetic. You’re completely exposed, utterly claimed, and it ignites something fierce and thrilling deep inside you.

Namjoon groans softly against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth leaves a final mark just above your heart. Then he lifts his head, eyes locking with yours–full of intensity and reverence all at once. His hands slide down your sides, deliberate, grounding. He shifts slightly, pushing up from the couch just enough to reach for the button of his cargo pants. The faint sound of the zipper lowering sends a fresh wave of anticipation through you.

Without a word, he helps turn you gently onto your side, one hand curling under your waist while the other lifts your left leg just enough to hook it over his shoulder. The angle feels natural, close, connected. His chest brushes your back as he leans in, his hand steadying your thigh. Then he pauses, lowering his head to press a kiss just below your ear.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers.

“It’s not,” you breathe, already aching for more. “Please, Namjoon…”

“Don’t need to beg me for more, baby. I got you.”

You feel him guide himself slowly, carefully, easing in with a patience that nearly undoes you. The stretch is deep, measured–and it makes your body hum. A full-body kind of euphoria rushes over you, like the world outside this moment has gone completely silent. Your fingers grip the edge of the couch, breath stuttering as he fills you gradually.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut.

He lets out a low, strained breath near your shoulder. “You always feel incredible…”

And then he stills for a second, both of you soaking in the heat, the pressure, the dizzying intimacy of it all. He presses his hand over yours, grounding you again before pulling back–slow, deep–and pushing in again with a rhythm that already has your head spinning.

His rhythm is steady, intentional. Each motion slow and full, like he’s trying to memorize how you feel around him. You clutch the armrest of the couch with one hand, the other pressed against his forearm where it wraps around your waist. He holds you close, his mouth brushing your shoulder between soft, breathless grunts.

And yet, through the haze of pleasure, something stirs low in your chest. A flicker of dread, quiet but sharp. You don’t know why, but a sense of finality presses against your ribs like a warning. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion, the way life’s been spinning lately, but it clings to you–makes you want to hold on tighter.

You glance over your shoulder at him, heart squeezing at the way he’s looking at you–like you’re the only thing that makes sense.

You want to remember this. Every breath, every sound, every brush of his skin against yours. If this is all temporary, if somehow the world decides to rip it away… you want to know you gave him everything.

“Joon,” you whisper, voice trembling. “P-Put me on top.”

His eyes darken slightly, lips parting. “Yeah. Yeah, come here.”

With his help, you shift until Namjoon is lying fully back against the cushions, legs slightly parted, eyes on you like you’re something sacred. You swing one leg over and straddle him, facing away from his chest, your back to him. A thrill runs down your spine at the change in perspective. The reverse angle gives you power, control, and just enough distance to revel in the delicious tension.

You sink down onto him slowly, savoring the stretch, the heat of him filling you again. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips firmly, guiding your descent. You move gently at first, testing the angle, then begin to roll your hips in slow, deliberate circles.

“Oh–fuck,” he breathes behind you, and it shoots straight through your core.

Then, carefully, you begin to lean back. Your spine curves, shoulders easing into his chest, until the back of your head rests near his collarbone. The moment your bodies align, something settles. His arms snake around your waist, holding you tightly to him, and now you’re both locked in–completely fused.

The new position is overwhelming in the best way. Every shift of your hips grinds you against him deeply, while his hands roam across your thighs, your stomach, your breasts–like he can’t decide where to touch first. His lips brush your temple, then your jaw, leaving small kisses as he whispers, “This angle is driving me nut. You’re so goddamn perfect, Y/N.”

You breathe out shakily, overwhelmed by the emotion threading between each thrust. Your palms grip his forearms for grounding. He cradles you like you’re something to be cherished, even as your movements grow needier.

Your thoughts spin as you ride the edge–how strange it is to feel so full, so adored, and yet still shadowed by something intangible. That ache in your chest is back, not from pain but from knowing this moment feels too beautiful, too fragile.

If everything crashes tomorrow… let him have this tonight. Let yourself give everything.

You reach back, fingers threading into his hair, turning your face just enough to find his lips. The kiss is twisted, sideways, messy, and perfect.

“Don’t let go yet,” you whisper, breath catching.

“Never,” he murmurs into your skin, and his hips lift to meet yours, deep and slow, again and again.

You let your eyes flutter closed, breath mixing with his, hips grinding down in a rhythm that builds and builds.

Namjoon's hands move deliberately now, sliding up from your waist to your chest, cupping you fully in both palms. You arch into his touch instinctively, still leaning against him in that perfect, vulnerable curve. His fingers tease and knead, thumbs brushing over your nipples in lazy, confident strokes. Each pass sends another wave of heat spiraling through you, your body straining with every controlled movement of your hips.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs into your neck, voice low and hoarse. “So beautiful like this.”

Your breath stutters in your throat as his hand slides lower again, past your stomach, fingers finding the spot that’s already aching for more. The moment he starts to circle your clit, your hips falter–only slightly–but enough for him to notice.

“There it is,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple.

It’s all too much and yet not enough. Your chest is heaving, your whole body drawn taut as he continues that steady rhythm from below and above, deep thrusts meeting your slow grind, one hand playing with your breast, the other coaxing that final unraveling from your core.

You clutch at his arms, head lolling back onto his shoulder, a soft moan escaping your lips as the pleasure crests inside you. Your vision blurs at the edges, your body trembling with release, the feeling blooming deep and full and all-consuming. And through it all, Namjoon is holding you, watching you fall apart in his arms, like this is all he’s ever wanted.

As the waves fade, you stay there, chest rising and falling in time with his, both of you quiet, grounded in each other. He doesn’t let go. Just runs his hand over your ribs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, like he’s committing this moment to memory.

And for tonight, you let yourself do the same.

Afterward, the room is thick with the scent of sweat and skin, the sheets tangled loosely around your legs. You’re tucked against Namjoon’s side in that familiar spooning shape, his arm heavy over your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing to yours. His fingertips trace faint, lazy circles into your hipbone, not trying to start anything–just staying close.

But the warmth between you doesn’t last. After a while, he shifts behind you, carefully untangling himself. You feel the bed dip as he slides off, padding silently across the room. He grabs the lighter from his nightstand and slides open the balcony door.

You don’t follow. You never do. He always takes his breaks in solitude, especially when he’s brooding. But tonight… something in your chest aches.

Through the thin veil of the curtains, you see him step into the moonlight, the soft city breeze tousling his hair. He’s shirtless, sweat cooling on his skin, loose drawstring pants sitting low on his hips. His back is to you–broad, strong, etched with faint muscle lines. The rise and fall of his shoulders is slow, contemplative. You’ve seen that attractive silhouette dozens of times, always with a cigarette pinched between his fingers, always after something heavy.

The flame flickers in his palm. A brief glow. Then he lifts it to his lips, inhales. His spine stretches with the movement, neck tilted slightly up as he exhales a plume of smoke into the dark.

You lie there watching, arms wrapped around yourself. And for the first time, the sight of him like that doesn’t comfort you.

It makes your chest hurt.

You don’t know why exactly. Maybe it’s the heaviness in his posture. Or the way the moon catches on his profile, making him look farther away than he is. Or maybe it’s because no matter how close you are–no matter how many times he’s inside you, beside you–there’s a storm circling both of you that no amount of love can shield.

You sit up slowly, sheets rustling. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t turn around at first. Just exhales again, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. “It’s nothing.”

You wait. He knows you want an answer. He doesn’t want to worry you either, but it’ll cause more trouble if he doesn’t tell you.

So finally, he sighs, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “I went to the Leeum Museum event today. That Samsung Frame campaign thing I’m doing.” He pauses. “Someone heckled me on the way out.”

Your stomach drops.

“Heckled?” you repeat.

He nods. “A woman. Probably a sasaeng. She told me I should demand a refund for donating to Kukje. Said the gallery doesn’t deserve my money. And then…” He hesitates. “She said if I keep being involved with them, they won’t stand by idly.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

“I didn’t react. Just kept walking. Everyone else freaked out, but I didn’t want to give it oxygen.”

You press your hand to your chest, steadying your breath. This isn’t the first sign. But it’s the first time they’ve gotten close to him. The first time their threats sounded…real.

He finally glances over his shoulder, catching your expression.

“Do you think someone knows about–”

“No,” you cut in too fast. “I don’t think that’s it.”

A lie. You say it anyway.

Namjoon stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray beside the door and slides it shut behind him. He steps into the room again, the chill of the outside still clinging to his skin.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you say softly, forcing calm into your voice. “People like that… they don’t think rationally. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You continue to offer him gentle, reassuring words. Telling him that you’re glad nothing else happened to him, but you don’t say what you’re really thinking.

That this might be your fault.

That if you hadn’t spoken back, if you hadn’t gone to HYBE that day, if you hadn’t disappeared with him at the after party... if you hadn’t fallen for him, if you hadn’t met him that night at the museum…this might not have escalated.

If you hadn’t let yourself fall into this thing–whatever this is–you wouldn’t be endangering the very person you love.

You blink fast, pushing down the tightness in your throat.

“I should get up,” you murmur, already moving.

Namjoon frowns. “Where are you going?”

You keep your back to him as you step into the bathroom. "I just remembered I need to send a few emails for the exhibition. Some last-minute logistics with the gallery team. The show opens tomorrow, so I should get on that. I’ll shower and then work again in the kitchen."

There’s a quiet stillness between you two as you disappear from his sight. A pause weighing with the things you’re not saying.

His eyes follow you with quiet uncertainty, but he doesn’t stop you.

And you wish he would.

The rest of the evening unfolds in a tense hush. He sits on the sofa with a book, the pages moving more slowly than usual. You sit at the dining table, focused on your laptop. You both steal glances but say little.

Later, it's time to go. Namjoon insists his manager pick you up from the underground garage at Nine One. You accept the offer, graciously.

As you walk toward the elevator, he grabs your hand, pulling you gently toward him. His fingers playfully tease the curve of your palm.

"You’re really not staying?" His voice is low, teasing, and his smirk–along with that deep, amused chuckle–sends a shiver down your spine.

You smile, trying not to melt. "Wish I could. But duty calls for a big day ahead!"

He sighs, nodding. "I feel you. We got a press release to go to for the album, then a weverse live, then some other schedules. Then finally, the comeback performance at Gwanghwamun. First time the fans will see all seven of us together again…so many people from around the world are going to this."

You had forgotten he told you this is all happening the same day. The exhibition and their first group comeback after 4 years. The lack of sleep has been getting to you, and you sincerely hope he hasn’t noticed.

Your expression softens. "You’ll do amazing. All of you will! I can’t wait to hear all about it."

“I can’t wait to hear more about the exhibition. I know so many armys will be going to support this while they’re here too.”

He kisses you goodbye, a little longer than necessary, as if trying to memorize the shape of your lips before you cease to exist for a moment in time. You promise to see each other this weekend before he flies to the states for US promotion schedules, planning to come by your new exhibition. He steps back, and you step out of the door, heart heavy and hopeful all at once.

When you finally arrive home, there’s a single piece of paper folded neatly and tucked into the gap between your apartment door and frame. You pause, eyes narrowing. No stamps, no envelopes–just plain white paper, like a cruel little invitation. Something about it bubbles unease up from your gut.

You glance over your shoulder.

Nothing. No footsteps. No shadows. No camera clicks. Nothing… and yet, the hallway feels colder.

You pick up the note, fingers trembling slightly as you open it. And then, without warning…

Your stomach drops.

“BTS will be having their first comeback live at Gwanghwamun. That is when I will finally act.

There are two things I plan to do.Committing acts of violence that will hurt Kim Namjoon.

Money is no issue for me.

I know staff who are a part of this event that will help me follow through.

He needs to know how disrespectful his actions are to his fans by dating. He needs to understand the pain we feel–the pain all ARMYS will feel if you two ever go public. He needs to know people will leave them.

It will destroy the group. It will ruin their careers.

You need to cut contact and disappear somewhere he can’t find you.

You have 12 hours.

If you tell the police or Namjoon, I will know.

And I won’t hesitate to go to Nine One and do the job myself. Maybe even get a truck to do it.”

There’s more. You almost don’t want to look.

But you do.

A small plastic bag is attached to the bottom of the note. Inside: a lock of hair. Streaked in red. Blood. Who’s hair? Who fucking knows…

Your vision blurs. The letter slips from your hands and flutters to the floor like something out of a horror film.

You collapse to your knees.

Your heart is racing, head pounding, breath caught in your throat. You can’t even scream–there’s no voice, only disbelief. Terror. Rage. Grief.

This is madness. Namjoon is a 31-year-old grown man. You’re 27. You’re both adults–two consenting people who found connection in a chaotic world. Since when did love become something punishable by death threats?

Tears spill hot and fast down your cheeks.

You think about earlier tonight. His arms around you. The way he kissed you with so much passion and desire to consume you. The heaviness in his sighs as he took drags from his cigarette. The confession about being heckled at a museum. And now… this.

Now it’s not just about you. Not just about your privacy or your safety.

This is about Namjoon.

And someone wants to hurt him to prove a point.

And if anything ever happened to Namjoon… If anything happened to him because of you…

You don’t finish the thought. You can’t. Your whole body trembles. You clutch your chest, trying to force your lungs to expand again, but the sobs come hard. You curl in on yourself on the floor, your vision blurred from tears, your thoughts collapsing into chaos.

This is the dread your intuition was warning you about earlier. As if your heart already knew that time would be the last.

You want to scream. You want to throw something. You want to burn the note, flush it, pretend it was never real. But your shaking hands won’t even let you stand up.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. But when your tears finally slow, your hands feel steadier.

You pick up the note with shaking fingers, fold it carefully, and press it flat against your knee.

You don’t know what to do yet. But you do know one thing:

You have to protect him.

Even if that means… he can’t know.

Even if it means walking away.

Even if it shatters both of you.

You will need to do this.

Now.

It’s for the best.

Namjoon wakes up the next morning in a cold sweat, chest rising with shallow breaths. He blinks against the soft gray light seeping through the curtains, skin clammy beneath the sheets. For a moment, he doesn’t know what jolted him out of sleep–only that it lingers.

A heaviness in his ribs. A pull in his gut. Maybe it was the whiskey. A glass before bed, neat, to calm his nerves as he sensed something he couldn’t explain. Probably a bad idea, considering the packed schedule he has today. Morning meetings, the album drop at 1pm, the press release, the weverse lives, more pre-recordings in the afternoon.

He doesn’t have time to be sluggish. Doesn’t have time for these dreams that vanish the second he wakes but leave behind that familiar weight. That something-isn’t-right kind of feeling.

He sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, then glances at his phone on the nightstand. No missed calls. No notifications.

Still, he types out a few messages to you anyway–short, sweet bursts of affection.

[Namjoon]good morning baby.i hope you slept okay.today’s the big day. you’ve got this.also pls eat something. no surviving on barley tea again.

He even adds a goofy selfie of himself brushing his teeth, toothpaste foam in the corner of his mouth. A peace sign. A soft-eyed grin.

Then he sets the phone down and gets up to start his day.

Hours pass.

And the messages remain unread.

Unanswered.

He tells himself it’s fine. You're probably busy. Maybe the gallery Wi-Fi is spotty. Or maybe you're buried under last-minute logistics and emails and don't have the energy to reply. He knows how dedicated you are–how much this show means to you. To both of you.

But that odd feeling from last night doesn’t quite leave him. It curls tighter in his chest with every minute of silence.

Still, he checks his phone more times than usual.

He heads to the location for the album press release with the rest of the members, waving at the crowd of fans gathered outside the place. The event passes smoothly. Then the album drops! Nerves. Excitement. He hopes fans are loving the album as much as they did. He feels a sense of relief from finally seeing it out. Hoping that this album will open up more freedom and potential for them in the near future. Everyone’s in good spirits. There’s laughter, banter, a strong sense of being back. Afterward, they head back to HYBE for their album weverse live to discuss everything and anything to do with the album. Another round of fans outside, flashing lights, energy.

Namjoon goes through all of it like clockwork. Business as usual, after all.

By the time the group wraps up for day 1 of album promo, they’re packed back into separate vans to head home. Namjoon is quiet. Jimin, sitting beside him, glances over.

“Why do you keep refreshing your apps like that?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow.

Namjoon exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I messaged her this morning. Still nothing.”

Jimin shrugs lightly. “Ah, well she’s probably just slammed. From the moment I met her, I knew she was your type–hardworking, a little chaotic upstairs,” he teases, tapping his temple. “But smart. Exactly like you.”

Namjoon huffs a small laugh. He appreciates the joke. He agrees, too. You’re probably overwhelmed with work. That has to be it. He’s feeling the same after all.

But as they near their apartment building, his phone screen is still empty. No reply. Not even a read receipt.

He sends you another message before bed that night. He says he hopes the first day of the exhibition went well. That he’s proud of you. That he wants to stop by tomorrow evening if his schedule opens up.

He adds a small note about additional promo schedules and the tour. It’s getting close. He’s about leave for the US to do a Spotify event and be on Jimmy Fallon again. He just needs to get through the Netflix performance live stream.

He’s excited, of course. But with this, it also means he won’t see you for a while because of all the crazy schedules and time abroad. He’s seriously considering finding a way for you to travel with them under the pretense of researching museums or writing about art in different cities. Or maybe having you be a part time staff. He’d tag along with you on off-days, visit exhibitions together, hold your hand in cities where no one would bat an eye.

It’s a dream he’s been thinking about more and more lately.

But when he finally turns off the lights and closes his eyes, his chest is tight. He hasn’t felt this kind of restlessness in months.

Not since before you.

He flips over, checks his phone again.

Still nothing.

The sun rises, and the silence remains.

In the early morning, Namjoon is running through final rehearsal in HYBE’s practice room with the rest of the group before heading out to film a performance video for Studio CHOOM. The music blares, bodies move in sync, sweat glistens on their brows–but even in the middle of the choreography, Namjoon’s mind drifts.

The second the song ends, he leans over to grab his water bottle and wipes his face with a towel. His brows are furrowed.

“You okay, hyung?” Taehyung asks.

Namjoon nods slowly. “Haven’t heard from Y/N in two days.”

Jin raises a brow. “Did you guys fight?”

“No. Nothing like that,” Namjoon says, voice low. “Everything was fine when we saw each other. She came over. Did things. Talked.”

Yoongi, sitting on the bench behind them, crosses his arms. “You sure she’s not just busy?”

Namjoon hesitates.

That’s what he’d been telling himself. But something’s gnawing at him. Something he can’t shake.

He thinks back to when he was spooning you. The way you were quiet. When he went out for a smoke. The moment you got up abruptly, saying you had to shower. The way you didn’t meet his eyes as you sat at the kitchen table and focused too hard on your laptop screen. It wasn’t like you. Not fully.

And then, he remembers the conversation.

The heckler at the museum.

That woman.

The one who confronted him during the Samsung event earlier in the week, saying he should request a refund for his donations to Kukje Gallery. Telling him the museum didn’t deserve his support. Pleading for him to stop affiliating himself with it or else “they” wouldn’t stand by idle.

At the time, he’d brushed it off. A sasaeng, probably. Someone delusional. But he hadn’t missed the flicker in your eyes when he told you. You said it probably wasn’t about you two. You’d dismissed it immediately.

Too immediately.

“That has to be it,” Namjoon mutters under his breath, dropping his towel.

“What?” Jungkook asks.

Namjoon looks at the group. “The heckler. I think she’s connected to those sasaengs who have been stalking the HYBE building lately. I wonder if Y/N ran into them when she came by that one time, but she would’ve told me about it.”

Silence falls over the room.

Jungkook frowns. “Hyung… if that happened, then maybe this could be serious.”

“Simply mentioning those sasaengs, you already know it’s not good,” Yoongi mutters. “You’ve seen what those people are capable of.”

“They’ve driven out other girlfriends before,” Hoseok adds quietly. “Maknae line, especially.”

“In my case, my ex was the insane one..” Jimin said, “Though I know Y/N is not like that at all, especially from the times I saw her.” “Right!” Jungkook further supported.

Namjoon sits on the bench, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

You would have told him if that happened though. He knows you would’ve… wouldn’t you?

Unless you were trying to protect him.

Unless you didn’t want to burden this on him knowing he’s busy.

Unless you thought disappearing was the best thing you could do to keep him focused on his goals.

The idea hits him hard.

He gets up suddenly. His chest aches, breath shallow, panic blooming in the back of his mind.

“Hyung?” Taehyung asks.

Namjoon doesn’t answer. He unlocks his phone and tries again.

Another message might be good to send, right?

This time, a voice memo.

“Y/N… it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, but please–please just text me. Call me. Anything. I don’t care if you’re busy. I don’t care if you’re mad about something. I just need to know you’re okay.”

He hits send.

Then lowers his hand, staring at the blank screen once more. His members surround him, comforting him and worried about you.

For the first time ever, he’s pleasing to God, hoping you’re okay.

Namjoon pushes himself through the chaos of the day, back-to-back final rehearsals for netflix live show tonight, press interviews, stylists pulling him every which way, clinging to one thing: the hope that he’ll see you soon tomorrow. The scale of it all is impossible to ignore.

The Netflix comeback show is massive. Bigger than anything they’ve done in years. Seoul feels like it’s holding its breath for them. Banners line the streets, cameras are everywhere, production crews moving with speed through the venue. Thousands of fans already filling the streets filled with seats, their voices rising in waves even before the show begins. And beyond that, millions more waiting behind screens across the world, counting down to the moment BTS steps back into the light.

It should be enough.

It is enough.

But you’re not here.

And that absence is loud.

Too loud.

He sits in the styling chair, shoulders squared, cape draped over him as hands move around his face and hair with practiced efficiency. Foundation, powder, brush strokes across his cheekbones. Someone adjusts the fall of his fringe. Another fixes his in-ear monitor.

Voices blur around him.

Schedules. Timing cues. Last-minute changes.

He hears none of it.

All he can think about is you.

Your phone, still unanswered. Your place, empty. The way you just… disappeared.

His jaw tightens.

Focus.

He tries to anchor himself. This matters. The members. The fans. The years they’ve waited to stand on a stage like this again. He knows what’s at stake. He knows what he owes.

But his mind keeps slipping.

What if something actually happened to you?

What if he missed it?

What if—

“Namjoon.”

A hand taps his shoulder.

He blinks, eyes snapping back into focus. Jin stands beside him, already half-done with his own styling, lips pressed into a half-smile that doesn’t quite hide the concern in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Jin asks lightly, tilting his head. “It’s not nerves, right? Don’t tell me you forgot how to perform after all this time.”

There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but Namjoon knows better.

Jin sees him.

Sees the cracks forming.

Knows something’s wrong.

Namjoon exhales quietly, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself upright again. “All good,” he says, steady. Convincing. “You ready to head out on stage?”

Jin studies him for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he grins, snapping into character. “Yes, sir.”

He salutes.

Namjoon groans, shaking his head, the tension easing just slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Say that after we kill this stage,” Jin shoots back.

A voice calls them.

“Five minutes to standby!”

The room shifts instantly. Energy sharpens. Members gather. Final checks. Microphones secured. Jackets straightened.

And then—

They’re moving.

The roar of the crowd hits before they even step out. Deafening. Electric. Alive.

And suddenly, Namjoon remembers exactly who he is.

RM of BTS.

He steps onto the stage, lights blinding for a split second before the world settles into something familiar. The beat drops. The opening track from Arirang surges through the cityscape, bass reverberating through his chest.

And he’s in it.

Fully.

Performing like he never left.

His voice cuts clean through the air, controlled and powerful. His body moves with precision, muscle memory taking over as he flows between verses and choreography. The members around him, locked in sync, feeding off each other’s energy like they always have.

They’re back.

Song after song, the set unfolds. New tracks from Arirang… Swim, Normal, Hooligan, Body to Body, FYA, merry-go-round… raw and charged with everything they’ve carried through the years. Then the classics slip in like old friends.

“Dynamite.” “Butter.” “DNA.” “Spring Day.”

The crowd sings every word. Thousands of voices rising together, shaking the stadium to its core.

Ments come and go. Laughter. Stories. Gratitude poured out in waves. Namjoon speaks about the album, about time, about growth. About how much they’ve missed this.

And for a while, it feels real.

Grounding.

Like maybe he can hold it together.

Until the last song.

“Into the Sun.”

The opening notes are softer. Warmer. The kind of song that settles into your bones before you even realize it.

A confession.

A promise.

A longing.

He grips the mic tighter as he begins his verse, voice steady at first, but something shifts as the lyrics unfold.

Running toward someone. Chasing light. A vow to go anywhere if they call. To meet the dawn together.

His chest tightens.

Because all he can think about is you.

Where are you?

Would you even call him?

Would you let him run to you if you did?

By the final chorus, his voice wavers.

Just slightly.

But enough.

He turns away for a second, swallowing hard, blinking fast as the lights blur at the edges. When he faces forward again, there’s a shine in his eyes he can’t quite hide.

The song ends.

The crowd erupts.

He lets out a breath, stepping forward, lifting the mic again.

“Sorry,” he says, voice softer now, a small, breathy laugh slipping through. “It’s just… it’s been so long since we’ve seen you all.”

The crowd responds instantly. Cheers. Shouts. Love thrown back at him tenfold.

“We made this song thinking about you,” he continues, nodding, trying to keep it together. “Wanting to come back and see you as soon as possible.”

It’s not a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

The members, who are also tearing up from the sudden emotions of performing together, glance at him. They know his truth.

They don’t say anything.

They don’t need to.

The show wraps safely. Clean. Perfect. Exactly what it needed to be.

But as the lights dim and the crowd’s energy begins to settle, as they bow and wave and take in the moment they’ve waited so long for—

Namjoon feels it again.

That pull.

That ache.

That need.

Because standing there, surrounded by everything he’s ever worked for, all he can think about…Is how badly he wants to run to you.

After all is done, the night ends. The next morning, at the earliest time of opening before large crowds rush in, he hopes you'll be there, tucked behind some gallery wall with a clipboard in hand, getting ready to greet guests with that soft, collected voice of yours. Maybe you’d catch his eye, give him that tiny smile like you always do when you see him. Maybe you'd finally explain everything.

He’s still telling himself it’s just stress. Just distance. Just temporary.

Wearing a mask, baseball cap, a Stussy 8-ball oversized white T-shirt and loose black pants, Namjoon slips through the doors of the Kukje Gallery quietly. Like he always does when he wants to remain invisible.

At the reception table, he gently approaches the staff.

“Hi… I’m looking for the art curator, L/N Y/N,” he says politely, trying to sound professional. “I’m here about a concept discussion. It’s in regard to one of the pieces in the exhibition.”

The staff member blinks, recognition flickering in their eyes, but something shifts. Their smile falters. And Namjoon sees it.

The moment something’s wrong.

“She’s not here,” the receptionist says carefully.

He straightens. “What do you mean? Is she out for a bit or–?”

“No… she’s no longer here with us.”

Namjoon’s heart stutters. No longer here… with us? What the hell does that mean?

He tries to breathe. “I’m sorry. Could you clarify? Did something happen to her?”

Please don’t say it.

Don’t say it like she’s dead. Don’t say something happened, that you were found somewhere, lifeless. That the last time he kissed you goodbye would be the final time. Because if that’s true, if something happened to you, Namjoon knows–he will never stop hunting down for the person responsible. He’ll burn the world down if he has to.

“There’s no need to worry.” A voice breaks through. Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee steps up beside him, graceful and calm as ever. “Mr. Kim Namjoon, yes? Let’s speak in my office.”

Namjoon follows her wordlessly, the whole gallery feeling too quiet, too hollow, like something vital has already left the space.

Inside the office, she closes the door gently behind them and they sit down in the chairs.

“She came in Friday morning… 2 days ago,” she says, motioning for him to sit. “She looked… shaken. Said she needed to resign.”

“Resign?” Namjoon repeats, voice hoarse. “On the day of the exhibition?”

“Yes. I asked her how she could just walk away, especially when this show was partially built on her vision. She hesitated for a while but eventually said there was a family emergency and she had to leave the country immediately.”

Namjoon clenches his jaw.

Lies. He can hear it in every word. You wouldn’t do this–not without telling him. Not unless something serious, something threatening, forced your hand.

“She didn’t tell me where,” the Chairwoman continues, sighing. “But she looked… resolved. Sad, but sure. I told her if she ever finds her way back, Kukje would welcome her with open arms. Not every institution would offer that. But I mean it. It would be devastating to lose a voice like hers forever.”

Namjoon nods, swallowing back the ache building in his throat.

“It really would.”

Namjoon manages a polite thank-you before getting up from his chair, but his chest is burning.

This isn’t just a disappearance. It’s an erasure.

Where did you go?

Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee gives Namjoon a moment to gather himself before softly gesturing toward the hallway just beyond her office.

“You should see it, Namjoon-ssi. Before you leave. The exhibition. She… she hoped you’d come. Told me that just yesterday. Said she wanted you to like it.”

His breath catches.

So even when she was preparing to vanish, you were still thinking about him. About this.

He walks the gallery slowly, shoulders hunched, his cap pulled low as he slips into the first showroom. It’s early still, before the official opening hours. There’s no press, no clinking glasses, no polite applause echoing in the halls. Just the art. Quiet, reverent.

And all of it, unmistakably touched by your vision.

Roni Horn’s Untitled (But the boomerang that returns is not the same one I threw) glows from within its translucent glass body. A massive, glacial cylinder that looks cold to the eye but pulses with something warmer beneath the surface. Namjoon stands before it, remembering how he once stared at this piece for nearly an hour after a bad press cycle. You’d whispered the title aloud once while referencing circularity in memory. He hadn’t forgotten.

He moves on to Joel Shapiro’s geometric sculpture–its jagged posture feels like a body caught in motion, or collapse. He lingers at Felix Gonzalez-Torres’ soft-lit portrait, a piece made of nothing but absence and longing. Lee Bae’s thick charcoal textures rise from the canvas with quiet defiance. Yoo Yongkuk’s brilliant, controlled color burns behind his eyes even after he steps away.

Room by room, it becomes more unbearable.

These were his pieces. His personal collection. But somehow they feel changed. Transformed. They’re no longer just objects. They’re reflections of him curated by you–by someone who understood what each one meant. Someone who translated his silence into language.

Then he enters the final room.

It’s small, intimate, the lighting dimmed to a softer hue.

And there it is.

His first real acquisition. The painting that marked the beginning of his journey as a collector. He remembers staring at it in the corner of an old Seoul gallery years ago, overwhelmed by its simplicity–just brush, pigment, and space–and feeling like it had cracked something open in his chest.

Beside it, a wall label.

It’s longer than the others, a curatorial note. He steps closer.

"‘Burnt Umber & Ultramarine’ by Yun Hyong-keun resonates with the tension between discipline and surrender. The vertical strokes, layered in deep umber and ultramarine, evoke doors, windows–passages. This particular piece was the first acquired by Kim Namjoon, who believes that art should be accessible to all–bridging it to anyone who finds joy in it, because art, at its core, makes people happy. It remains the cornerstone of his collection. To him, it is not just pigment on canvas, it is a quiet reckoning. A reminder that even in restraint, something expansive can emerge. That surrender, when chosen, is its own kind of strength. And that love, real love, often lives in the spaces where we let go, not hold on.

Namjoon swears he hears your voice as he reads it. Like you’re there beside him, whispering every word through the gallery air.

His throat tightens. He tries to swallow, but it doesn’t go down.

You wrote this for him.

And somewhere between the lines–between “his collection”, “surrender” and “real love”–you’ve left something else. Something unspoken. Something tender and afraid and impossibly real.

You loved him.

Do you still do now?

His eyes begin to sting, and he exhales shakily, turning slightly away from the painting. He lifts his cap, dragging a hand over his face.

So this is what’s left.

A ghost of your voice on the wall, fragments of who you were scattered among the frames. And a man who still wants to believe that none of this is over.

But it feels like an ending.

Like everything golden is beginning to fade into ash.

He leaves the gallery with the evening light casting long shadows down the alley, footsteps quickening. His head buzzes with thoughts.

You mentioned many times that you lived in Myeongdong. But he never visited. It was too hard given his status and the bustling location. You also said your social circle in Korea was small, mostly work-related. Few close friends. No family in the country. Where else could you be?

A hotel?

Abroad?

You mentioned growing up in San Francisco, California. Though is that still a place you call home? Or is it elsewhere?

Maybe social media would be able to tell.

He pulls out his phone, fingers shaking slightly, and opens Instagram.

He searches your username: @belleame

Nothing.

Did you change it?

He searches now with your name.

Again, nothing.

He refreshes. Checks the spelling. Tries again. He checks his DMs that you had with him.

“This account no longer exists.”

His stomach flips. No.

He checks your Twitter. Facebook. Pinterest. Tiktok.

Gone. Every account. Deleted. Erased.

Panic crashes through him like a wave.

You’re gone. Not just physically. You’ve wiped yourself clean from the internet. From him.

No. No, no, no.

He opens his photo gallery, frantically scrolling. There: you, laughing with a cocktail at some bar in Seongsu. You, blurry in motion on an early Han River walk. You, lying beside him, tangled in bedsheets, your skin glowing in golden morning light. You in front of a Moon Jar at the Gallery Hyundai. You in front of a painting at the Leeum Museum. You looking directly at him, smiling like you already knew he was going to fall for you.

You existed.

You do exist.

But now?

Namjoon sinks onto a bench near his apartment, breath shallow. He thinks about what could have scared you off like this. Something happened. Something bad. Something you’re trying to shield him from. And yet, he can’t help but think:

Was I too careless? Was it the conversation we had that night? The exhibition? The way I kissed her hand in front of the members like I didn’t care who saw?

His thoughts spiral.

He briefly considers hiring a private investigator. But he has no address. No names. No leads. And everything public about you is gone.

You didn’t just leave.

You vanished.

Later that afternoon, he sits at his kitchen counter in silence, cracking open a cold beer with trembling fingers–not for pleasure, but to shut off the racing thoughts in his mind. The liquid goes down bitter and empty. He should be packing to get on the flight to NYC later that evening, but he has no energy.

He doesn’t remember sending the message to the group chat. Just that Jimin and Yoongi are suddenly at his door thirty minutes later.

Yoongi brings soju. Jimin brings food.

They don’t say much. Don’t push. Just keep him grounded.

Namjoon’s hands clench around the bottle. “She’s gone.”

“Did she tell you? She didn’t leave a message, did she?” Jimin asks.

Namjoon shakes his head.

“She deleted her social media,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Even her exhibition contacts. She left the country. Or at least said she did. I don’t know what’s real.”

Yoongi watches him quietly. “And you really think this has something to do with the sasaengs?”

Namjoon nods. “She wouldn’t run unless something scared her off. I can feel it.”

Silence stretches between them.

“I think she tried to protect you, hyung,” Jimin murmurs.

That lands like a punch.

Because deep down, Namjoon knows it’s true.

You vanished not because you didn’t care.

You vanished because you cared too much.

“We’re leaving to New York, you know. Promotions, interviews, late night shows, all that crap–and then back here to start the world tour.” He pauses. “Are you really gonna let this derail everything?”

Jimin shoots him a sharp look from where he sits curled up on the couch. “Yoongi-hyung.”

“What?” Yoongi shrugs. “I’m not saying it to be cold. But someone needs to say it. He’s the group leader after all and we need his guidance more than ever right now.”

Namjoon stays silent, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his beer bottle.

Yoongi crosses his arms. “Look. I know this is hell. I can’t even imagine how I’d be holding it together if I were you. But the reality is, we’ve got shit to do. Fans are watching. Staff are watching. And God knows if those sasaengs are too.”

He looks meaningfully at Namjoon. “You can’t let them catch wind that something’s off. You think they’re dangerous now? Imagine if they start connecting dots, if they sniff out what really happened. This could get worse. You need to keep your head on straight. For your safety, and for hers. Especially if what she did was a sacrifice to protect you.”

Namjoon swallows hard.

He hates how right Yoongi is.

Because as much as his heart is breaking, as much as the thought of you out there, alone and scared, twists his gut–it’s true. He has a duty. To his members. To ARMY. To you.

His feelings, messy and raw, have to wait.

But still, it hurts.

Like a pair of jeans worn too thin at the knees, stretched to their limits. Torn.

But he can stitch it back together.

He has to.

Jimin gets up and walks over, placing a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder.

“Hyung,” he says gently. “I know it feels impossible right now. But maybe… maybe this is a weird kind of fate.”

Namjoon looks up at him.

“You’re going on a world tour,” Jimin continues. “Think about it. You’ll be in every major city. Maybe she’s in one of them. You’ll get to check every corner of the globe without making it suspicious.”

Namjoon lets out a shaky breath. “I’ve been thinking about hiring someone.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

“A private investigator,” Namjoon clarifies. “Or someone discreet. Maybe pull in some of our trusted staff too. No one who would leak anything, obviously.”

Jimin brightens. “See? That’s a good plan. That’s something solid to work with. It’ll be okay, hyung. We’ll figure this out.”

Namjoon offers him a faint smile. “If I find her… then it’s meant to be. I’ll bring her home.”

Yoongi, quiet now, gives a single nod.

Namjoon’s voice drops to a whisper. “But if I don’t… maybe that’s the universe telling me to stop.”

Jimin frowns. “Don’t say that.”

“No, I’m serious,” Namjoon replies. “Maybe I’m just not meant to have that kind of love. Maybe it’s not part of my path.”

He stares down at the rim of his bottle.

“But I’ll search. I’ll keep trying… until the very end of this tour.”

The kitchen is quiet for a beat.

And then Yoongi murmurs, almost too quietly to hear, “Then let’s hope this tour leads you back to her.”

Namjoon nods.

Please, he thinks.

Let it lead me back to her.

Approaching the end of March. Several hours later, BTS boarded a flight to New York City for their Arirang US promotions. Namjoon proceeded with things professionally, after the hope he got from his 2 members. The others started to see him slowly healing in this way, and also offered their help to find you somehow.

Then not long after, official kickoff of their long-awaited world tour back in Korea, starting in Goyang. Then… across the globe. City after city. Stadiums were filled to the brim, sold out shows lined their schedules, and everyone welcomed them with a ferocity that reminded them just how deeply they were loved.

Namjoon performed with practiced precision–his body moved, his voice roared through the mic, his verses hit with power–but somewhere behind his stage face, a fog lingered.

Every city they touched down in, he made time for himself in the day. Museums were his escape, his solace, his ritual.

At the Getty Center in LA, he wandered the tranquil gardens and stood silently in front of Van Gogh’s Irises, wondering what you would’ve said about the brushwork. In San Francisco, he slipped into the SFMOMA early one morning, gazing at Rothko’s haunting blocks of color and thinking of your theories on tension and void. In Chicago, he stood in front of the Thorne Miniature Rooms at the Art Institute, remembering how you once said small things contain the biggest truths.

But there was no sign of you.

A month passed.

They flew across the ocean to begin the Europe leg of the tour. Namjoon’s mind still wandered during car rides and long dressing room waits. He spent quiet mornings at the Tate Modern in London, admiring the striking architecture and letting the works of Jenny Holzer and Anselm Kiefer soak into him. In Berlin, he stood outside the Hamburger Bahnhof in the rain for twenty minutes before going in, something about the chill keeping him grounded. At the Musée d'Orsay in Paris, he looked at sculptures that reminded him of your back, your voice, your sighs in bed.

Still nothing. Not a trace of you.

Two months slipped by. Then the Latin America leg began. Columbia. Brazil, Chile, Argentina.

Cities felt too close to home now. He kept hoping you might be there. Just around the corner. In a crowd. Behind sunglasses. He went to museums in all of them. Small ones. Big ones. Hidden ones. Every time he entered a gallery, he scanned the room with anticipation lodged like a stone in his throat.

But again, you weren’t there.

In the liminal weeks between Latin American and Asia leg, the group returned to Korea. Namjoon, driven by a stubborn ache, went to the Kukje Gallery the very next day. The same receptionist. The same polished halls. The same stillness. He hoped–just maybe–you’d be drawn there again, like a phantom returning to familiar soil.

But you weren’t there either.

He retraced his steps. The coffee shop in Seongsu. The Han River path you both liked. The museum where you first held his hand in public. He even sat at the bench outside his apartment building where you once waited for him with tteokbokki at 1AM.

No sign. No shadow. Not even a whisper.

Then came Tokyo, Taipei, Bangkok. Many more cities that blurred together.

Three months had passed now, and exhaustion pressed hard into his bones.

At every show, Namjoon’s eyes wandered the crowd as he rapped, looking for you. As if he might spot you swaying, glowing, watching him like you once did.

But the illusion always faded with the lights.

Maybe you didn’t want to be found.

Maybe you’d moved on.

Maybe you were with someone else now–laughing with them, sharing art with them, kissing them, touching them. Maybe you were planning a life together. Maybe the “no kids” talk you used to be so firm about was just another thing you could change. Maybe the version of you that loved him was locked in a past life, and the real you had already closed that chapter.

These thoughts consumed him, haunted him. He smiled on stage. But at night, he wrote.

And when the year turned, everything felt different.

Twelve months had passed.

So much had changed. And yet, in his heart, you still lingered.

Namjoon poured everything into his fifth solo album. He wrote about aging, longing, about distance, about miscommunication, about that final night in the bath with your back against his chest. He wrote about regret. He wrote about love. He wrote about the ache of an incomplete ending.

One song in particular, the one no one would hear but him, ended with a question he never dared ask out loud: Why didn’t you say goodbye properly?

The company suggested he go on a solo tour. Namjoon accepted. It’ll happen 2 months from now.

He thought it might help him move on.

Work. More work.

It was all he could cling to.

Then one rainy afternoon, the knock came.

He was in his studio, deep into reworking a track when the door creaked open.

Jimin stepped inside.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said.

Namjoon blinked. “What is it?”

Jimin handed him an envelope. No markings. No stamp. Just a single postcard inside.

Namjoon turned it over in his hands and studied the front image: the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Sleek lines of glass and steel, the iconic oculus rising above the facade. A place he had walked through twice, a year ago, yet never with you.

A place you both once said you wanted to see together as it was right in your hometown.

He wanted to learn more about your world by going there, only to miss you more in your absence.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

“Flip it over.”

Namjoon turned it.

A message.

“To be loved accurately and to love accurately. I’m probably the one who knows least about how accurately my love reaches you. I don't think it'll ever reach anymore. But there's a place I want to go to. Could you meet me there if your heart still wavers?”

Namjoon’s breath left him in a single, unsteady exhale. His eyes scanned to the bottom.

Your signature.

Your writing.

His heart exploded in his chest.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “I went when we were on tour and never saw her there.”

Jimin shrugged softly. “I’ve been checking our fan mail every day with my manager. Just in case something ever showed up. For a whole year.”

Namjoon stared at him. “Jimin…”

“It came in this morning,” Jimin said. “There’s no return address. Just that.”

Namjoon looked back at the image.

He didn’t need anything else. The address was the image.

“I’m going,” he said, already grabbing his phone.

“Do it, hyung.”

And with the powerhouse of HYBE behind him, he made it happen.

A red-eye flight. A discreet hotel booking. It would leak eventually, knowing sasaengs. But HYBE would spin it as a “business trip” in San Francisco if the media ever asked. He packed clothes. A sketchbook. A notebook. His camera. One of the poems you liked. He didn't sleep on the plane. He replayed questions he wanted to ask you in his head over and over.

Will you really be there? Will you remember me? Have you changed? Do you still love me?

And then the final thought: What if you don’t show up at all?

But he had to go.

He had to.

He touched down, barely took time to check into his hotel, and then made his way to the SFMOMA.

The moment he stepped inside, he felt breathless.

The soaring atrium with its skylit oculus poured daylight down the sweeping white staircase. Clean lines of glass and steel curved into quiet symmetry. The space hummed with subdued footsteps and the low murmur of strangers’ voices.

And then—

There you were.

Your back exposed in a flowing blue sundress, hair pinned up, shoulders soft. Standing still before a painting.

It was a Yun Hyong-keun.

Bleeding into the canvas in layered shades of blue.

Namjoon’s heart seized.

He took a step forward and stood next to you.

And you turned.

“Did I keep you waiting long?” you asked, voice soft, eyes gleaming. It’s obviously been too long. You decided to go to New York City to live with your old friend after the chaos, and go work where the dream started at the Guggenheim. You needed to lay low for awhile. Being too close to him would’ve been too hard. You blocked any mentions of his name on social media to save your heart. You hid in the museums staff rooms keeping yourself busy, avoiding the guests you used to love seeing the art out there. It was only just recently you found a new job here, thanks to your old connect at the Kukje. Back to your roots. Back to the city that raised you. It felt bittersweet to come back. And that's when you decided to gather the courage and send him the postcard.

He knew there's so much you had to tell him, but his first reaction was just to let out a breath that felt like it carried a year’s worth of pain. Frustration. Relief. All in one.

“Are you kidding me?” he said, chuckling through the wetness already forming in his eyes. “I went through hell because of you.”

You likely did too, he thought. Probably even more than him.

“I know...I know,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry, like really. There was just so much–”

“No,” he interrupts, stepping closer, gaze fixed on yours. “Don’t be. Without you, my life felt empty, but I rationalized why you did it. I realized it not long after.”

Your heart skipped. Maybe it even stopped.

“I felt the same way...It was painful to leave like I did,” you said, voice cracking. “But even after all this time, would you… would you still be willing to give me some of your time again? In exchange, I’ll give you some of my sleep if you need it.”

Namjoon reached for your hand.

“The answer is always, yes. As long as you come home with me.” “I will,”

And this time, he didn’t let go.

the end. a/n: hi guys!! how did you like this fic? i really wanted to do a canon/idolverse fic for the longest time, but the issue was... i needed it to be as canon as possible just for immersion sake and reference a lot of things the members mention (in this case, namjoon). whenever i've read fics of this AU, i immediately get pulled out of the world once theres references or mentions of things the members never say or do or OCs. haha so this was my take on it. this may be my last fic in a long time due to work having me busy as well as life. i hope you enjoy this story, and happy birthday namjoon. i hope this fic never finds you haha, but if it does, please do not judge me at all i begggg

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