#second nature

He isn’t rude—of course not! But he can come off kind of cold to people who don’t know him well. Quiet. A nod instead of a greeting, a grunt instead of a full sentence. You’ve seen him go hours without saying more than ten words.

But anyone who actually bothers to pay attention can see that Yoongi isn’t actually cold. 

He remembers birthdays without prompting. He holds doors open for strangers and lets ajummas cut ahead of him in lines. He helps his friends carry groceries, pays the bar tab, never asks for credit. Never expects thanks. Never lingers long enough to accept praise if it’s offered. He does the kindest, most thoughtful things you’ve ever seen as if it comes as naturally to him as breathing.

He’s just… guarded. Reserved. Selective.

The complete opposite of you, really. It was clear from the moment you met, years ago. He was quiet where you were talkative, steady where you were restless, soft-spoken where you were loud and brash. It should’ve made you incompatible.

You were the one who broke the ice.

You inserted yourself into his life, infiltrated his friend group in order to wear him down. And once you were in, you got away with so much. You’d wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind when he was minding his own business, or ruffle his hair just to hear his whiny “hajimaaaaa!” You called him things like “Yoongi-boongi” just to see the exasperation in his face.

He never mirrored your loud affection, not exactly, but you learned to notice the ways he gave it back. He’d bring you a drink before you even asked, always exactly the way you liked it. He’d tilt his phone toward you when he found a meme he knew would make you laugh. He’d save the best pieces of meat at dinner and fill your plate without making eye contact.

You’d lie awake sometimes, replaying the smallest moments. You wondered if it was intentional. If he liked your attention. If he liked you.

Because, god, you definitely liked him. He pulled you in without even trying. You were addicted to his voice even though you barely got to hear it. You’d catch yourself staring when he did the most mundane things—stretching his arms overhead with a groan, fiddling with his rings, frowning at his phone, pursing his lips in thought.

It felt like you were walking around with a secret scrawled across your forehead. You knew you were being obvious, but you couldn’t help the way you always found a reason to be near him.

You hoped it wasn’t one-sided. That the pull you felt toward him was mutual.

And then Park Jimin had to open his big fucking mouth.

It happened a few weeks ago. The whole group’s schedules aligned for once, miraculously, so you got together for dinner. You were crammed into the corner of the booth, pressed up against Yoongi’s side—thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, using every excuse to touch him. You weren’t even thinking about it, though. Being in his space had just become second nature. He never pulled away, so why would you stop?

But maybe you were being more touchy than usual, because Jimin leaned across the table, chin resting on palm like a cartoon villain.

“Are you two finally a thing, or what?” he teased.

The whole table burst into laughter. 

“Finally?” Taehyung chimed in, speaking around a mouthful of rice. “I thought they were already dating! Look at how they’re clinging to each other!”

“Yoongi-hyung, blink twice if you need help,” Jungkook joked, reaching for his drink.

Seokjin made kissing noises. Someone else banged on the table. It wasn’t cruel. Group outings were always like this—loud and chaotic, everyone talking over each other at once, ribbing each other harmlessly. It was all in good fun. The kind of thing that came with years of friendship. You knew that. You did.

But Yoongi—he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t complain, or whine, or make a joke, or even look at you at all. He just shifted slightly in the booth to create a small but sudden gap between you. And then he picked up his chopsticks again and went back to eating like nothing had happened.

The entire right side of your body went cold where his body no longer touched yours.

You tried to shake it off. You forced yourself to laugh with everyone else, pretended your stomach didn’t drop. You told yourself not to read too much into it. Maybe he was just uncomfortable being the center of attention. Maybe he just didn’t know how to react.

But it was too late. Your thoughts were already racing with what his reaction could possibly mean.

What if he didn’t like you back? What if he didn’t actually like you at all, even as a friend? What if he was just too polite, or too passive, or too indifferent, to tell you how he really felt? What if he had tolerated you clinging to him like a shadow, but now, faced with the possibility that people might see it for what it was, couldn’t put distance between you fast enough?

So you started giving him space.

You didn’t bring it up. You were too embarrassed, too afraid that if you said the words out loud, they’d confirm the thing you didn’t want to be true. Instead, you just stopped reaching for him.

You didn’t lean against his side, or loop your arm through his when you walked together, or ruffle his hair. In fact, the next few times people got together, you didn’t even get close enough to do any of those things. You gravitated toward the opposite side of the room and filled your time with other people. 

And Yoongi didn’t say anything.

Still hasn’t, actually. Weeks have gone by.

Now, it’s your birthday. 

You love your birthday. You’re the type who starts counting down the days weeks in advance, dropping subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints into conversation. The type to plan your outfit and choose your nail color to match the theme. You live for the attention, for the excuse to celebrate yourself, for the way your friends always go out of their way to make it feel like your day. You should be buzzing with excitement right now—bouncing off the walls, playlist blasting while you get ready, taking selfies in the mirror at every step of the process.

And you’re trying. Sort of. You did your makeup nice. You’re wearing an outfit you feel pretty in. Everything should feel perfect.

But… all you can think about is how for every other thing, Yoongi would be here. Even if it was usually by force.

He never liked going out, and you knew that. But that never stopped you from calling him up anyway—whining, wheedling, telling him to stop being such an old man and come play. And he never complained, not really, when you demanded he be your driver-slash-bodyguard-slash-shoulder-to-lean-on whenever you went out. 

He’d show up. Every time. He’d keep an eye on your drink, grumble about the music, but let you drag him onto the dance floor for one song if you begged.

But this year? Nothing. No texts. No calls. No Yoongi. Not since you stonewalled him.

You sigh, stepping back and eyeing yourself critically. You look good. You do. You just don’t feel good. It’s like you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s night. Like you’re on the outside looking in.

Everyone else is already on their way to the club, so you might as well get going. You’ll dance with your friends, drown your thoughts in tequila, and maybe you’ll end up having a happy birthday anyway.

You slip on your jacket, grab your purse, and head outside.

You’re halfway down the front steps, heels clicking against concrete, when the glow from a pair of headlights cuts across the sidewalk. 

You don’t think anything of it. At a passing glance, the car doesn’t match the description of the rideshare you ordered. It’s not the silver sedan that’s supposed to arrive in ten minutes. 

But then you get a good look at it.

Is that… Yoongi’s car? What the fuck?

The engine shuts off and the door swings open. Yoongi steps out fast. He looks frayed at the seams, like he had barely made the decision to be here before his foot was on the gas.

“Can we talk?”

You blink, genuinely stunned. “Uh. Hi? What are you doing here?”

“I saw the groupchat,” he explains, walking up until he’s standing at the bottom of the steps. “I figured you were getting ready to head out.”

“I’m waiting on an Uber,” you say, waving your phone in your hand. “It’s supposed to be here in a few minutes, so—”

“Cancel it,” he interrupts.

Your brows draw together. “What?”

His hands rake through his hair. “Just—fuck. Please cancel it,” he says. “You always ride with me. I’m your designated driver, right? That’s our thing.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “I—”

“Except for this time. This time, you didn’t even text me. You haven’t texted me, or talked to me, or even acknowledged my existence in weeks.”

Your fingers curl tightly around your phone. The streetlight casts a soft glow across Yoongi’s face, catching the tension in his jaw, the hesitation in his eyes.

“And I—” He shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to be cool about it. I thought maybe you were busy. Or stressed. But I’m going kind of crazy, okay? I don’t know what I did.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t do anything, Yoongi.”

“Then why the hell are you icing me out?”

“I’m not,” you lie, shifting awkwardly on your feet. “It just… It seemed like you needed space, okay? That night, when Jimin made that joke about us… dating. It felt like you were uncomfortable. Like I made you uncomfortable.”

Yoongi stares at you, stunned. “What? No.”

“Yoongi, come on. Can you blame me for thinking that?” you ask, cheeks burning with embarrassment at the memory. “You moved away like I was, like, diseased or something.”

“I was embarrassed,” he says, his voice laced with panic. “It caught me off guard. I panicked, okay? Everyone was looking at me, joking about something I hadn’t even—” He cuts himself off and rubs at the back of his neck. “Shit, Y/N, can you cancel the fucking car so I can explain?”

You hesitate, then unlock your phone with shaking fingers. Your phone pings quietly as the ride disappears from your screen. 

You look up. “Okay,” you say. “Go ahead.”

“Y/N, I don’t want space from you,” he says. “Ever. That’s not—god. It’s never been what I wanted.”

He gestures helplessly, like the words are fighting him on the way out. “You’re so—loud. And annoying. And a pain in my ass. You talk too much. You touch everything. Did you know you have, like, zero sense of personal space? Seriously, you’re even worse than Taehyung.”

“Wow. Thanks—”

“I’m not done,” he interrupts, taking a step closer. “You’re also funny. And smart. And impossible to ignore. You make every room better just by walking into it. You drive me crazy. And you’re my favorite person in the world.”

You stop breathing. 

“The guys give me shit about it all the time. Tell me I get this stupid look on my face whenever you’re around. Jimin calls it my ‘Y/N’s here’ expression. I want to hit him every time he says it, but he’s not wrong.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat and try to compose yourself a little. Here he is, saying all the things you’ve been waiting to hear for years now, but you’re still licking your wounds from that night. It’s a little hard to believe that he’s changed his tune, just like that. Just from a bit of distance.

“You don’t have to say this just to make me feel better, okay?” you say, crossing your arms over yourself protectively. “I’m a big girl, Yoongi. I don’t need your pity.”

“No—fuck, I thought you knew,” he insists. “Jesus, Y/N. I love you. Okay? I thought you could tell. I love the way you talk over movies, and how you snort when you laugh, and how you touch all my shit without asking. I’ve been in love with you for so long, but I didn’t think you felt the same way. I thought maybe if I just kept it to myself, it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you go out tonight without telling you.”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

He takes another step. He’s so close you can feel the heat of him now, the familiar smell of his cologne dizzying you.

“And also,” he adds softly, “happy birthday. You look beautiful. I missed you—”

You kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your purse bumps between your bodies, your hands fist in the front of his shirt, and Yoongi exhales his surprise against your mouth, like the breath’s been knocked out of him. 

But then you both get your bearings, and suddenly it deepens.

One of his hands slides up your back, curling gently around the back of your neck. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left between your bodies. Your lips part slightly, and he follows your lead, both of you growing more certain with every passing second. The heat of him spreads through you, fingertips warm against your skin, thumb brushing your jaw while you kiss each other breathless.

When you finally pull back, your lips tingling, Yoongi stares at you. His eyes are wide and dark, pupils blown.

“I love you, too,” you say, as if you didn’t just prove it with your mouth on his.

He licks his lips. “Oh.”

You track the movement of his tongue, dazed. “Yeah.”

Your hands are still on his chest, his shirt bunched up and wrinkled under your fingers. You stand there on your front stoop, holding each other under the soft wash of streetlights like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“So,” you murmur, “do you wanna drive me to this stupid thing?”

Yoongi blinks.

“You know,” you go on, voice lilting but eyes searching. “Designated driver duties. You can watch me do birthday shots, hold my purse while I dance, hold my hair if I throw up.”

He laughs under his breath. “You make it sound so tempting.”

You smile. “Or…” you continue, softer now, “do you wanna, um… come upstairs?”

Yoongi goes still.

“Upstairs,” he echoes, like he’s testing the word on his tongue.

You nod. “You don’t have to,” you add, uncharacteristically nervous. “Whatever you want.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Thinking. Processing. And you let him, because you’ve learned by now that Yoongi doesn’t rush. He doesn’t blurt. He considers everything. Weighs it. Chooses his words carefully.

Which is why your breath catches when he looks you in the eye and says, with full certainty:

“I want to come upstairs.”

Your heart flips.

“Okay,” you say, a little breathless. “Okay. Then let’s go upstairs.”

You take his hand, and together, you climb the stairs of your building, fingers interlocked.

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