#winterarchives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Point taken,” she grimaces. 

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

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

“Huh?” You ask drowsily. 

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

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

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

You eye her questioningly, already cautious. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Andrew, I really don’t thi--”

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

“I don’t understand why you even-” 

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

What the fuck? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blush, not quite knowing how to respond. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow…” 

“You can say that again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, give M-Buzz some credit, Y/N.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy crap,” Elle squeaks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha-”

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

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

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

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

“Do what?” You ask, slightly defensive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were not expecting that. Whatsoever. 

“You dated his brother?” You ask incredulously. 

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

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

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

“That’s a lot of windows.” 

“Nice assessment.” Elle laughs. 

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

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

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

“Wait, what?” She asks, taken aback.

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

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

“Y/N?” The young woman asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, returning his bow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Next?” You call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Park Jimin. P.J. October 13, 1995. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you-”

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

Shit. Shit. Shit.

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

“Elle-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s far enough away.” You shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you dated?” Jimin asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you were getting ahead of yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are.” He replies. 

“What does it mean?” You ask Namjoon. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Mine is Kookie,” Tae smiles. 

“And mine is V,” Jungkook replies. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They smile back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next is longer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had met him eight months prior in Los Angeles, in a rehearsal room that smelled like floor polish, iced coffee, and expensive perfumes. BTS had been there for a private industry showcase. Bloom had been flown in too, still riding the strange, dizzying momentum of being called ‘global’ by every magazine that wanted to make your existence cleaner than it was. 

Global was polished and strategic, good for the numbers and the wallet.

It did not sound like five girls from five different countries crying in airport bathrooms, memorizing choreography until five am and waking up three hours later, arguing over who had stolen whose setting powder, and smiling through interviews where people asked you to represent entire continents before you had even eaten breakfast.

You were Bloom’s leader, which meant you were the one who answered when no one else knew what to say.

You were the one who corrected pronunciation, soothed nerves, translated when needed, lied when necessary.

It meant that when your youngest member missed her mother so badly she couldn’t sing, you sat on the bathroom floor with her until her mascara dried. It meant that when your oldest member got called intimidating by a producer who was too scared to call her talented, you smiled with teeth and asked him to repeat himself. 

It meant you always entered rooms first. Always. 

That day in L.A, you entered the rehearsal room first, too.

And Jungkook had been sitting on the floor with one knee bent, hair damp from practice, oversized black t-shirt clinging slightly at his collar. He had looked up when you walked in. 

Not at Bloom, or the stylists trialing you, or the staff holding different clipboards and tablets like holy documents. 

He looked at you. For one unbearable second, his expression went still, and then his mouth curved. Small and private and almost rude with how quiet it was. You stared back because you were taught that leaders didn’t flinch.

He had said, in English, “you’re the leader?” 

“You sound surprised,” you replied with a lifted brow.

His smile widened. “No, it just makes sense.” 

It shouldn’t have been anything but a polite comment, a passing exchange between two people who understood exactly how many cameras existed in the room and in the world. But something about the way he said it rooted under your skin. 

So you tilted your head. “And you’re Jungkook.” 

He pressed a hand to his chest, exaggeratedly wounded. “Only Jungkook?” 

You looked over him once, slow enough to be a problem but quick enough to deny it if asked. “Should I add something?” 

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. One of your members made a strangled noise behind you, and behind him, Jimin started laughing. That was the beginning. Not of anything real, or anything that was important.

There was no beginning of anything real between idols like you and Jungkook. There were no movie montages, no midnight walks, no holding hands across tables in restaurants. There were no soft-launch Instagram posts, no casual mentions in interviews, no “we met naturally and fell in love” explanations that would not detonate both of your careers on impact. 

There was only accidental eye contact across rehearsal rooms, messages left unread for hours because responding too fast felt dangerous, inside jokes spoken through microphones while managers stood ten feet away… A friendship everyone pretended was normal because pretending was easier than admitting. Besides, you were good at pretending, you’d built an entire career out of it.

Tonight, though, pretending felt harder. 

Because MAMA rehearsals were running late, your feet ached, your hair was coming loose from its painfully perfect ponytail, and Jungkook was standing across the studio in a black beanie, watching you lead Bloom through the transition into BTS’s formation.

Maybe watching was too gentle of a word. He was studying you. Your reflection caught his in the mirror, and you looked away first like a coward.

“Again from the top,” you called, clapping twice. 

A chorus of groans came from your members. 

“No complaining,” you said automatically. 

Mina, who’d been born and raised in Korea and had, for some reason, never feared consequences in her life, threw her head back. “Our beloved leader’s trying to kill us.” 

“I’m trying to make our work cohesive,” you argued. 

“We already look cohesive.” 

“You look sweaty,” You smirked.

“I look hot sweaty, try again.” She said with a kiss blown your way. You caught it, crushed it in your fist, and flipped her off through the mirror.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook laugh.

Your stomach did something humiliating as the track restarted. 

The choreography for the collaboration stage was ambitious in the way entertainment companies loved: dramatic, slightly impractical, clearly designed to become viral within twenty minutes of airing. Bloom opened the performance with sharp and clean formation work influenced by each of your backgrounds– hip hop, contemporary, dancehall, even flashes of traditional movement your choreographer had carefully woven in after weeks of conversations with all of you. 

BTS would enter halfway through.

Jungkook’s part crossed directly behind yours, and that was a problem. 

You had known it when they first showed you the blocking. Your manager had known it too, because her face had done that awful neutral thing people did when they were screaming internally.

Jungkook passed behind you on the count of six. 

Your shoulder dipped, his hand never touched your waist, it only hovered near it. That was the choreography, that was the excuse, that was the actual nightmare.

Because every time he moved behind you, your body knew he was there before your mind could catch up. Heat at your back, the shift of air, the faint scent of detergent and skin and whatever fucking cologne he was wearing that made you want to commit several stupid, career-ending decisions.

You hit the next move too hard. 

“Careful,” Jungkook murmured behind you. 

You did not turn around. “I’m careful.” 

“No,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear over the music. “You’re frustrated.” 

Your jaw tightened as his laugh brushed against the back of your neck. You missed half a count just barely, almost no one noticed. 

When the music finally cut, the choreographer called for a water break. Your members scattered immediately, some collapsing against the wall, some checking their phones, one filming a dramatic fake death on the floor for behind-the-scenes content that would absolutely never be approved.

You went for your water bottle near the speakers, grateful for something to do with your hands. 

Jungkook got there first. He picked it up and held it out for you. A simple enough gesture. Still, your manager’s head followed the movement from across the room.

You saw it, and Jungkook saw you see it. His smile faded slightly. 

You took the water bottle without letting your fingers brush his. “Thanks.” 

“Wow,” he said softly. “So formal.” 

You unscrewed the cap, shaking your head at him. “Would you prefer I bow?”

“Maybe.” 

You gave him a look and his eyes brightened. 

“A little one,” he added. 

“You’re annoying.” 

“You once told me I was charming.” 

“I’ve matured.” 

“In eight months?” He laughed. 

You shrugged at him, taking a deep swig of water. 

He leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall, still breathing hard from practice. Sweat darkened the hair near his temple. His cheeks were flushed, and it made him look younger and more dangerous at the same time. Like he could just grin his way through a locked door or a heart. 

“You disappeared after the Grammy rehearsals.” 

You continued to drink your water, which was a terrible choice because it gave you too much time to think and not enough to breathe. “I’ve been working,” you tell him finally. 

He nods, unconvinced. “So, if you’re working, you’re never anywhere else? Ever?” 

“Typically when I’m working, I’m working. So, yes.” 

His smile twitched, and then faded as he watched you. Flirty Jungkook was easy. Teasing Jungkook was manageable. You could parry him, roll your eyes and simply walk away and pretend like your pulse was normal. Quiet Jungkook made everything more complicated. 

He looked down at the floor between you, then back up. “Did I do something wrong? During those rehearsals, I mean. I thought we were getting along.” 

The thing you hated most about him settled heavy between the two of you. His sincerity. You wished he had more ego, it would have been so much easier if he were arrogant in the way people expected him to be. If he acted like his attention was a gift, or if he flirted because he knew you would blush and not because something in him actually softened when you walked into a room. 

You looked towards your members. 

Mina was laughing with Taehyung over something on her phone. Your youngest, Hana, was speaking shy Korean with Namjoon, who listened with his whole body like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Lila, the middle child, bickered with Jimin over contemporary dance. Staff lingered nearby, watching all of you.

Always watching. 

You lowered your voice, “No.” 

Jungkook’s brows drew in, “That’s hardly an answer.” 

“It is an answer, though.” 

“A bad one.” 

You laughed once, but it came out brittle. “You’re such a brat.” 

“You don’t like that?” 

Your eyes cut to his, and there it was again. A little spark. A terrible little thread between you that neither company had managed to cut, no matter how many rules they printed or whispered in hushed tones. 

For a second, you let yourself look at him. Really look. You looked at the tiny scar on his cheek, the silver hoops in his ears, the way his gaze flicked down to your mouth and back up so quickly that anyone else might have missed it even if you did not. 

You didn’t miss it at all, which was the whole problem. “You can’t say things like that,” you said. 

His face changed, not dramatically, Jungkook was far too trained for that. You both were. But his expression lost some of its warmth, like someone had dimmed a light behind his eyes. 

“Right. Okay.” 

Your throat tightened at the clipped words. You hated them, hated how small they sounded. Hated that you put them there. 

“Jungkook–” 

“No, I know.” He nodded once, glancing towards the staff. “Rules.” 

You should have let his words sit there. You should have accepted a clean exit. Instead, because apparently you hated yourself, you said, “it’s not just rules.” 

His attention returned to you so fast it was painful. “No?” 

“No.” 

The studio felt louder suddenly, even though no music was playing. Sneakers squeaked, someone laughed, a manager coughed. The hallway outside of the room leaked in other noises, too, other rehearsals, other idols, other perfectly controlled disasters. 

You gripped your water bottle. “You know what happens,” you said. “If people think there’s something.” 

He looked at you for a long moment before asking quietly, “is there?” 

The answer had been there for months, sitting between your ribs like a bruise you kept prodding just to see if it still hurt, yet your heart dropped anyway. You looked away, and Jungkook laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. 

“Okay.” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he shook his head, smiling even though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You said ‘okay’ like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I just hurt your feelings.” 

His eyes sharpened slightly. “Didn’t you?” 

The room tilted and you wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him he did not get to put that on you, not when both of you had signed contracts longer than some marriages, not when Bloom was still fighting to be taken seriously, not when one wrong rumor could turn your leadership into selfishness and your ambition into betrayal. You also wanted to tell him you were tired.

Tired of filtering yourself, tired of smiling when interviewers asked whether Bloom’s “diverse concept” made it harder for you to be a unit, as if friendship was only believable when everyone came from the same place. Tired of being responsible, tired of wanting one thing that belonged only to you. 

But Jungkook was looking at you like he would listen to all of it, and that was dangerous too, so you swallowed it all down. “I’m trying not to.” 

His face softened, a little devastation still present, before he nodded. “Yeah, me too.” 

The choreographer clapped from across the room. “Five minutes! Back to positions!” 

The spell broke. You turned away first because that was what leaders did, they moved forward and set the tone. They did not fall apart beside barres and walls while one of the most beloved idols in the world looked at them like there was an inkling of possibility lying between them.

You took your place at the center, and Bloom formed behind you. BTS moved into position around you. Jungkook came to stand at your back again, close enough for choreo, far enough for rules. In the mirror, your eyes met his that were now cloaked in professionalism, calm and unreachable. It should have been a relief, it should have helped you, but it didn’t. 

The music started and you hit the first count perfectly. So did he.

That was the cruelest part of it all, and the most beautiful. You were always best when you were pretending nothing was hurting.

By the third run-thorugh, your body has stopped feeling like yours. It belonged to the counts, the holds, the drops, the turns, the looks. 

You made an effort not to look at Jungkook again. It wasn’t written in the choreography, obviously. No choreographer in their right mind would write do not look directly at Jeon Jungkook unless you are prepared to ruin your own life beside the formations.

But it might as well have been there, honestly. 

Because every camera in the practice room seemed to find the two of you. Every staff member seemed vaguely aware of the invisible string between the two of you. Every reflective surface was another traitor waiting to catch your eyes drifting where they really shouldn’t. And Jungkook was being good now. He did not tease, did not murmur anything under his breath when he passed behind you, did not hover by your water bottle, did not throw secret smiles your way in the mirror, did not make some quiet, stupid joke just to see if he could crack a smile on your face. 

He did everything right and was professional and distant. And you hated him for it, almost as much as you hated yourself for wanting him to stop.

“Again,” the choreographer called. “Bloom, sharper on the second transition. BTS, give them more space on the cross. Jungkook, watch the distance behind YN.” 

Your spine went tight as Jungkook nodded. “Yes.”

Your mouth pressed into a tight little line, and Mina, stationed just behind your right shoulder, leaned in close enough that her ponytail brushed your arm. 

“You’re doing that thing,” she whispered. 

You didn’t move your eyes from the mirror. “What thing?” 

“The murder face thing.” 

“I’m focused.” 

“Totally. Super focused and not at all planning an assassination.” 

“I’m the leader. That’s part of my charisma.” 

“More like emotional constipation.” 

You almost laughed, but Jungkook shifted behind you, stepping into position, and whatever humor had tried to climb its way up your throat died a pathetic little death. 

Mina followed your gaze in the mirror, and her expression softened in that annoying way friends had when they knew too much and could do nothing about it. “Ah,” she mumbled, “So it’s that thing.” 

“There’s no thing,” you hissed through the side of your mouth. 

“Girl–”

“Mina.” 

“Respectfully, you and that man have been eye-fucking in 4k since Los Angeles.” 

You whipped your head toward her. “Mina.” 

She smiled brightly, all innocence, then snapped back into position as the music started up once again. You missed your entrance by half a breath. It wasn’t visible or badly, but you felt it and Jungkook did too. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, and that was all it took to tap a little crack in the carefully built wall.

His gaze dropped away again, and the absence of it sat against your chest like a dumbbell. You danced harder, possibly too hard.

There was a vicious satisfaction in pushing your body past the point of elegance. In letting the ache behind your ribs sharpen the feeling into movement. You hit the floorwork like it owed you money. Snapped your head so cleanly on the turn that one of the assistant choreographers actually muttered, “Oh, wow.” 

Good. Fine. Let them see leader YN. 

Let them see Bloom’s anchor. The girl who could switch from English to Korean mid-sentence without blinking. The girl who could carry questions for five people in interviews and still smile when they asked something insulting. The girl who knew how to bow, how to laugh, how to soften her accent when needed, how to straighten her shoulders when some executive talked too much about marketability. Let them see everything except the one thing you were failing to kill. 

The music cut on the final pose. Silence slammed down afterwards as applause filtered in from separate corners of the room. 

“Better,” the choreographer said, nodding. “Much better. Take ten. Then we’ll run it with the cameras for the behind-the-scenes content.” 

Your members collapsed immediately while you stayed standing. Your lungs burned, your knees trembled faintly. Sweat had slipped down the side of your neck and beneath the collar of your cropped rehearsal top. You lifted a hand to wipe it away, but before you could, a towel appeared in front of you.

Black, folded once, held by a tattooed hand. You stared at it.

Do not be alone with him. No unnecessary physical contact. No personal conversations where staff could not be present. No giving fans something to misunderstand. 

A towel, arguably, was not personal, or a confession. A towel was fabric.

Your life had become so absurd you could laugh. You took the towel, and this time your fingers touched, just barely. A brush, a spark, a crime scene. Jungkook stared at your hand like he felt it too.

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said quietly as he let go of the towel.

You dabbed the towel against your neck and gave him your prettiest, coldest smile. “Thanks, coach.” 

His jaw flexed. Mina, from the floor, suddenly became very interested in stretching. Across the room, Namjoon looked over with a cautious expression.

Jungkook stepped closer by half an inch. It was still technically appropriate, still public, and still enough to make your entire body pay attention. 

“You have got to stop doing that.” 

Your smile stayed in place. “Doing what?” 

“Turning everything into a joke when you’re upset.” 

“Better than wallowing in misery.” 

His eyes held yours and his voice dropped. “Are you sure?” 

Your stomach twisted and you looked away, first again. You hated that pattern. Hated that he asked questions like both of you weren’t surrounded by people whose job it was to make sure your lives remained profitable and uncomplicated. 

“You don’t get to do that.” You said. 

“What?” 

“Act like I’m the only one choosing this.” 

His expression shifted, a flash of hurt, there and gone. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you laughed.

“I’m standing right here.” 

“That’s not the same thing. You know it’s not.” The words slipped from your lips softer than you’d meant for them to.

Jungkook glanced past you, toward the line of managers pretending not to monitor every breath, then he looked back. “No,” he said. “It is not.” 

For a second, neither of you said anything else. The practice room continued moving around you. Staff adjusted the cameras and someone laughed near the speakers. One of the BTS members, probably Hoseok, said something that made Jimin nearly choke on his water. Hana layed flat on her back timed her own death.

Normal and easy things. Things that, realistically, should have pulled you back into yourself. They didn’t, though.

Because Jungkook was still watching you with that unfair, unbearable softness. Like he understood that you were not angry because you didn’t want him, but that you were angry because you did. Too much. At the wrong time, in the wrong industry, under the wrong lights. 

He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. “Do you want me to stop?” 

Your fingers tightened around the towel. You knew exactly what he meant. Not the choreography, or the teasing, or the almosts. All of it. 

The looking and waiting and finding you in every room. The way his smile changed when aimed your direction. The messages that never said enough to be dangerous but said too much to be considered harmless. 

You could say yes. You could absolutely say yes. It would be kind, probably. Clean and mature. The responsible and leader thing. Yet your throat closed heavily around the word. Jungkook watched your silence register. He nodded once, slow and wounded in a way that made your chest ache. 

“Okay.” 

“You keep saying that,” you whispered. 

“Well, you keep not answering.” 

Your eyes burned, which only made you more furious. 

“You want an answer?” you asked, still quiet.

“Yes.” He replied with a sharp gaze. 

“No.” 

Jungkook went still the same second you did. 

The room didn’t stop, but it felt like it should have. Something catastrophic had happened. You had said one small world in a rehearsal room full of people, and somehow it felt like glass cracking underfoot.

His lips parted slightly. You looked down, panic blooming hot in your chest. 

“I mean–”

“No,” he repeated softly.

Your cheeks burned. “Don’t.” 

His voice was almost nothing. “You don’t want me to stop?” 

You closed your eyes for a second. Coward, coward, coward. When you opened them, he was closer than before, but still not close enough for anyone to scold. Close enough, though, that you could see the sweat caught along his collarbone. The chain around his neck. The way his breathing had changed. 

“I don’t know what I want,” you lied. 

Jungkook’s face softened and it offered you a tiny mercy. He knew you were lying, but he let it rest between you all the same. 

“Okay,” he said again, but it sounded different.

Your manager called your name, too sharp and timed. You stepped back immediately, and Jungkook did too. The towel remained in your hands as your manager approached with a smile that did not touch her eyes.

“YN,” she said in English because it made reprimands sound less public in this room. “Camera blocking is next. We need to discuss your center mark for the bridge.” 

You nodded. “Sure.” 

Her gaze flicked to the towel, then to Jungkook, and then back to you. “I’ll take that.” 

For one wild, childish second, you wanted to outright refuse. It was a towel. A towel. But it had touched his hand before yours, and apparently that was enough to make you pathetic or sullied. 

You handed it over, watched as your manager folded it once, then tucked it under her arm like evidence. “Come,” she said.

You followed, because that is what you did. You followed rules even when you hated them. You protected the group even when it meant cutting pieces out of yourself. You put Bloom first, always, because the girls trusted you. Because the company trusted you. Because every interview called you a leader like it was an honor instead of a beautifully constructed cage. 

At the monitor, the assistant director replayed the last run-through. 

You watched yourself on screen and smiled at how untouchable you looked. Jungkook moved behind you like a shadow with restraint. His hand hovered near your waist, never landing. On camera, it looked intimate anyway. That was the trouble with almost-touching, sometimes it looked worse. The assistant director paused the frame and your manager sighed through her nose. 

“Here,” she said carefully. “This is too close.” 

The choreographer leaned in. “It’s the formation.” 

“We need to adjust it.” 

“It will affect the transition.” 

“Then affect it.” 

Your stomach sank, from the other side of the monitor, BTS’s staff had gone quiet too. Jungkook stood several feet away, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable. 

The choreographer pulled back the footage and paused again. There you were, frozen on screen, your back arched into the move. Jungkook behind you, eyes angled down, hand suspended near your hip like he was holding himself back from touching something holy or forbidden or both.

Someone cleared their throat. 

Your manager said “fans will slow this down.” 

No one argued because everyone knew she was right. The room seemed to shrink around you. A strange humiliation crawled up your neck, not because you or Jungkook had done anything wrong, but because desire, even buried beneath clean choreography and professional distance, had apparently found a way to show its face.

You looked at Jungkook and found him already looking at you.

Not flirty now, or playful. This was something else. Something unnervingly close to being sorry.

The choreographer sighed. “We can move Jungkook two counts later. Have him cross behind Taehyung instead.” 

Your manager nodded immediately. “Better.” 

Something inside you dropped and you felt ridiculous for it. It was choreography, it should have been a relief to not have his hand hovering near your waist. Instead, it felt like being erased from the only place where you were allowed to almost have him. 

Jungkook’s face did not change. “Fine,” he said. 

You wanted to scream as the choreographer clapped. “Okay, reset positions. We’ll try the new blocking.” 

Everyone moved and you moved with them. The shape of the entirety of the room changed around you. Jungkook no longer stood behind you. Taehyung did instead, kind and easy and so unaware of the way your throat tightened when the music started again. Jungkook crossed behind him, not you. The choreography worked, but it looked cleaner, less dangerous.

Your manager watched the monitor with visible relief. And you, Bloom’s leader, America’s polished export, the girl trained to carry herself like no one could touch her, danced like nothing had been taken from you. In the mirror, for just one second, Jungkook’s eyes met yours from the wrong side of the formation. Too far away and somehow too close.

“I’m older than you, Y/N, but I’m not a fossil.” He jokes, and you chuckle a bit. 

“I can think of one of your bones I’d like to explore,” you quip. 

“That was awful.” He laughs, leaning over you and kissing you gently, his beard lightly scratching at your chin the way you love. You nip lightly at his lip, not wanting to lose the physical contact just yet, but Hopper has other plans. 

You watch him flick the switch on your toy, and your favorite low humming noise fills the room. You feel yourself drip in anticipation, exhaling loudly and frustratedly at the amount of noncontact you were experiencing. 

“Someone’s impatient.” Hopper smiles, voice low. 

He still has his Chief uniform on, and that hat that you love so much on him. 

“So then do something about it.” You whine, bucking your hips toward him. His mouth gapes in an “O” and you know that he’s putty in your hands. “Please, Chief Hopper.” You beg breathily, and he actually closes his eyes, and swallows; Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Darling, you know what that does to me.” He growls, eyes still closed, as he tries to regain focus.

“What exactly does it do to you, Chief Hopper?” You ask innocently, biting your lip. 

“Fuck.” He moans, and you can see his excitement in his pants. 

His long legs carry him to the foot of your bed, and he spreads your legs apart slowly, agonizingly slowly. 

“Mmmm,” he hums, “so ready for me already, sweetheart.” 

You blush at his term of endearment, now putty in his hands. 

“Only you, Chief Hopper.” 

He takes a sharp breath and lifts the toy to your mouth. “Suck.” He orders, and you do, the vibrations feeling good against your tongue as you lather up the toy. 

He pulls it out of your mouth with a “pop,” and brings it down, and you can hardly keep still. Toes curling in anticipation, cheeks hot, and face beading with sweat. 

His forefinger traces your folds lightly, spreading them and rubbing your clit, and then repeating the action over and over. 

Your moans fill the room, and you swear you’re getting close. And then his finger is gone, and your eyes flutter open, your body frustrated at the denial of pleasure. 

Albeit, you’re not frustrated for too long, because Jim Hopper is undressing. You bite down on your lip hard, almost tasting blood. He sets his hat down on the bed next to you, his hair disheveled and nothing short of sexy. Unbuttoning his shirt takes the longest, his cheeks flushed and breathing heavy by the time he’s done. His chest is wide and hard, chest hair a darkish brown littered across his fair skin. 

Next, his pants. The sound of his belt buckle is music to your ears, especially when you hear the leather escaping the fabricated loops confining it to his body. Your blood feels like it’s electric. The zipper serenades you, and you watch as he shrugs out of his pants, brown fabric giving way to muscular thighs and toned legs. 

Finally, his underwear, and you can’t contain the small whimper that escapes your lips as his member is freed. 

“So impatient for me, doll.” He tsks, “You’ll have to wait a little longer.” 

He smiles down at you, lying on his stomach between your legs again. You feel his forefinger and middle finger play with your entrance, and you buck towards them. Hopper, ever the chivalrous man, slides his large digits in, groaning at how good you feel. 

He slides his fingers out slowly, and then you feel the toy. 

And, boy, does Hopper know how to use it. 

Already, he has it hitting your g-spot, and you’re a sputtering mess. 

“Fuck,” you cry out, “right there, Hopper.” 

You grind down against the toy, the vibrations hitting you deeper. You feel his breath against your clit and you don’t know if your brain can handle what he’s about to do.

His tongue slides down from your belly button to your clit, lapping at your sensitive bud and you cry out expletives, wanting nothing more than to feel his mouth fucking you. 

“Please.” You beg. 

“Please, what?” He asks, voice breaking from excitement.

“Lick me, Chief Hopper-” and he does. “Oh!” 

He doesn’t stop, his wrist working the toy inside of you and his mouth working your clit. 

You feel your body tensing and spiraling into nothingness, and you tighten your thighs around Hopper’s head and hand, bucking up into his mouth. 

Gently, once you’ve regained your senses, he pulls the toy out from you and turns it off, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

“I know how to use that thing.” He smiles, crawling up towards your face and kissing you deeply, tongue gliding along your own. 

Grabbing the cuff keys off the bedside table, he unlocks your restraints. Your wrists are red from fighting against the metal, but the pain is delicious. 

“Now, for doubting my talent, you’re going to ride me.” He growls, rolling you over so that you’re on top of him. 

You twisted the sleeve of your sweater around your fingers. “If this goes badly—”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I know they stopped a complaint from being filed. I know they asked to see you again. And I know at least one of them looked like he was about two seconds from following you out the door last night.”

Your head turned. “What?”

She smiled a little. “I’m saving details for later.”

“That’s evil.”

“It’s leverage.”

The SUV slowed.

Outside, the restaurant looked ordinary enough from the street. Warm brick, polished windows, discreet signage. The kind of place you might’ve walked past in another life without thinking twice.

Except today there were bodyguards half-pretending not to be bodyguards and staff members half-pretending not to be waiting for you.

Your driver was directed around back. The alley entrance made the whole thing feel faintly criminal. “I feel like contraband,” you muttered as you unbuckled.

Elle laughed softly. “You kind of are.”

“Not helping.”

She caught your hand before you reached for the door.

When you looked at her, her expression was gentler than usual. Serious.

“You don’t have to have everything figured out by the time you walk back out.”

You swallowed. That helped more than every other pep talk you’d had in your 21 years on the planet combined.

“Okay,” you said, sliding out of the car.

A staff member guided you through the back entrance, through a spotless kitchen fragrant with garlic and sesame and something sweet you couldn’t name, through one swinging door and then another.

Voices drifted toward you before the room came fully into view.

Laughter. A burst of something that sounded like bickering. The scrape of a chair. Then you stepped into the dining room and every head at the table turned.

For one suspended second, nobody moved. Seven pairs of eyes on you. Seven men who might have your name written on their skin. Seven impossible answers waiting in a rented-out restaurant in Seoul. You tightened your grip on your bag strap and tried not to turn around.

“Hi,” you said, because apparently your brain had abandoned eloquence entirely.

Hoseok was the first to smile. Then Namjoon stood.

And just like that, there was no going back.

“Hi,” he said, and there was something careful in it. Something warm. “You came.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but it eased your nerves still.

“Yeah,” you managed. “I, uh. I did.”

Hoseok was smiling already, bright and relieved in a way that made it impossible to mistake what he was feeling. Taehyung looked like he was barely resisting the urge to spring up and cross the room. Jungkook sat up straighter so fast it almost looked like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Jin’s expression softened with obvious approval, while Jimin watched you with a gentler sort of curiosity than he had the night before, almost like he was trying to gauge whether you were about to bolt again.

And Yoongi—

Yoongi was looking at you like he’d been worried. Not startled. Not confused. Worried. The force of it nearly stopped you in your tracks. You’d expected awkwardness. Maybe tension. Maybe some lingering discomfort over the fact that you had, in fact, fled their building mid-interview like a Victorian heroine in the grip of consumption.

You had not expected concern that looked that naked.

“Come sit down,” Jin said, standing halfway out of his chair and gesturing to the empty seat at the head of the table. “You’re making it look like we invited you here to execute you.”

Taehyung snorted.

“That was not the vibe,” Hoseok said, trying to reassure you that you weren’t freaking them out.

“It was a little the vibe,” Jungkook muttered, earning himself a look from Namjoon.

You let out a nervous laugh before you could help it, and several of them visibly relaxed at the sound.

“Sorry,” you said automatically, moving toward the table. “I didn’t mean to make this weird.”

“You didn’t,” Namjoon said at once.

“Not even a little,” Hoseok added.

Jimin tilted his head. “Well. A little little.”

“Jimin,” Jin warned.

“What?” Jimin held up both hands. “I’m being honest. It got weird. But she didn’t make it weird on purpose.”

You stopped beside the empty chair, fingers tightening on your bag strap. “I really am sorry about last night.”

“Y/N.”

The voice was low, rough around the edges, and it slid right through the room and into your chest with humiliating ease. Yoongi hadn’t moved, but everyone else had. Just slightly. Enough that you could tell they’d all heard it too. He looked up at you from beneath the edge of his beanie, expression steady.

“You do not have to apologize for panicking.”

The room went very quiet.

You swallowed. “I kind of abandoned an interview.”

“You also looked like you were about to faint,” he said. “Or throw up. Or both.”

A tiny, helpless smile tugged at your mouth.

“That is unfortunately accurate.”

“Then you left because you needed to,” he said, like the matter was settled. “That’s not something I’m going to be upset about.”

“I don’t think any of us are,” Namjoon said gently.

“Definitely not,” Hoseok said. “We were worried, not offended.”

“Very worried,” Jungkook added, nodding hard enough to make Taehyung grin at him.

“You should sit,” Jin said, softer now. “Please. You look like you’re one loud noise away from passing out.”

“I’m okay,” you lied.

Yoongi’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest thing to one you’d gotten from him so far.

“No, you’re not.”

That should have embarrassed you. Instead, it made your shoulders drop by a fraction. You sat.

Immediately, Jin reached for the water pitcher at the center of the table and poured a glass for you, sliding it into your hands without a word. You took it, murmuring a thank you that came out more sincere than you’d intended.

“Do you want us to have everyone else leave?” Namjoon asked. “The staff, I mean.”

You blinked.

There were only a couple of employees hanging near the far end of the restaurant and one man moving quietly in and out from the kitchen, but still. The fact that he’d thought to ask at all hit you somewhere tender.

“Would that be okay?”

“Of course it would,” Jin said.

Namjoon was already glancing toward one of the staff members. A few quick words in Korean later and the room emptied even further, leaving only the eight of you and one waiter tucked discreetly through the kitchen doors.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, exactly. Just fragile. You wrapped both hands around your water glass to keep them from shaking. Taehyung leaned forward first, elbows on the table, face open in a way that would’ve been dangerous if you weren’t already in so deep you were considering emigrating.

“I’m really happy you came back,” he said.

There was no cleverness in it. No performance. Just plain truth.

Jungkook nodded immediately. “Me too.”

“Same,” Hoseok said. “Last night was…” He exhaled through his nose and grimaced. “A lot.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jimin said.

“I mean it,” Hoseok insisted, looking at you again. “We were scared that maybe we’d overwhelmed you so badly you’d get on a plane and disappear.”

You stared at him over the rim of your water glass. Because that had, in fact, briefly been the plan. Elle would have been so smug if she were here to hear that.

“I considered it,” you admitted. That earned a collective reaction.

Taehyung’s eyes went huge. Jungkook made a faint, wounded sound. Hoseok clutched dramatically at his chest. Jin looked deeply offended on behalf of fate itself. Jimin laughed in disbelief.

Only Yoongi and Namjoon didn’t immediately react. Namjoon because he was watching you too closely. Yoongi because something in his face had gone strangely still.

“You really thought about leaving?” Namjoon asked quietly.

You looked down at your hands. “For a minute.”

“A long minute?” Jimin asked.

“A very long minute,” you muttered.

Hoseok slumped back in his chair. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s understandable,” Yoongi said.

Several of the others turned to look at him. He didn’t seem to notice. His gaze was still on you, dark and unreadable in a way that made your pulse trip.

“If I were you,” he said, “I probably would’ve done worse.”

You let out a quiet breath. “That’s weirdly comforting.”

“It’s meant to be.”

Something about the steadiness in his tone made it easier to speak. So you did.

“I just…” You licked your lips and glanced around the table. Seven faces. Seven impossible faces. Seven men who had apparently spent the last twenty odd hours not angry with you, but concerned. “I’ve spent my whole life assuming there was something wrong with me.”

The words were out before you could stop them. No one interrupted. No one even shifted. You looked down at your wrist, still hidden beneath the cuff of your sweater.

“People have one soulmate,” you said. “Sometimes two. Every once in a while some article pops up about someone with three or four and everyone acts like it’s the end of civilization. And I had…” You laughed once without humor. “This.”

Your free hand gestured vaguely at your arm.

“Doctors never knew what to say. People looked at me like I was a mistake. My mom spent years telling me I’d understand it one day, but I stopped believing that when I was a teenager.” You swallowed. “So when Seokjin told me his birthday, and then Yoongi, and then Hoseok—”

You broke off and looked up. Every single one of them was staring at you like you’d said something awful. Not because of them, but because of what you’d been carrying alone.

Jin’s brows had drawn together so tightly he looked ready to pick a fight with the universe. Hoseok’s eyes had gone soft with immediate sympathy. Jungkook looked heartbroken in a way that made him appear much younger than he had the night before. Even Jimin, who seemed naturally inclined toward teasing, had gone still.

Namjoon leaned his forearms on the table and said, very gently, “You thought you were a mistake.”

It wasn’t a question. “More or less.” You gave a small shrug, because admitting it plainly now felt pathetic.

“That’s not pathetic,” Yoongi said.

You hadn’t realized you’d spoken aloud. Or maybe you had. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Yoongi’s expression hadn’t changed much, but his voice had. It was quieter now. “I know what that feels like.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

For the first time since you’d walked in, he looked almost... exposed. Not in some dramatic, messy way. In the way people did when they were deciding to tell the truth and hated every second of it.

“I didn’t have as much as you did,” he said. “But I had enough.”

None of the others spoke.

You got the sense they were used to that by now—used to Yoongi picking his moments and everyone else letting him have them.

“When I was younger, I kept mine covered all the time,” he continued. “Always. Long sleeves, wristbands, anything. People notice. They always notice. And when they do, they start making assumptions about your life like they know you.”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

His gaze stayed fixed on yours.

“I hated it,” he said. “I hated people looking at me like I was defective. Or too much. Or something they didn’t know how to explain. Didn’t want to explain.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought…” He let out a breath and glanced away for a second, jaw flexing. “I thought if that was what fate had planned for me, then maybe fate just had a terrible sense of humor.”

That startled a soft laugh out of you.

“There it is,” Jimin murmured, smiling faintly. “He’s comforting you and insulting destiny at the same time.”

Yoongi shot him a flat look. “Do you mind?”

Jimin lifted both hands and leaned back in his chair with obvious delight.

“You can continue.”

A few of the others smiled, the tension easing just a little.

Yoongi looked back at you.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said, slower now, “is that you didn’t do anything wrong last night. If you spent years thinking those marks meant you were alone, and then suddenly three of them start answering to names in front of you under studio lights…” He huffed once, almost incredulous on your behalf. “Of course you ran.”

You stared at him. Then down at your water. Then back at him.

“Thank you.”

He gave a small nod, like that was enough.

It wasn’t, not really. Not with the way your chest was behaving. But it was enough for him, apparently, which you suspected might become a recurring issue.

Namjoon cleared his throat softly, drawing your attention back to the full table.

“I think,” he said, “before we say anything else, we should make one thing very clear.”

He looked around at the others, and when they all nodded, he turned back to you.

“We don’t think you ruined anything.”

Every word landed carefully and deliberately. Like he wanted to leave no room at all for you to doubt it.

“Not the interview, not this, not any chance we might have had to get to know you,” he continued. “If anything, last night just confirmed what we’d already started to suspect.”

“You know,” Hoseok added, pointing gently between you and then the group, “that this is real.”

Your pulse kicked again. You looked down. Then, because there was no point pretending anymore, you pushed your sleeve slowly up to your elbow and turned your wrist over on the table.

They were quiet.

It was different than the silence the marks had drawn from doctors or family or strangers.

Those silences had always felt clinical. Curious. Sometimes pitying. This one felt reverent. Seven pairs of eyes dropped to the ink on your skin and stayed there.

Hoseok inhaled sharply.

Taehyung actually smiled.

Jungkook’s lips parted and then stayed that way, like he’d forgotten what he’d been about to say. Jin closed his eyes for the briefest second before opening them again with obvious effort. Jimin looked almost unbearably tender.

Namjoon sat back in his chair and let out a breath that sounded like something he’d been holding for years.

And Yoongi—

Yoongi looked at your wrist, then up at your face, then back down again like he was making himself believe it.

“Can I?” he asked quietly.

You blinked.

He lifted one hand, palm up, not touching you. Just hovering slightly over the table. Giving you every possible chance to say no.

It took you a second to realize what he meant.

“Oh.”

Your heart beat in your throat.

“Yeah,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You can.”

His fingertips barely brushed the inside of your wrist. That was all. Barely anything. And yet every muscle in your body went rigid for one startled second. Not from discomfort. From recognition. It wasn’t electricity. It wasn’t dramatic lightning under your skin or some movie-worthy rush of impossible heat. It was worse. It felt familiar. Familiar, like your body had been waiting for that exact touch longer than your mind could understand.

Yoongi felt it too.

You knew he did because his fingers went still against your skin and his eyes snapped up to yours, something deep and startled flickering there before he smoothed it over.

Jimin saw it immediately. His brows shot up.

Hoseok bit his lip like he was physically restraining himself from making a scene.

Taehyung outright grinned.

You tugged your hand back out of instinct, and Yoongi withdrew just as quickly.

“Sorry,” you both said at the same time.

That broke the room.

Hoseok laughed first, loud and helpless. Jungkook ducked his head with a grin. Taehyung slapped the table once and looked delighted. Even Jin cracked, shaking his head.

Jimin pointed between the two of you. “That was so painful to watch.”

“Agreed,” Taehyung said.

“You’re both so weird already,” Jungkook mumbled.

Yoongi looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him. You suspected you looked much the same.

“Can we not?” he said flatly.

“Absolutely not,” Jimin replied.

Namjoon smiled into his water glass. “Maybe let her breathe first.”

“Thank you,” you muttered, grateful for him and resentful of the fact that half of your face felt warm.

“Do you want us to show you ours?”

The question came from Jin, who, despite being visibly entertained by your mutual embarrassment, had the good grace to ask it gently.

You looked at him, then around the table.

Part of you wanted to say no, not because you didn’t want to know, but because you weren’t sure your nervous system had recovered enough to survive seven more confirmations in a row.

The other part of you, the larger and far more reckless one, had been waiting your whole life for exactly this.

You nodded.

“Okay,” you said.

Hoseok was the first out of his chair. He bounced out of it and rounded the table, all bright energy and open delight, rolling up his sleeve and holding out his wrist to you with zero hesitation.

There it was. Your initials. Your birthdate.

Printed just as neatly into his skin as his had been on yours.

You stared.

“See?” he said, almost impossibly soft for someone so full of life. “You’re real.”

Your vision blurred for a second. You blinked hard and looked away before you embarrassed yourself.

Then Namjoon showed you his. Jin after that, with a little half-joke about finally not having to feel crazy anymore. Taehyung held his wrist out like he was presenting treasure. Jungkook did it more shyly, glancing between your face and the ink like he still couldn’t believe you were here to see it. Jimin tilted his arm into the light and watched your expression carefully, almost like he was cataloging every reaction.

By the time Yoongi rolled his sleeve up, your breathing had gone shallow again.

Not because you doubted it. Because now you didn’t.

His wrist looked like the others. Your initials. Your date. Your life, reflected back at you in black ink. You swallowed and looked up at him. He was already looking at you. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just there.

It was unbearable.

And then it became too much. Not in a catastrophic way. Not like last night. More like your emotions had all queued up at once and somebody had finally unlocked the door.

Your eyes stung. Your face burned. You looked down hard enough to make your neck ache, mortified at the thought of crying in front of seven men you had met less than forty-eight hours ago and who were, in a deeply inconvenient twist, apparently cosmically significant to you.

“Hey,” Namjoon said softly.

You shook your head once.

“You’re okay,” Jin added.

“I know,” you whispered.

But your voice cracked on the last word, which thoroughly ruined the performance.

“Oh,” Hoseok said quietly, all joking gone at once. “Oh, sweetheart.”

The endearment hit before you had time to brace for it. You laughed once, watery and miserable. “Don’t call me that or I really will cry.”

“We can call you ‘headache’ instead,” Jimin offered.

That actually got a real laugh out of you.

“Thank you,” you said.

“Anytime,” he replied, smug.

The chair beside you shifted. You looked up. Yoongi had moved. He hadn’t dragged his seat dramatically closer or done anything that might make it look like he was trying to overwhelm you. He had just closed the distance enough to matter.

Enough that when he spoke again, his voice didn’t have to carry.

“Look at me for a second.”

You did.

“Breathe,” he said. There was nothing mystical about it. Nothing grand. Just a simple instruction delivered in a voice so steady your body obeyed before your mind did.

You inhaled.

“Again.”

You did. The room blurred less. Your heartbeat eased, not all the way, but enough.

“There,” he said quietly. “That’s better.”

Across the table, Taehyung was looking at the two of you with an expression that suggested he was one sentence away from saying something unhelpfully perceptive. Jin appeared to notice this too, because he reached over and flicked Taehyung’s sleeve.

Taehyung pouted. You nearly smiled. Yoongi leaned back again, but not far.

“Sorry,” you said to no one and everyone.

Namjoon immediately shook his head. “No.”

Jungkook spoke next, more quietly than the others usually did, which made everyone turn toward him.

“You keep apologizing,” he said, “but you don’t have to.”

His cheeks pinked the second he realized he’d said it out loud in front of everyone, but he pushed on anyway.

“You haven’t done anything bad,” he said. “You’ve just… had a really intense two days.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” you said.

“It’s the correct way,” Jin replied.

“Debatable,” Jimin said. “I’d also accept life-altering, horrifying, and weirdly romantic.”

“Why are you like this?” Yoongi asked him.

“Because God made me charming.”

“No,” Yoongi said. “That’s definitely not it.”

The table laughed again, and this time the sound felt easier. Fuller. Like the room was finally letting itself relax around you.

A waiter appeared then, hesitated, and quietly began setting dishes down along the center of the table. Rice. Stir-fried vegetables. Soup. Small plates of side dishes you couldn’t even fully name before Taehyung was already reaching for one and Jin was slapping his hand away on principle.

“Wait until everyone’s served.”

“I was helping myself emotionally.” Taehyung pouted.

“You were helping yourself greedily.”

“It can be both.”

The absurd normalcy of it was maybe the strangest thing so far. That and the fact that none of them seemed interested in rushing you. The food arrived. Nobody pushed. Nobody demanded explanations.

Jin filled your plate before you could protest, muttering something about you looking underfed. Hoseok asked if you liked spice levels in food “like a normal person or like Jungkook,” which spiraled into a whole argument about what constituted normal spice tolerance. Taehyung asked if New York pizza was really as life-changing as movies made it seem. Jimin wanted to know whether American reporters always asked such boring first-round questions or if you were just strategically saving the good ones.

“I was being professional,” you said.

“You were being restrained,” he corrected.

“Maybe I was both.” You smirked.

Jimin blinked. “That was kind of hot.”

“Jimin,” Namjoon sighed.

“What? It was.”

Yoongi muttered something into his glass that made Hoseok choke on his water.

“What did he say?” you asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” Yoongi said immediately.

“Horrible liar,” Taehyung sang.

“He said you arguing with Jimin was kind of hot,” Hoseok supplied, delighted.

The room exploded.

Jungkook folded in on himself laughing. Jin looked deeply entertained. Jimin made a scandalized noise like his job was being stolen from him. Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose.

Yoongi stared murder at Hoseok.

“I hate all of you.”

Your face flamed so fast you felt it down your neck.

“You absolutely said that?” Jimin asked, beyond pleased.

“I said,” Yoongi replied through clenched teeth, “that her being that calm after realizing three birthdays in a row matched the inside of her wrist was impressive.”

Hoseok grinned. “And hot.”

Yoongi looked ready to launch himself across the table.

“I’m leaving,” he announced.

“You’re seated,” Jin said mildly.

You were trying very hard not to laugh. And failing.

Yoongi heard it. His head turned toward you so quickly it was almost accusatory. You met his eyes over the table and finally, finally let yourself smile fully.

His expression shifted. Enough for you to see the fight go out of it. Enough for something warmer to move quietly into its place. He looked down first. That did something terrible to your heart.

Conversation settled again after that, flowing more naturally now. Less like a summit meeting and more like eight people trying to figure out how to be in a room together when fate had apparently played an unhinged long game.

Namjoon told you how he’d met Yoongi first, how seeing the same sequence of marks on another person’s skin had felt like the world tilting under his feet. Yoongi corrected half the story under his breath and admitted, reluctantly, that Namjoon had looked less panicked than he had. Hoseok chimed in about arriving after them and deciding almost immediately that destiny had excellent taste because at least it had paired him with people who were interesting.

“Annoying,” Yoongi corrected.

“Interesting and annoying,” Hoseok allowed.

Jin described joining later, eyeing the three of them like they were a social experiment gone wrong.

“I thought maybe I’d hallucinated the whole thing,” he said. “Then I saw Namjoon’s wrist and nearly walked out.”

You looked up from your food. “You almost ran too?”

“Of course I almost ran,” he said. “I’m very handsome, not stupid.”

That made you laugh into your rice.

The younger three had their own stories. Taehyung had apparently been the least alarmed by the entire situation, mostly because he found the odds “romantic in a dramatic way.” Jungkook admitted he’d been too shocked to speak for almost an hour after the reveal. Jimin, unsurprisingly, had gone straight into interrogation mode and demanded everybody compare marks immediately.

“That sounds right,” you said.

He smiled. “Thank you.”

Through all of it, you found your gaze drifting toward Yoongi more often than it should have.

Partly because he didn’t talk unless he meant to. Partly because whenever anyone else said something that made you tense, even for half a second, he noticed.

You hadn’t realized how much he’d been tracking you until Jimin casually asked, “So have you dated anyone seriously?” and your entire body went tight in a way you hoped wasn’t obvious.

Apparently it was.

Because Yoongi cut in before you could answer.

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

The table quieted.

Jimin looked from him, to you, and then immediately lifted both hands.

“Fair. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said, though your voice came out a bit thinner than you wanted. “It’s not exactly a forbidden question.”

Yoongi’s gaze stayed on you, not Jimin. You could feel it like a hand at the center of your back. You looked down at your plate.

“I haven’t dated seriously,” you admitted after a moment. “Not really.”

“Because of this?” Jungkook asked softly, looking at your wrist and then quickly away like he worried that was rude.

You appreciated the awkwardness of it more than you should have.

“Partly,” you said. “Mostly because my life is… a lot. My work doesn’t exactly leave room for stability. And once people started wanting serious conversations, I usually found a way to be elsewhere.”

“That’s bleak,” Jimin said.

“That’s accurate,” you corrected.

Yoongi’s fingers tapped once against the table.

“Did anyone ever know why?”

You looked at him.

“What?”

“Why you left,” he said. “Why you kept things casual.”

The question should have felt invasive. From him, somehow, it didn’t. You thought about it.

“Not really,” you said. “I didn’t know how to explain that I had seven names on my arm and none of them belonged to the person sitting across from me. It seemed… cruel.”

Across the table, several expressions shifted at once.

Taehyung’s softened into something almost painful. Jungkook looked stricken again. Namjoon’s mouth tightened. Jin clicked his tongue once under his breath, clearly displeased by your past on principle.

Yoongi just looked at you long enough that you had to glance away.

“You were alone with that for a long time,” he said.

It wasn’t pity.

That was what made it survivable. You nodded once. “Yeah.”

A beat passed. Then another. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet enough that the others stopped moving. “Not anymore.”

You looked up. Every single person at that table was watching you.

Hoseok smiled first, soft and bright. “Definitely not anymore.”

“You have us now,” Taehyung said.

Jungkook nodded. “If you want us.”

The sweetness of that nearly undid you.

Jin leaned back in his chair. “And before you overthink that sentence into the ground, we don’t mean that in a scary way.”

“We mean it in a very scary way,” Jimin said.

“Jimin.”

“What? I’m kidding.”

“You are not helping.”

Namjoon hid a smile. “What they mean is, there’s no pressure on you to have all your feelings sorted out today.”

“That would be impossible,” you said.

“Exactly,” he replied. “This is… unprecedented, even for us.”

You hesitated, then asked the thing that had been itching at you since last night.

“Did you know I existed?”

It came out quieter than you meant it to. The question shifted something around the table. Not discomfort. Something sadder.

Namjoon answered first. “We knew there was one person left,” he said. “We knew the marks didn’t end with us. But no, we didn’t know who you were.”

“Not until last night,” Hoseok said.

Yoongi looked at his hands for a moment before speaking.

“I knew your initials,” he said. “And your birthday. Same as everyone else. But that doesn’t mean much when you’ve never seen someone’s face.”

He lifted his gaze to yours.

“When you introduced yourself, I thought I’d heard you wrong.”

The admission hit you harder than it should have.

Beside him, Jimin smiled faintly. “Same.”

You looked at him.

“You too?”

He nodded. “The second you said your name in Korean, I looked at Yoongi-hyung because I thought I was losing my mind.”

“I was not helpful,” Yoongi said dryly.

“No,” Jimin agreed. “You looked like you’d been shot.”

That startled a laugh out of you. Yoongi shot him a look… Jimin grinned.

“I’m serious,” he said. “And then when your coworker, Elle…?” You nodded to him, “Well, when Elle read your birthday from your notes…” He let out a low whistle. “The room got very real very quickly.”

You thought back to that moment. To the strange shift in the air you’d barely been able to process because your own body had already gone into full revolt.

“You all knew then.”

“Yes,” Namjoon said.

“Immediately?” you asked.

“Yes,” seven voices replied in some form or another.

That should not have made you feel as seen as it did.

But it did.

Jimin reached for his drink. “For the record, your exit was dramatic.”

You covered your face. “I know.”

“But also justified,” he added.

“Deeply justified,” Hoseok said.

“Cinema-worthy, honestly,” Jin mused.

“Stop encouraging Jimin,” Yoongi muttered.

Taehyung tilted his head. “If it helps, I wanted to run too. Not away. Just after you.”

The sincerity in it caught you off guard.

“You did?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We all kind of did.”

“We couldn’t,” Namjoon said. “There were too many people around.”

“And we didn’t want to scare you more,” Jungkook added.

The image of seven members of BTS trying to follow you out of an interview room because the American reporter fleeing their building happened to be their soulmate was so surreal you didn’t know whether to laugh or dissolve.

Probably both. You took a long sip of water instead.

Jimin, who had been studying you with that too-knowing expression again, suddenly straightened. “Wait.”

Everyone looked at him.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing at your wrist.

“Can I ask something weird?”

“Given the circumstances, that doesn’t narrow it down at all,” you said.

“That’s fair.”

He pointed toward your arm.

“Do any of the initials look… darker to you?”

The room changed again. Subtly. Namjoon exchanged a glance with Jin. Taehyung’s smile turned amused in a way that made you suspicious. Jungkook bit his lip. Hoseok looked like someone trying not to ruin a surprise. You frowned and looked down. At first, the marks just looked like they always had.

Then you really looked.

And there.

One set.

M.Y.

You blinked.

Then leaned closer.

“They do,” you murmured. No one spoke. You ran your thumb lightly over the letters. “I’ve never noticed that before.”

“They can be hard to catch,” Namjoon said.

“What does it mean?” Your voice came out quieter now, the question hanging in the air between all of you.

This time it was Yoongi who looked away first. Namjoon glanced at him, then back at you.

“There are old studies,” he said. “And some spiritual interpretations. Most people think it means a stronger pull within the bond.”

“A twin flame,” Hoseok supplied.

“That sounds fake,” you said automatically.

Hoseok laughed. “I knew you’d say that.”

“It does,” Yoongi admitted, still not looking at you. “But it’s a thing. Only some of us have it with each other.”

“Only some…?” You ask.

“Yeah. It’s not common,” Namjoon answered. 

“The three of us have it,” Jimin smirked, pointing between himself, Taehyung, and Jungkook.

You looked around the table slowly. Then finally, carefully, to Yoongi.

He was already looking at you now. And unlike the others, he didn’t smile.

He just said, quietly, “Mine is you.”

Your pulse hit so hard it hurt.

No one joked. No one interrupted.

For once, even Jimin had the sense to leave the moment alone.

You looked down at the darker initials on your wrist again.

M.Y.

Then back at him. “How long have they been darker?” you asked.

Yoongi understood immediately.

“Since you first got the mark,” he said.

The room tilted.

“And you-- you noticed mine were darker this whole time?”

He nodded.

You had no idea what your face did then, but it must have been something, because Yoongi’s expression softened in a way that made your stomach drop straight through the floor.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly.

You laughed once in disbelief. “That does not feel okay.”

A tiny smile touched his mouth. “No,” he agreed. “Probably not. But it is.”

“Yoongi-hyung was the worst about it, actually,” Hoseok said, because apparently peace had lasted too long. “He used to act like it didn’t matter and then stare at his wrist like he was trying to threaten it into revealing your address.”

“Oh my God,” Jimin said, delighted. “That’s true.”

Yoongi looked murderous again. “Hoseok.”

“What? It’s romantic.”

“It’s invasive.”

“It’s both,” Taehyung said.

You were trying so hard not to smile. And failing again.

Yoongi noticed again. That might have been the first time you saw him really smile.

It was small. Gummy.

Gone too quickly to be fair.

It hit you like a car.

He seemed to realize that immediately, because the smile vanished and he looked down at his drink like he hadn’t just catastrophically altered your internal chemistry.

Cool. Great.

Fantastic, even.

Namjoon, perhaps sensing that your brain was about to liquefy in real time, gently redirected.

“There’s one more thing we should probably tell you.”

You dragged your attention away from Yoongi with genuine effort.

“What?”

“Why we keep our marks covered,” he said.

You frowned. “I was wondering that.”

He nodded. “At first it was privacy. Then it became strategy.”

“People get weird about soulmate stuff,” Jin said dryly. “And people get especially weird about famous people having soulmate stuff.”

“That’s a very elegant way of putting it,” Jimin muttered.

“We never wanted to go public with any of it unless everyone involved had a say,” Namjoon continued. “Including you.”

The simplicity of that stunned you a little.

“You waited because of me?”

“We waited because whoever you turned out to be deserved it,” he corrected gently. “You deserved the choice.”

You sat very still.

All morning you had been braced for pressure. For assumption. For some unspoken expectation that because fate had apparently thrown your life into their orbit, you would now be expected to fall in line with whatever that meant.

Instead you got this.

Care. Restraint. Permission.

It made your eyes sting again, which was just rude at this point.

“That’s…” You swallowed. “That’s really thoughtful.”

Jin shrugged. “We can be thoughtful and gorgeous.”

“That’s exactly how I’d describe us,” Taehyung agreed.

“You describe yourself like that every day,” Jungkook muttered.

“As I should.”

Laughter broke the moment just enough to save you from crying for the second time in one lunch.

You loved them a little for that already, which seemed irresponsible, but not exactly something you could help.

By the time the plates had been cleared and fresh water brought out, the room felt entirely different than it had when you’d walked in.

Not easy. Easy would’ve been absurd. But open.

You sat a little more comfortably now. Your shoulders weren’t drawn up to your ears. You had stopped checking the nearest exit every few minutes. Taehyung had made you promise, solemnly, that if you ever did flee the country you would at least text first. Jin had asked real questions about New York and your work. Jungkook wanted to know what your favorite interviews had been. Hoseok had decided you had “incredibly stressed but cool older classmate energy,” which Jimin said was inaccurate because you were younger than all but Jungkook and Taehyung, which had somehow led to Taehyung asking if you liked dogs.

Through all of it, Yoongi stayed mostly quiet. Not absent, just watchful. And when he did speak, it was usually to you.

Never performative. Never loud. Never because he needed the room to follow him.

Just because he had something to say.

At one point, while the others were deep in an argument over whether Jungkook counted as clingy, you reached for the water pitcher at the exact same moment Yoongi did. Your fingers brushed.

This time neither of you jerked away. You just both looked at your hands for a second. Then at each other. He slid the pitcher toward you.

“You first.”

“Thanks.”

His eyes held yours a second longer than necessary.

“You doing okay?”

It would have been so easy to lie. You were good at lying about that, especially to people who had no right to call you on it. But he did. Not a right, exactly. A way. So you answered honestly.

“Better.”

Another small nod.

“Good.”

You wanted, very badly, to ask him if he was okay too.

You didn’t.

Mostly because you had the strong suspicion that if you started caring too obviously, too soon, about the man with darker initials on your arm, the rest of the table would never let you live it down.

Also because you were not, in fact, ready to examine whatever was happening inside your chest.

Eventually your phone buzzed in your bag.

Then again.

Then a third time in increasingly offended succession.

You didn’t even need to check to know it was Elle.

You sighed and pulled the phone out.

Across the table, Taehyung leaned to one side. “Is that the friend?”

“Yes.”

“Is she nice?”

“She is when she’s not threatening me through text.”

“What’d she say?” Jimin asked.

You glanced down.

If you are alive, blink twice.

If you are dead, ignore this.

If Min Yoongi is still hot in person, also ignore this. 

You covered your face with one hand.

Jimin made a delighted noise. “Read it out loud.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Coward.”

You shoved the phone back into your bag.

Namjoon smiled. “Do you need to go?”

The question hit harder than you expected, because the answer, embarrassingly enough, was no.

Not really. You didn’t want to. And judging by the shift that ran quietly around the table, they knew it. But you also knew if you didn’t leave soon, Elle was going to assume you’d been kidnapped into a soulmate cult and try to storm the building herself.

“Probably,” you admitted.

The collective disappointment that met that one word was almost comical.

Hoseok actually pouted.

Taehyung slumped dramatically sideways.

Jungkook hid his reaction badly. Jin sighed like a put-upon husband in a period drama. Jimin looked openly aggrieved. Namjoon was at least dignified enough to keep his disappointment contained to the corners of his mouth.

Yoongi just got quieter. That was somehow worse. You stood slowly.

“I’ll see you at the show tomorrow,” you said, because suddenly it felt very important to make that promise aloud.

That perked several of them up at once.

“Yes,” Hoseok said. “Good.”

“We’ll save you a seat,” Taehyung added. “A lucky seat.”

“That’s not a real thing,” Jin said.

“It is in my heart.”

“Please stop talking.”

You laughed, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Before I go…” You hesitated, then pushed through it. “Can I give you my number?”

The reaction was immediate and ridiculous.

Jungkook nearly fumbled his phone. Taehyung grinned like Christmas had come early. Jimin looked scandalized that you’d had to offer instead of them asking faster. Hoseok was already unlocking his screen.

Yoongi tried, and failed, to act like he hadn’t gone just a little still.

You gave it to them, watching as each saved it with varying degrees of enthusiasm and speed.

Namjoon created a group chat on the spot.

Jimin named it fate’s favorite idiots before anyone could stop him.

Taehyung changed it to will our girl ever return from war?

Yoongi changed it to stop talking less than ten seconds later.

Jungkook changed it back to fate’s favorite idiots.

Yoongi looked at the title, then at you, then muttered, “I hate this group already.”

“No you don’t,” Hoseok said.

“No,” Yoongi replied, and for the first time all afternoon there was no dryness in it at all. “I really don’t.”

That settled over the table in a way no one commented on. You said your goodbyes more slowly than you meant to.

Jin insisted on walking you as far as the kitchen doors. Hoseok made you promise to eat dinner. Jungkook mumbled something shy about being glad you came that made your heart squeeze. Jimin told you next time he’d be asking harder questions and you told him next time you might actually answer some of them.

Taehyung opened his arms like he wanted a hug, then visibly thought better of it and clasped his hands in front of himself instead.

The effort of that touched you more than if he’d just gone for it.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming back,” he said. “And for not looking at us like we’re crazy.”

You smiled.

“That’d be hypocritical.”

He laughed.

And then you were at the threshold between the dining room and the kitchen, with one hand on your bag strap and your pulse doing something strange and slow and heavy in your chest.

Because you could feel it. Someone behind you. Before you even turned, you knew. Yoongi had followed. Not in a dramatic, possessive, cinematic way. Just enough to catch you before you left.

You turned.

The others were still within sight, but far enough away now to give the two of you a sliver of privacy. The warm restaurant lighting caught the edge of his cheekbone and the dark line of his lashes when he looked down for a second, then back up.

Neither of you spoke right away.

Then he said, “I meant what I said earlier.”

You waited.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

Your throat tightened again.

“I know,” you said, and this time you did.

He gave a small nod.

Then, quieter: “And if you panic again tomorrow, don’t disappear alone.”

That startled you.

You searched his face, trying to figure out whether he realized how intimate that sounded. If he did, he didn’t show it.

Or maybe he did, and was simply better at hiding than you were.

“Are you offering to escort me through a crisis?”

“I’m offering to make sure you don’t have to have one by yourself.”

There it was again. That unbearable steadiness. That awful, lovely sincerity. You looked at him for so long you forgot you were supposed to say something.

When you finally did, your voice came out almost embarrassingly soft. “Okay.”

Something in his expression eased. He stepped back then, just enough to keep from crowding you. “Text when you get back.”

You raised a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like a request.”

“It’s an instruction.”

“You’re bossy.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The smile you gave him this time came easily.

His eyes dipped to it. Stayed there. Then lifted back to yours.

“Go before they make it weird again.”

You glanced over his shoulder.

Taehyung and Jimin were very obviously pretending not to look in your direction. Hoseok was failing worse. Jungkook ducked his head the second you caught him. Jin looked unbothered by all of it. Namjoon was massaging the bridge of his nose like this happened to him often.

You laughed.

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

You took one step backward into the kitchen. Then another. And because apparently the day had not embarrassed you enough already, you said, “Bye, Yoongi.”

The use of his name did something to his face. Tiny. Visible. Dangerous.

“Bye,” he said.

Then, after the barest pause:

“Y/N.”

Just your name. Nothing else. And somehow that was the worst one yet. You turned before he could see too much on your face and let the staff member lead you back through the kitchen, through the rear door, out into the alley where the SUV waited.

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

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

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

It also ate your life alive.

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

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

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

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

A lie. A good one, though.

Because the truth was uglier.

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

You had seven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N! Thank God.”

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

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

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

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

Her smile widened. “Enough.”

“Terrifying answer.”

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

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

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

You glanced up. “No.”

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

You narrowed your eyes. “Elle.”

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

There it was.

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

“Andrew does.”

Of course Andrew did.

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

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

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

“Never,” she lied.

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

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

“Thanks for joining us,” he muttered.

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

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

Your pulse kicked once, hard.

Andrew straightened. You sat still.

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

Andrew made the fatal mistake of opening his mouth.

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

Powell looked at him for a long moment.

Then she turned to you.

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

Seoul. BTS. Three weeks.

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

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

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

“No,” Powell said. “Y/N is.”

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

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

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

That part came easy.

“Elle.”

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

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

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

Then he stepped into your path.

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

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

You stared at him. “I waltzed in?”

He ignored that.

“I’ve spent years building credibility here.”

“So have I.”

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

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

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

“I’m talking to you.”

“Well, that’s your first mistake.”

His nostrils flared.

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

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

The word sat between you both like something rotten.

You blinked once.

Then twice.

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

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

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

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

A beat later the elevator doors slid open behind you.

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

You turned slowly to face her.

“I got the BTS assignment.”

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

“And Andrew just called me a floozy.”

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

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

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

Because once the shock wore off, the work started.

Three days to prep for an international assignment.

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

The busyness should’ve drowned everything else out.

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

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

The letters looked no different than they had that morning.

Still foreign. Still impossible. Still there.

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

Mostly.

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

K.S.

M.Y.

J.H.

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

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

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

Just in case.

You hated yourself a little for it.

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

She was insufferable from the second you hit your seats.

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

“You say that like it would inconvenience me.”

“It would. I’m your co-writer.”

“You’re my liability.”

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

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

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

Seoul hit you all at once anyway.

The lights.

The traffic.

The sharp coolness of the air outside the airport.

The sense of being somewhere fully alive.

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

“It is,” you admitted.

And it was.

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

The hotel made that difficult too.

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

You snorted.

But she wasn’t wrong.

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

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

Then the doors opened onto the top floor.

There were only two doors in the hallway.

Your room was the one at the end.

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

You didn’t answer right away.

The suite was obscene.

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

And one bedroom.

One.

You turned slowly to look at Elle.

“She told me one room, two beds.”

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

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

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

“We’re sleeping diagonally and respecting nothing.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And correct.”

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

Instead, it only made the next part feel sharper.

Because you had barely an hour before your first interview.

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

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

“You look incredible,” she said.

“So do you.”

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

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

“You’d miss me.”

“Deeply. For at least six business days.”

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

“You’re doing the thing.”

You stilled. “What thing?”

“The pre-interview spiral.”

“I am not spiraling.”

She raised a brow.

You exhaled. “Maybe lightly corkscrewing.”

“Y/N.”

“I know.”

It was annoying that she knew you this well.

Worse that she was right.

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

What if you asked the wrong question.

What if your Korean slipped.

What if your English came off too stiff.

What if you overprepared.

What if you underprepared.

What if—

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

You looked at her, then smiled despite yourself.

“You’re bossy.”

“You brought me because I’m useful.”

“That is not why I brought you.”

Her expression softened.

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

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

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

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

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

The sun had fully gone down now. Seoul glowed.

A thought came to you then—unwanted and strange.

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

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

Grief, maybe.

Or anticipation.

You couldn’t tell.

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

You snorted. “Astounding professionalism.”

“I’m asking as a journalist.”

“You’re asking as a menace.”

She didn’t deny it.

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

“There it is,” Elle whispered.

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

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

Then you saw them.

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

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

Not because you hadn’t prepared.

Not because you didn’t recognize them.

Just because they were, inconveniently, unfairly beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the last—

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

You swallowed.

Then you smiled.

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

A few of them looked politely blank.

Right. English.

You repeated the introduction in Korean.

That changed everything.

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

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

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

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

That got a laugh.

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

Hoseok was warm first.

Then Namjoon, all measured charm.

Then Seokjin, handsome and aware of it.

Taehyung, bright-eyed and curious.

Jungkook, shy under the confidence.

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

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

The interview started clean.

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

It was good.

Better than good.

And then you made the mistake of feeling comfortable.

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

That earned immediate reaction.

“Dinosaur Jin,” Taehyung said under his breath.

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

“Ancient,” Jungkook agreed solemnly.

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

“Fine,” he said. “Me first.”

You lowered your pen to the page.

“When’s your birthday?”

“December fourth, 1992.”

Your pen stopped moving.

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

Just enough for you to feel it.

12.4.92.

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

No.

No, that meant nothing.

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

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

Seokjin grinned. “As it should be.”

Everybody laughed.

You looked back at your notes.

The letters on your wrist burned under your sleeve.

“Who’s next?” you asked.

“Yoongi-hyung,” someone supplied.

Yoongi was already looking at you.

Not casually.

Not curiously.

Looking.

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

“And your birthday?” you asked.

A beat.

Then: “March ninth, 1993.”

The room blurred at the edges.

3.9.93.

Your fingers went cold.

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

No, no, no.

That still didn’t mean—

Hoseok.

You needed Hoseok.

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

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

You looked at him too fast.

He blinked, smile faltering slightly.

“Hoseok?”

“My birthday?” he asked.

You nodded.

“February eighteenth, 1994.”

The air left your lungs.

J.H. 2.18.94.

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

Nobody said anything.

Nobody moved.

Your heartbeat slammed so hard it hurt.

The letters on your wrist.

The dates.

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

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

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

And now—

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

Every head in the room turned.

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

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

But you couldn’t answer him.

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

And there were cameras.

And your notebook.

And Elle.

And none of that mattered.

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

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

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

“Miss—”

“Please.”

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

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

And Elle.

And half an interview.

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

There was no way in hell.

No way in hell.

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

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

Not because of traffic.

Because now every passing second had room to think.

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

K.S.

M.Y.

J.H.

You could not stop seeing them.

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

Your driver glanced at you once in the rearview mirror.

Then, politely, looked away.

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

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

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

Because this was insane.

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

No. Not a boy group.

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

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

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

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

The letters looked exactly the same.

Which was somehow worse.

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

But they just sat there.

Neat. Black. Patient.

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

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

Your hand froze halfway through the third line.

Your stomach turned violently.

You barely made it to the bathroom.

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone started ringing from somewhere in the living room.

You ignored it.

It stopped.

Started again.

Stopped.

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

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

Elle.

Of course it was Elle.

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

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

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

“You left me!”

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

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

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

Elle heard it. “This is not funny.”

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

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suspiciously: “Are you crying?”

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

“That sounded like a yes.”

“It sounded like jet lag.”

“Y/N.”

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

“No shit.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Did somebody touch you?”

“No.”

“Did one of them—”

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

Another pause.

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

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

How did you say this out loud without sounding insane?

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

You just couldn’t.

Not over the phone.

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

Elle went quiet for two long seconds.

Then: “I’m already in the car.”

The relief that hit you was immediate and humiliating.

You curled into the corner of the couch and waited.

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

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

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean.”

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

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then she held out her hand.

“Show me.”

You frowned. “Show you what?”

“Whatever made you run.”

The room seemed to sharpen around you.

You looked down at your lap. At your sleeve.

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

Elle stared.

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

You used your other hand to point.

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

Her face went still.

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

She didn’t blink.

You moved to the next set.

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

Her mouth parted.

Then:

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

You nodded once.

Neither of you moved.

Then Elle stood up so fast you startled.

“No.”

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

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

“That is exactly what I said.”

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

“Yep.”

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

You gave a weak nod.

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

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

You stared at her.

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

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

That did it.

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

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

Finally she said, “They know.”

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

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

“You told them my birthday?”

She winced. “It was in your notebook.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands.

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

You lowered your hands slowly.

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

The words sent a fresh wave of panic through you.

And, under it, something stranger.

Relief.

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

But if they knew too—

Then you weren’t alone in it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at her, motioned for her to continue.

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

That was close enough to the truth to hurt.

You looked away first.

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

“There’s a plan?”

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

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

“It’s phase one.”

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

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

You finished the list.

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

Seven matches.

Seven.

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

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

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

“I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being insane.”

“I’m adapting.”

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

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

“What happens now?” you asked.

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

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

“It’s still true.”

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

“You absolutely can.”

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

“They’re still people.”

“Very famous people.”

“Still people.”

“With my life apparently tattooed on their arms.”

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

You pointed at her. “Thank you.”

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

Avoidance had always been your best skill outside of writing.

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

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

But this—

This was already uncertainty.

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

You barely slept.

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

By five in the morning, you gave up entirely.

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

Your search history within the hour became deeply humiliating.

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

The internet was insultingly unhelpful.

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

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

This was your life now.

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

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

“You already used that joke last week.”

“You have seven soulmates now. Sue me.”

That got a snort out of you.

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

Around ten, her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, then at you.

“Big Hit.”

Your stomach dropped all over again.

“Answer it.”

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

You watched her expression change as she listened.

Surprise first, then relief, then something more thoughtful.

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

A pause.

Another.

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

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

“What?”

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

You froze.

“What?”

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

You sank slowly back into your seat.

The relief was so sudden it made you dizzy.

Then Elle smiled.

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

You stared at her.

“They rented out a restaurant?”

“That was also my first question.”

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

“No.”

Elle folded her arms. “No?”

“No.”

“You are not moving to Alaska.”

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

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking Iceland, actually.”

“Worse.”

“I need distance.”

“You need therapy.”

“Probably!”

“Still not Iceland.”

You dragged both hands down your face.

There was a long silence.

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

Elle’s expression changed.

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

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

That sat between you. Heavy. Inevitable.

You hated when she was wise before noon.

“I get it,” you reply lamely. “I just don’t want to get more confused than I already am. This whole thing is sort of a shitshow.” 

Elle makes a sound akin to a hyena’s chortle, tapping her phone to life and keying ‘twin flame’ into the search engine. You try to remain patient while she wordlessly flits through whatever articles the internet has dredged up, but your efforts are fruitless. You’re still an anxious mess, nerves bubbling and threatening to spill over despite the focus you’re trying to aim on your breathing. The calming exercises you’d learned and acquired whilst reporting on a newly opened yoga/meditation spa in downtown Manhattan, of course, when you desperately needed them to do so.

“Ah, okay…” Elle breathes out, readjusting her legs on the mattress to where they’re dangling atop your lap, feet hanging over the edge of the bed. “All I’m seeing is that you’re pretty much more spiritually tethered to your twin flame. It’s almost like a soulmate double-whammy.” 

You furrow your brows, “I don’t get it.” 

“Nothing is saying you’ll have a more spectacular sex-life or anything with your twin flame,” you wince at her crass words, “it’s all pretty much saying that you have a deeper emotional tie or tether to them because your soul split into two during your creation. So, Suga’s soul was split into two when he was created, and the other half manifested itself in you; and likewise.” 

“And the others? Why would they be my soulmates if Yoongi and I have each other?” You question her. 

“Two halves don’t always make a whole, Y/N.” She explains. “The rest of the band are made up of the same frequency as you and Yoongi, but you two exist within each other. You are him, and he is you! It’s like ‘Serendipity!” 

“Uh, what?” You ask her, eyes blank as you try and understand what she’d just quoted.

“Ah, I forgot. You’re not quite ARMY...yet.” She smiles, eyes twinkling in the dim light of the bedroom, mischievously. “We’ll fix that before the concert tomorrow,” she tells you, grabbing the remote from the foot of the mattress and switching the smart TV to YouTube.

You weren’t about to object. She’d had the right idea. You’d definitely need to up your game and awareness of your soulmates' lives. 

“So,” she begins, typing ‘Serendipity’ into the search bar, “this is Jimin’s solo on their recent album, ‘Love Yourself: Answer.”

She clicks the first video, you read something about it being a full-length edition of the song, and you snuggle further into the fluffy comforter on your bed. 

There’s a sound that’s similar to someone inhaling deeply, and then Jimin’s voice floods the room. You silently thank the hotel for installing the surround sound speakers. 

Your heart constricts inside your chest, aching at the sensual tone in his singing and flipping at his more breathy notes. Elle stays silent next to you, thankfully, allowing you to take in the song in its entirety. Your reaction isn’t something you were quite expecting, given you’d heard their music before. 

This time, though, felt completely different. Whereas a few years ago, you’d just appreciated their album, this time you felt a remarkably visceral connection to everything Jimin was expressing and singing. 

His pain, his raw emotion, the light timbre of his voice. Him. It was as if we were baring his entire raw self to you on a platter. The angelic lilts of the melody and his soulful croons give you endless chills. Once the bridge hits, and he pleads for you to not leave, to stay with him and become one, you’re gone, tears cascading down your face. 

The piano plays as Jimin’s voice becomes scarcer. He calls out to you, his voice echoing his plea for you to let him love you, as the piano ends the ballad. 

You watch the screen, tears still falling, and take a strained breath. “That was…” You begin, but stop yourself. Could you possibly even begin to convey the emotion that song brought to you? You want to try, but you catch yourself falling short, as if your ability to speak had been ripped from your existence.

“I know.” She replies kindly, gripping the remote and clicking the next video she sees. 

A picture of Jin pops up, and you quickly catch the word ‘Epiphany.’ You’d heard of this one. A group of teens who lived in the townhouse across the street from you had listened to it before. You hadn’t paid it undeviating attention at the time, although it had sounded beautiful. You’d just chalked it up to a nice song and continued on your way to work. 

Like Jimin’s solo, though, this time listening feels personal. It feels real, and almost as though the music was actually speaking, or rather singing, to your very being. 

Jin serenades you, telling you his story of discovering self-love- of finding himself. His background vocals are just as beautiful as the main ones, intricately supporting the focal notes and accommodating the emotive meaning beyond them. Your tears still run, your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, when he hits the high notes at the end of the ballad. 

How you were supposedly deserving of these beautiful, gifted, kind and genuine men was completely fucking beyond you at this point. 

“You doing okay?” Elle asks, hovering a highlighted box on the screen over ‘Singularity.’ Tae’s name next to you gives you butterflies as your mind flickers through a few mental images you’d snapped during brunch, his bright brown eyes and boxy smile beyond charming. 

“Yeah,” you answer her, wiping your eyes, careful not to tear the face mask from your face. “Let’s take these off before they cement themselves to our skulls.” You tell her, peeling the charcoal mask off your soft skin. It hurts like a bitch, but thankfully the pain distracts you from the onslaught of raw emotion you’d endured mere minutes prior. 

“Alright,” Elle says, patting her face and feeling the smoothness of it. “Singularity. It’s a V classic, save for Stigma.” 

You giggle at her obvious fangirling, eyeing the screen as she hits ‘play.’ 

His voice seems to immediately seduce you, the sensual tones of the bass and his darkened tenor resonating in your chest and running hot and heavy through your stomach. You can hear each breath he takes, practically feel his lips parting so that the words can spill through them effortlessly. You can see him in your mind now, his eyes lidded, top teeth dragging against his bottom lip...

You were aware that Tae had a deeper voice and a more recognizable voice than most people. But holy shit. You weren’t quite aware of the magnitude of talent he harbored. It’s damn near sinister. The last note strums across the bass, and you release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. 

“That man has a voice like chocolate,” Elle tells you, shaking her head approvingly. “Next, JHope himself.” 

The upbeat tempo suits him well, you note. You wouldn’t expect anything else from Hoseok. The man was a living, breathing, and dancing human version of the sun. He could make even the most upset person smile. That much you already knew, and you’d only known him for two days.

The bass settles a bit for the bridge, and then picks back up for a rerun of the chorus and the outro. It’s quite literally Hoseok as a song, and it makes your cheeks sore from the amount of smiling you’re doing. 

“RM!” Elle cheers, clicking the next video. “This is one of my favorites,” she tells you, bouncing on the bed.

“Okay, okay,” you tell her, giggling and motioning for her to settle down. 

Namjoon takes a second to start, but once he does, you’re blown away. The mix of rap and the jazzy instrumental is genius, and has you swaying to the beat, completely smitten with the tune. Namjoon definitely was an underrated rapper, just like Hoseok. You wished there was a way to have everyone on earth appreciate their talent, or rather, BTS’s talent as a whole. Yes, they were incredibly famous, and that fame was ever-growing, but you wanted everyone to see their talent, to understand how brilliant the seven men were. 

Namjoon continues to rap about being human, and lets an expletive leave his lips. You’re taken by not only the tune, the rap itself, or even the tempo, but the meaning beyond the song. It’s over far too soon, and has you pouting, but your gloomy disposition quickly shifts as you see that Jungkook’s single is loading. 

“This one, you’ve got to be a little familiar with,” Elle says, nudging you. 

You shrug to her, looking at Jungkook’s cute picture on the screen, as the music starts.

His voice is feathery light at the beginning, beautiful and effortless. The first english words he sings hit you like a drug, and you suck in a sharp breath. The lyrics are romantic, as all of the songs you’ve heard so far are. You sway, appreciating the flow of the instruments and Jungkook’s vibrant singing. His voice is crystal clear and very similar to Jimin’s, but at the same time, so different. Like Hoseok’s song, you smile during a massive duration of the song, sad and shocked at the abrupt end of it all. You’d been completely entranced by the song. 

“And the final solo,” Elle smiles, clicking on the next video. You look at the screen, feeling your smile nearly split your face in two as you take the picture in. 

Yoongi’s chocolate hair rests immaculately atop his forehead, his eyes locking onto yours from his position in the photograph. 

His voice sounds near-sleepy, causing a soothing sleepiness to rest on your consciousness. He raps about a relationship that had as many downs as ups, and then sings the chorus, and you can feel your heart ache at the lyrics. You didn’t know if Yoongi had truly gone through the heartache he sings about, but you’ve got your mind set on asking him about it. Especially knowing that he’d co-written it, Elle had informed you. 

You can hear the pain beyond the ending lyrics. Can feel the loneliness beyond them. You will yourself not to break down, confused by the surge of emotion that’s demanding to be heard and acknowledged. 

You thank Elle for showing you their solos, telling her that you’d see her in the morning. She listens, thankfully, leaving you alone in your master bedroom. As soon as she’s gone, you’re replaying the songs, finding an order to them that has you caught in a tidal wave of emotions. 

Just Dance, Love, Singularity, Euphoria, Epiphany, Serendipity, and Seesaw are put into a playlist on your Spotify and set to repeat. You listen, engaged in each word that passes their lips, soon echoing the choruses and rapping along with some of the others. 

Soon enough, you’re listening to Love Yourself: Answer, in its entirety. A few songs are completely blowing you away. Alone, the seven of them had remarkable voices, which was difficult in and of itself. But, together? There weren't any words. 

Their voices blended so effortlessly, melting into the others without issue. You could hardly believe that they were real. They seemed otherworldly. Godly. Ethereal, as you’d often hear people explain them. 

And they were yours? Fucking insane. You were a simple woman, not excessive, and not at all materialistic. You couldn’t, and probably would never be able to explain the insane nature that your life had become. Knowing that you weren’t alone, but had seven soulmates, one of which was also a twin flame of yours? That was bonkers, and something you hadn’t even dreamed of hoping for yourself… ever. 

You check your phone, smiling at the goodnight texts the boys have already sent you in the group chat. You send back a quick reply, turning your ringer off and settling further into the covers of your bed. Flicking through Hulu, you settle on a movie and let your eyes close, the darkness of the room, save for the television, settling over you and nudging you over the imaginary line between being awake and sleeping. 

You almost panic when your phone rings, waking you up, thinking maybe you’d overslept and missed out on the concert, but you calm down when you realize it’s still dark outside, and that Yoongi is the person calling. The screen of your phone tells you it’s just past 3 AM.

“Yoongi?” You ask once the phone rests against your ear, voice heavy from the sleep you’d just been roused from. “Is everything okay?”  

“Ah… yeah. Did I wake you?” He sounds about as exhausted as you feel, maybe even more so. 

“No,” you reassure him, “are you sure you’re okay, Yoongi? You sound tired.” 

“I am tired,” he tells you, voice kind, “I’ve been up all night writing a new single… I don’t even know why I called, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be! It’s a nice surprise.” You rush out, not wanting him to feel any guilt or remorse for calling you, out of all of the people he knew, in the middle of the night.

“Really? I just- I guess I wanted to hear your voice.” He admits, “That sounds emotional, doesn’t it?” 

You giggle, “Yeah, but it’s cute. Are you excited for the concert?” 

“Not as excited as Jungkook and Taehyung, but yeah. I’m excited.” He answers. “You’re going to be there, right?” 

You nod your head, and then realize he can’t see you. “Yeah,” you tell him, smiling at your hair-brained mistake. This is precisely why you weren’t a perfect morning person. 

“We got you and your co-writer backstage passes for before and after the show. We also managed to upgrade your seats. You’ll be front and center.” 

You’re shocked and at a loss for words, completely blown away by the kindness and compassion they were already showing you. 

“Wow…” you smile, “that’s great. Thank you so much!” 

“No need to thank any of us,” Yoongi chuckles, “you are our soulmate after all. We all look after each other. It’s an unspoken rule.” 

The sentiment is greatly appreciated, but you can’t help the lump that rises in your throat at his words. What could you offer them? You were just an up-and-coming writer from Manhattan. You had no reach, no unparalleled abilities that would truly help them.

“Y/N? Are you still there?” Yoongi asks, and you realize you’d not spoken for a while. 

“Yeah! I spaced out, I’m sorry,” you reply. “I appreciate you guys so much, Yoongi. I just feel bad because there’s not much I could offer or give you in return.” 

“Don’t be so ridiculous!” Yoongi huffs, “You existing is enough. We are all so thankful that you’ve been so understanding and respectful of our careers and everything so far. Plus, you’re writing an article about everything, right? Just tell everyone about how amazing we are and you’ll be fine.” He jokes.

“I will!” You laugh, “You guys are all incredible! I listened to Love Yourself Answer tonight, and it blew me away! The solos are so emotional and moving… And when you all sing and rap together? You are all brilliant.” You breathe out, smiling at the memory of the emotional album.

“Ah, shush…” Yoongi squeaks, and you can practically hear his blush through the phone. 

“If you say so,” you smile. “What time should we show up at the concert hall tomorrow?” You ask him.

He deliberates for a moment, his light breathing the only indication that he hasn’t hung up or disconnected. “Our show starts at 8,” he answers, “and we practice at 6… So, maybe around 4? We can have some food ready for you guys, and that way we can hang out a bit before we start running through the setlist.” 

“Sounds good to me,” you agree, “I’m excited to see you. To see all of you,” you smile, warm and fuzzy feelings bouncing around in your chest and stomach. 

“We’re excited to see you, too, Jagiya.” He whispers, “Get some sleep.” 

“Your wish is my command,” you answer him, heart fluttering at the small chuckle he emits. “Goodnight, Yoongi.” You murmur, exhaustion rearing its ugly head. 

“Goodnight, Y/N!” He chirps. 

Reluctantly, you click the disconnect symbol and set your phone back on the nightstand. You don’t even remember falling asleep, but you’re happy that your dreams are filled with images and music from your soulmates. Seven people you didn’t know you needed in your life, who now play a pivotal part in it.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

“You do realize how expensive backstage passes are, right?” Elle gapes, watching as you tie your hair up into a messy bun. 

You were both getting ready to leave for the first concert of the tour, dressed to impress, and feeling as exuberant as you looked. Elle wore her skin-tight, washed-faded jeans and a purple long-sleeved halter top. Her hair was coiffed, eyelashes curled, and makeup smoky. You wore a lace, skin-tight jumpsuit, hair in a bun. Brown smoky eyeshadow accentuated by your matte red lip stain. 

The boys hadn’t texted you today, save for a “we can’t wait to see you later” from Jimin in the group chat. You couldn’t blame them, couldn’t even begin to imagine the stress the day would have on them. They’d be performing in only 5 hours. 

“I wasn’t going to ask Yoongi for a price,” you reply, guilt bubbling in your gut. “Besides, he told me not to worry about it, that I’m their soulmate, and it should be expected of them.” 

“I guess that makes sense.” She huffs, “You’re lucky.” 

“Oh, hush.” You quip, adjusting your chest to where your cleavage doesn’t seem so egregious. 

“Whatever,” Elle replies, sticking her tongue out at you when you side-eye her in the mirror of your bathroom. “You look damn good, mamá.” She tells you, winking.

“Shut up,” you groan. “Is it too much? I could change-”

“You look amazing, Y/N. Take the damn compliment and stop worrying.” She grabs your shoulders for good measure and looks into your eyes. “You are gorgeous, you have seven gorgeous soulmates, and they’re going to lose their shit when they see how good you look tonight.” 

You blush, avoiding her gaze and chewing at your bottom lip. “Fine…” You mumble, “can we go now?” 

“Sure thing, Chief,” she smiles, pushing you out of your bathroom and out of the suite. 

You feel damn near bare in the outfit you’re wearing, especially being so accustomed to your usual pencil skirts and button ups. The nude-toned heels you wore now, along with the lace upper half of your jumpsuit, left you feeling pretty bare. Of course, the slip you wore underneath the clothing kept your chest from being seen. Thankfully, the bottom half of the jumpsuit flowed out like parachute pants, reassuring you that your dignity would remain intact during your event-filled evening. 

Walking to the waiting Big Hit SUV is a feat in itself. You nearly eat shit multiple times, catching yourself on Elle’s shoulder without fail whenever you do so. Shei greets you with a wide smile. “You both look so beautiful!” He tells you, waiting for you to translate for Elle. 

“Thank you!” Elle smiles, bowing to Shei. He blushes at her kindness, closing the back door once the two of you are inside the vehicle. “I’m so excited! We get to hang out with BTS backstage! That’s something I never thought I’d get to say.” 

“Don’t get too excited,” you warn her, “we still have to make sure and get material for the articles we’ll be swamped in later on… and we don’t know how much time they will have for us. They’ve got practice and stuff to run through.” 

“Ah, stop being such a party pooper, Y/N. Take it in stride! I haven’t heard you once say how incredible it is that they’re your soulmates.” 

“It is incredible!” You argue, flushing, “I just don’t want to broadcast it to the whole world yet.” 

“Well, we’re alone now!” Elle points out, “Let it out!” She notes your hesitancy, “c’mon! Just one shout.” 

You roll your eyes affectionately at her, but her excitement is intoxicating and contagious. You take a deep breath, steel your resolve for what you’re about to do, and yell. You sound similar to a baby lion trying to roar, and somewhere in between those pitiful shouts are chants of, “BTS is my soulmate!” 

Elle chimes in at some point, obnoxious cries mixing in with your insufferable ones. You don’t remember Shei putting up the divider in the large vehicle, but he does. You’ll have to apologize for that later, but right now? You were just too damn excited to care. Because you were going to a BTS concert, the entirety of BTS are your soulmates, and you’d gotten backstage passes and front row seats because of it. 

Only when Shei turns the massive Range Rover into a parking garage do you quiet down, motioning for Elle to do the same. He gets out, and you can see him making a phone call. You’re antsy, nerves getting the best of you, as they typically did, until he opens the door and tells you and Elle to follow him, and that the boys were waiting for you. 

The Olympic Gymnastics Arena is unlike any work of architecture you’d seen before. The intricate hallways and limitless side-rooms could prove to be a maze to anyone who ever existed, but Shei somehow manages just fine. He weaves through long stretches of halls and great-halls, you and Elle trailing behind him, with unmistakable purpose. You can tell you’re close to where you need to be once you take a hallway that resembles an underground tunnel, the acoustics themselves nearly morphing your footsteps into something musical and magical. 

“From the top!” You hear someone call, you assume it’s JHope, given how dedicated he is to dancing. 

The nerves from earlier disappear, and are replaced with an indescribable sense of purpose and comfort once you hear him. Shei pushes a double-wide set of doors open, and Elle struts in. You follow behind her, careful of your steps as the brightly lit hallway fades away and warm light greets you. 

You realize quickly that you’re quite literally backstage. Or, below the stage. There was some sort of mechanism that looked as if it were meant to lift your soulmates up and onto the awaiting stage. 

“Woah,” Taehyung gapes, eyeing you up like his life depended on it. “You look amazing.” He smiles, the boxy features you’re coming to adore dearly gracing his already beautiful face. 

“Thanks,” you smile, blushing, and slipping easily into Korean speech. 

The rest of them are silently taking you in, appreciating what they see. You can practically feel their attraction to you radiating through the room. Hoseok is glued in place, maybe mid-pirouette? You feel slightly guilty for stopping him during his dance. 

“Sorry if I interrupted,” you tell him, “I didn’t know if you were practicing or not.” 

You snap him out of his stupor, and he repositions his body into a more… normal stance. “You’re fine!” He smiles, charisma coming back full-force. “Taehyung is right, you do look stunning.” 

You blush further, nearly curling in on yourself. You mentally slap yourself for not bringing a cardigan or a hoodie that you could burrow yourself into. Spaghetti straps would be the death of you tonight.

“Thank you, Hoseok.” You smile. He returns the favor tenfold. 

Elle looks beyond confused. You explain to her what had been said, and she smiles devilishly at you. “Namjoon, you speak English, right?” She asks. 

“Elle-” you start. 

“I do,” the man in question answers, eyes bright and curious. 

“Y/N here has been bursting at the seams with excitement for tonight.” She tells him, and you desperately wish the ground would do you the courtesy of opening up and swallowing you whole. “We listened to all of the music on your set-list last night just to get excited for tonight.” 

Namjoon chuckles, deep and hearty and warm. “Thank you,” he tells both of you, “we do have an additional song we’ll be performing tonight, though!” 

“Yah! Don’t ruin our surprise performance!” Jungkook shouts, his Korean rushed and frantic.

“I won’t, I won’t!” Namjoon reassures him in English before turning to you. “So what are you most excited for?” 

You deliberate, coming up empty-handed. What wasn’t there to be excited about? Just the way Namjoon looks at you, tall legs accentuated by black skinny jeans and a crew neck black tee that the entire team dons. They were all matching, and the realization is delicious and fruitful. Namjoon’s eyes are waiting on you, exhilarated by what your answer could be, when you remember you hadn’t answered him. The man has you swooning and excited beyond belief, yet he’s expecting you to tell him your favorite song? You were going to combust. 

“Everything,” you tell him, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I don’t have any set favorites. All of your guys’ music gets to me.” 

You finally take in the rest of the boys, and you’re shocked you weren’t drooling. 

Namjoon’s faded pastel pink hair is enough to do you in itself. Combine it with the rest of them? You were fucking doomed. 

Jimin’s near-white hair highlights his bone structure and differs from the pink hair he’d had the day prior. His chiseled face sends goosebumps up your naked arms, especially when he notes your glance and dares to wink at you, toothy grin making his eyes smile and making your heart nearly come to a halt. The boy was undeniably breathtaking, and he knew it.

Taehyung has his signature bandanna on, keeping the chocolate curls you so desperately wanted to play with from falling onto his face and obstructing his view. His eyes are warm and large, boxy smile still plastered across his face. 

Hoseok’s hair is a similar chocolatey shade to Tae’s, but its length differs. The middle part gives people easy access to seeing his ethereal features, from his perfect skin to the elvish slope of his nose, to the innocent eyes that beam at you with happiness. The man was a literal angel. 

Jin’s hair is different from yesterday. Whereas yesterday it’d been the butterscotch blond that you loved, today it was a lavender that you loved just as much. His full lips break into a smile when he catches your gaze, and you send one back, giving his deep-brown doe-eyes another once-over before reluctantly moving on. 

Yoongi smiles a gummy smile that you’d started memorizing, giving you a tiny wave that you return immediately. His hair is pitch black, cut just at his eyebrows. His pouty lips are distinguishable even as he smiles, something that has your heart doing a backflip. 

Jungkook, the Golden Maknae himself, looks ravishing. His hair is nearly as black as Yoongi’s, fluffy tendrils falling into his eyes seductively as he sends a boyish grin your way. You have to remind yourself that he is, in fact, a year older than you, despite his youthful appearance. 

“I missed you guys!” You tell them, heartwarming from the smiles your admission elicits from them.

“We missed you, too, Jagiya!” Taehyung replies, shooting up from his seat and towards you with his arms extended. He comes to a pause, most likely remembering your reaction to his last hug. 

You laugh at his internal battle, and close the distance yourself, pulling him into your arms and relishing in his warmth. He was like a fucking space-heater. 

He locks you into his surprisingly strong embrace, chest hard against your soft one. “You are small.” He chuckles, swaying slightly with you in his arms. 

“Hey!” You shout playfully, pulling away from him and booping his nose. “Don’t mock my height! I’m strong for my size.” 

“I believe you,” he smiles, his deep voice leaving you lightheaded. 

“Where’s our hugs?” Jin pouts, looking at you and Tae.

“Come and get them,” you quip, holding your arms open for whoever takes up your offer. Within seconds, you’re being nearly suffocated by seven fully grown men (it seems Tae slipped back in) who have you trapped in a bear hug. “You guys are stealing all of my air!” You grumble, trying to escape the mountain that is BTS.

“You can’t get away from us, Jagiya~” Jungkook sings, voice intoxicating. 

“Food’s here!” A voice calls out, and you’re left breathing lost oxygen, the arms around you disappear, save for one pair. 

Yoongi still holds tightly onto you, head resting in the crook of your neck, as the rest of the band swarms the takeout that’d been ordered. You watch, small smile on your face, while Namjoon explains to Elle what food is what, and helps her prepare her own plate. 

“You tired?” You ask Yoongi, taking the opportunity to lead him to a vacant wall and sit with him. He rests his head back against your shoulder, nodding it lamely. “You could take a nap on me, if you want,” you tell him.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, gripping your hand and holding it in his lap. Seconds pass before you can hear his breathing hollow out and watch as his chest rises and falls deeply. 

“Don’t move!” Tae chirps softly, pulling out his phone as he walks over to the two of you. “This is going to be such a cute picture!” 

The flash momentarily blinds you, but you don’t care once you see the outcome of the photograph. You look alive in it. The way you’d seen a lot of people look alive when they were complete. You are clearly looking into Tae’s eyes in the picture, gaze amorous and admiring. Yoongi’s lips are parted, hands wrapped around yours that’s in his lap, as he leans against you in the picture. It’s incredibly intimate and incredibly heartwarming. 

“Thank you, Taehyung.” You smile, motioning for him to sit on the other side of you. He does, and he mimics Yoongi, your other hand is pulled into his lap, and he rests his chocolate curls against your vacant shoulder. “Make sure you send that picture to the group chat later.” You tell him. 

“Did that as soon as I took it.” He smiles against you, lips stretching against your shoulder. You have to try insanely hard not to shudder. “So, are you excited for the show?” 

“Of course.” You reply, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited or content with anything in my life before.” Sincerity is prevalent in your sentence. 

“I can’t wait for you to see us perform! Hoseok’s nervous we will forget some dance steps if we see you in the crowd, but I think you’ll help us do even better.” 

You want to melt at that. This man was sweeter than any sweet you’d ever had. 

“I hope that’s the case, Taehyung.” You tell him, gripping his hand in yours tightly. He returns the grip, strong hands engulfing your own. 

“We mess up our routines a lot anyway,” he shrugs against you, “so it wouldn’t be anything new if we did mess up.” 

“Easy for someone to say when they’re not in charge of the choreography,” Hoseok grumbles from the nearby table full of takeout boxes. “Y/N, are you hungry?” He asks, “I’m preparing a plate for Yoongi, and I can put some extra food on it.”

“Yes, please!” You chirp, knowing your stomach will appreciate it when you’re dancing and cheering them on later. “Thank you, Hoseok!” 

He smiles brightly at you, adding a massive spoonful of kimchi fried rice to the plate. Within a few relatively silent minutes, save for Jungkook and Jimin arguing over a rice cake, Hoseok brings the ridiculously full plate to your mini-huddle against the wall. Tae steals a bit of orange chicken from it, thankful that you don’t rebuke him like the elder members would, and eats next to you in silence. The food seems to have some sort of magical power because the smell wakes Yoongi up, and he immediately pops some chicken into his mouth. 

“Thanks for being my pillow,” he says between bites. “You’re a very good one.” 

“Well, thanks.” You smile, eating some of the fried rice. “You can return the favor when I’m tired later.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” he smiles back, continuing to eat the ridiculously delicious takeout that management had brought. 

“Practice starts in 40 minutes,” JHope announces, looking at his iPhone. “Concert in three hours.” 

“Yah,” Yoongi groans, melting against your side. “Can’t we skip the practice, Hobi?” He asks, voice wavering from his tiredness. You wish you could alleviate it. 

“You know we can’t, Yoongi,” JHope replies. You watch as Namjoon continues translating for Elle, immersing in conversation like it were a gift. The man was kind beyond words. 

“I know, I know,” Yoongi grumbles. “Just gimme a minute before we shoot off onto the stage.” 

“You can rest on me after the show, if you want,” you offer the sleepy man on your shoulder. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he tells you, hugging you against him and nearly spilling the plate full of food that’s on your lap. 

“What about us?” Jimin asks, pouting at you from the table where he and the rest of the guys sit. 

“You’re all welcome to nap on me,” you laugh, “you might run out of comfortable spots to rest your heads on, though.” 

Jimin blushes a light pink, stuffing his mouth with another forkful of his rice. 

“So,” Namjoon starts, speaking in his accented English, “while we practice, you two can find your seats. That way, when the concert starts, you won’t be stuck trying to find them.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Elle smiles behind a mouthful of food. “We’re excited to see you guys on stage.” 

“Thank you. That means a lot to us,” Namjoon replies, his gaze gently passing onto you. 

The rest of the time you’re with them below-stage is spent asking the usual pre-concert questions. ‘What song are you most excited to perform?’ and ‘How long have you guys been practicing this specific set list for?’ 

You’re pleased to find out that since ‘Persona’ was a smaller album, they’d be performing a lot of their songs from ‘Answer’ and ‘Tear.’ Two albums you’d studied heavily the night prior with the help of Elle, and your complete fascination with your newfound soulmates.

They answer your questions with enthusiasm and great care, making sure you and Elle get the content you’d need for your articles. Hoseok is especially wordy with his answers, giving you illustrious details that he knew would help you later on. 

Jin, ever the comedian, cracks his signature dad jokes throughout the mini-questionnaire. The jokes, however simple, leave you clutching your sides as you lose yourself in your laughter, which Jin seems extremely thankful for. 

“Five minutes!” Someone you assume to be a stagehand tells the boys, popping their head into the room you’re in to address them. 

All seven sets of eyes light up, thrill coursing through them as they start to chat amongst themselves, preparing each other for the lengthy practice they’d be running through. Elle finds you amidst their chatter, putting her arm around your bare shoulders. 

“You look happy,” she smiles, wagging her brows at you. 

“Aw, shut up,” you quip, sending her a light glare. “They’re nice.” 

“That they are. Namjoon let me in on a few secrets while you were playing bed for Yoongi and V.” She tells you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “This concert is going to kick ass.” 

“Is that right?” You reply dryly. “And are you going to let me in on these secrets?” 

“No way in hell, L/N.” She laughs. “That’d ruin the authenticity of it all.” 

You roll your eyes, but don’t bug her to tell you the entirety of the practice. The boys are ruthless on stage, and you relish in their echoing voices resounding in the amphitheater, thankful that you’d been granted the exclusive mini-performance. There are some run-throughs that they leave out, you can tell because the practice lasts at least an hour less than the actual concert would. 

Elle cheers them on enthusiastically the entire practice, you echoing her cheers. You’re beyond grateful for her cheering next to you, because if she weren’t there to show you what you should be cheering, you’d be a sputtering mess in your seat. The solo performances in particular fuck you up. You’d figured they would, but holy shit. You don’t think anything could have prepared you for the rush of emotions you’re met with once the stage lights dim and the practice is concluded. 

Elle is pretty much screaming her approval at the top of her lungs next to you, while you take a deep breath and desperately hold in your tears. Jungkook stands alone on the stage, his performance of ‘Euphoria’ being the closing act, you assume. 

“We’re going to go get dressed while security starts letting people in!” He tells you, speaking into his microphone. “We’ll see you after the show.” He smiles, only retreating from the stage when you shout ‘ok’ and hold a thumbs up in the air.

The seats fill quickly, people filing in without pause. The air turns into an excited static, fans chanting their signature BTS chants while they wait for the men in question to appear on the stage. 

The music seems to emanate from the entirety of the building, floor rumbling, lights dimming, and changing colors. You hear Namjoon speaking into his microphone before you see him, thanking everyone for attending and promising that they’ll perform their all. 

And then they’re there. Lifted from the pedestal below the center stage up onto the main stage. They all wear similar button-up shirts and tight black pants. The only distinguishing factor beyond their hair is the colors of their shirts. 

Jimin’s shirt is silver, flowing around him like a silver waterfall. Jin’s is a pastel blue, reminding you of the sky just before the sun disappears and stars can be seen. Taehyung has a pastel orange shirt, similar to the tints in the sky that can be seen during a sunset. Namjoon sports a pastel purple color, reminding you of the purple cotton candy you could get at the state fair in Washington. JHope’s top is a pastel yellow, matching the sunny personality that wears it. Jungkook’s shirt is a pastel pink, matching Namjoon’s hair and only darkening his already onyx hair. Yoongi has a pastel green shirt on, resembling sea foam that washes up on the beach shore in Hawaii, which you’ve been to precisely three times.

All of them together remind you of the candy heart boxes you could buy around Valentine’s Day, leaving a sweet taste in your mouth and your heart fluttering. They truly were beautiful beyond words. You can see the bronzer they’ve used to sculpt their already prominent cheekbones, the charcoal eyeliner that accentuates their dark eyes. They looked sinful, deliciously so.

Their first song is the highly popular ‘Boy With Luv,’ Halsey’s voice playing through the stadium speakers because she isn’t there. The rest of ‘Persona’ follows, fans singing along with them. You’re too busy following their trained muscles that strain against their clothing while they dance. Beyond their initial beauty, which always rendered people speechless, they were (for lack of better wording) hot. You count yourself lucky for them scoring you the seats you have now. You were only a handful of yards away from them, able to see their faces clearly, and get lost in the music they croon. 

You especially appreciate the sleeve cuffs that are keeping their wrists tightly secured by fabric, but allowing the rest of the arm sleeves to puff out and billow in the air following their movements. Jimin’s ‘Serendipity’ dance has him literally resembling a silver river, rivulets of clothing and hair flowing effortlessly alongside the pirouettes and jumps that he performs without challenge. You silently thank the contemporary dancing he’d done before joining the group for the beautiful moves you’re playing witness to. 

‘Serendipity’ ends, and you can hardly tell where ‘Singularity’ begins, they melt so beautifully into one another that it’s hard to distinguish when the song change even happens. 

Tae performs the song brilliantly, dancing as sensually and emotionally as possible. You have to remind yourself to breathe so you don’t pass out, his soulful crooning putting you under a spell that has your eyes slightly dazed and dilated. 

You shake yourself out of it slightly as ‘Epiphany’ starts, Jin’s vocals clear and loud. It’s heart-shattering how much emotion he pours into the performance, pedestal in the centermost of the stage lifting him towards the heavens and back down to the stage as his voice rises and lowers throughout the song’s entirety. 

You take in a hollow breath when Yoongi whispers “Suga” into the mic, stepping forward and relieving Jin of his stage presence. His dance is calculated throughout the song, with background dancers helping him to portray the emotion and complication of the song. Your heart nearly stops when he sits atop a bench brought out mid-dance, and his background dancers tip it, leaving Yoongi to slide off and back onto the stage floor. You’re worried he won’t land, but are left open-mouthed when he does land it. Perfectly. 

Namjoon’s solo is next, the piano of ‘Love’ echoing throughout the somehow silent stadium. His voice rings through as he takes the center of the stage, his face plastered onto the big screen behind him. The camera that follows him along the stage is practically his only prop; he refers to it the entirety of the solo, speaking to it as if it were you and the rest of the people filed into the circular arena. The heart fingers he puts in front of the camera lens at the end have the population inside the dome practically shaking the colosseum with their cheers. 

The purple lights momentarily stun you, but you can see JHope standing amidst them all, and you force yourself to focus on him and not the surrounding pulsing lights. He smiles, sending the boyish grin towards the general area you're seated in, and you bite your bottom lip, heart feeling dangerously full and ready to burst. You were ready for the charismatic and chipper Hobi that you were growing accustomed to, but were pleasantly surprised when his solo dripped swagger and sex appeal. The man oozed virtuosity and he was not afraid to be cocky about it. 

Jungkook’s performance is quite literally reminiscent of any rock song performance you’d seen. You can see the similarities to Elvis, Michael Jackson, Queen, and so many more famous rock stars that it leaves you feeling nothing short of nostalgic and blown away. The wistful air that surrounds the golden maknae has your heart panging and eyes watering. 

You’re left confused when all of the members return to the stage and the music dies down, leaving you and the rest of the fans utterly silent and waiting on the edge of your seats for whatever was to come next. 

“These next songs we’ve performed many times,” Jin begins. 

“Tonight they will have more meaning,” JHope adds. 

“Tonight they will be complete. As we’ve found ourselves feeling over the past few days. These songs are dedicated to us, and you.” Namjoon finishes, looking your way before signaling towards the back of the stage. 

The lights all shut off, and you suck in a harsh breath, completely blown away by the implication beyond their words. 

The deep melodic beat starts, pulsing through the crowd. You can hear the recognition of the song hit the rest of the fans, hear the way they lose their collective cool, and scream soulfully towards the stage. 

The interlude takes a few minutes, and you are vaguely aware of Elle gripping your hand in her own. You can just barely make out the knowing smile that’s housed on her face. When the light comes back on, your breathing stops. They’re still wearing the pants and shoes they’d been wearing before, but rather than the individually colored button-up shirts, they’re all dressed in the exact same white button-ups, cuffs tight against their wrists. 

They face away from the massive crowd, hands at their sides. Jimin’s voice calls out through a pause in the music, velvety smooth and breathy. 

“When you say that you love me, 난 하늘 위를 걷네, 영원을 말해줘, just one more time,” he calls out, turning to face the crowd as he does so. 

Jungkook mimics his actions, repeating the melodic tempo that’d been sung just before him, with only slightly differing lyrics. And you’re left in your seat, a sputtering and crying mess, your heart overflowing and rendering you a blob of emotion. 

The rest of the members turn, Jin taking his mic and singing soulfully into it; his voice echoing throughout the stadium. 

Your breathing completely hitches as they sing the chorus, echoes of ‘you got the best of me,’ resonating in your heart. Yoongi’s vocals cause your heart to nearly stop, the lightness of his raspy voice intoxicating and differing so much from his usual rap vocals.  

The bridge hits, JHope, Jimin, and Jungkook giving it their all. Their voices are heavy with unspoken intent and dripping with adoration they hold for each other, and the unspoken adoration for you. Your heart could burst at any moment. 

And it pretty much does when the final beat of the song hits and they lift their left arms in the air, right hands reaching for the clasp on their sleeves. Elle grips your hand in response to you lifting your other to cover your gaping mouth, shock coursing through you in thick waves. 

The fans seem to sense what they’re doing, screams deafening as the boys unlock their clasps and the left sleeves fall, expansive ink plain as day on each wrist. 

“Yours are covered!” Elle shouts, her voice somehow successfully reaching your burning ears. Because, yes, they just did that. 

The break in music is short-lived, the beginning instrumental of ‘Magic Shop’ blocking out the deafening roar of the crowd. Your sight is blurry as your tears continue to fall, emotion suffocating you as you try desperately to listen to the rest of the song. You’re not as successful as you want to be, which is only slightly disappointing given the shock you’d just had to trudge through to remain conscious. You knew they were planning on revealing their markings, but to do it right after practically dedicating an overtly emotional ballad to you? 

The iconic manor of it all had you swooning, feeling lightheaded, and overcome with the heaviest emotion you’d ever encountered. 

You hardly hear them thanking everyone for coming out to their show, explaining that there were two more remaining shows they’d be doing in Seoul before moving on to Busan, and thanking the fans for selling out the entirety of their tour. 

The fans remain clapping after the show, and you’re led away by the bodyguard who’d brought you to your seats originally. You follow him, your tears having finally stopped, and your face most likely looking void of any emotion aside from shock. 

The bodyguard bows, opening the door to a sort of rec room that was not the room you were in before the concert. 

The boys are all strewn across random furniture, miraculously having changed into loungewear and nursing large water bottles to their exhausted faces. Taehyoung spots you first, gripping you into a hug after he practically leaps to where you are in the room. 

It’s as if their presence has revived your ability to feel emotions. His arms encircling you have you feeling everything you’d felt in the arena. The resurgence of the strong emotions has tears spilling onto Tae’s grey sweater, which surprises you, as you’d thought you’d cried them all out. 

You burrow further into his toned frame, his strong chest supporting you, and keeping you tethered to him. You sniffle and shiver, appreciating his warmth more than you could describe. The coldness of the rec room was getting to you. 

“Are you okay, Jagiya?” His deep voice asks you, rumble in his chest as he speaks, making you shiver for a different reason completely. He senses this shiver, “Are you cold?” He asks, and you nod your head against the muscle of his chest. 

“I’ll grab her one of my spare sweaters,” you hear Jin say. Shuffling and muffled noise is coming from the opposite side of the room, but you’re too tired and relying far too heavily on Tae to keep you standing straight up to part from him and look at the source of the ruckus. “Here you go, Jagiya,” Jin tells you, and this time you do have to part from Tae. 

Jin takes in your appearance, probably seeing how emotionally raw you look, and helps you into the sweater. It smells heavenly, and so much like Jin that you hug it tightly around you once it’s on. 

“Thank you, Jin,” you squeak, blushing at the timid smile he graces you with. 

“Of course,” he tells you, pulling you into a hug. “Did you enjoy the show?” He asks, leading you to sit between him and Yoongi on a small couch. 

“It was amazing,” you breathe out, “you guys just- wow.” You gape. 

Yoongi chuckles, readjusting himself so he can rest his hooded head atop your lap. “Does this mean I can nap now?” He asks you. 

You peer into his droopy eyes, his exhaustion practically tangible. “Yes,” you giggle, running a hand through his fluffy, sable hair. 

He grips your hand in his, like he had earlier, and you wonder how much he loved holding people’s hands in his own. He seemed to be extremely content with it. You’re slightly shocked when he raises it to his lips and presses a feather-light kiss to the back of it. 

You blush without pause, biting your bottom lip. “Get some sleep,” you tell him, squeezing his hand in your own when he rests it back on his chest. 

You’re thankful none of the guys ask you about your puffy eyes, or your hoarse voice. You wouldn’t know how to explain your emotions regarding the concert, at least, not just yet. 

The only thing you were sure of was how completely blown away you were by the night’s events. You’re even more shocked when Elle tells you that Shei will be taking her back to the hotel so she can catch some sleep, leaving you with the seven men who completed your existence. She smiles knowingly at you, kissing your hair before Shei comes to collect her from the room. 

“I’ll see you later,” she tells you, waving your way. “Keep her safe!” She warns the men around you. 

“Of course,” Namjoon responds, smiling at her and waving her goodbye. The rest of them, save for Yoongi, who is now fully asleep on your lap, send her their waves, a chorus of lighthearted ‘goodbyes’ echoing through the decorated rec room. 

“We were going to ask you,” Jimin starts, turning towards you a few moments after Elle has departed. “Would you want to go to our hotel with us and hang out? Tae and Jungkook were going to play a few games of Overwatch, and we usually cheer them on,” he smiles, eyes half-moons. 

“Sure,” you smile, slightly nervous but mostly excited that you’d get to see them and how they interact in their natural setting. “That sounds fun.” 

Jungkook and Tae pump their fists into the air at your answer, “Overwatch, Overwatch, Overwatch!” They chant, running around the room like lunatics. 

“Can you two shut up?” Yoongi grumbles, hugging your hand against his pouty face. He doesn’t look pleased in the slightest to have been woken up. 

“We can’t!” Jungkook chirps, “Y/N is going to come over and watch us play tonight!” 

Yoongi’s brows furrow, and his gummy grin takes center stage on his sleepy face, “You’re coming over?” He asks, voice heavy with sleep.

“Yep!” You smile. 

“That’ll be fun,” he breathes out, rubbing his cheek against the back of your hand that he’d kissed only twenty minutes before. 

“Oh, will it?” You ask, wiggling your brows at him. He laughs at that, kissing your hand again. 

With a shaky breath, you realize just how right he most likely was.

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BTS’s staff looked satisfied in a stiff way that people usually looked when they had prevented something scandalous.

Jungkook stood across the room next to Jimin, one hand on his hip, water bottle hanging from his fingers. He was listening to something Namjoon was saying, nodding at all the right times, his face so carefully blank it made you want to throw something at him even if he had, technically speaking, done nothing wrong.

He was being good. Had to, because everyone in the room had decided distance was the solution to your unspoken attraction and he had finally decided to accept it without making it harder for you. You knew you should be at least the tiniest bit grateful, but instead you felt something mean and wounded stretch awake inside you.

“Such an improvement,” your manager nodded to the choreographer and assistant director.

You turned your head toward her quickly. “Is it?” 

She looked back at you, surprised by your tone. “Yes. Can’t you tell?” 

“An improvement for who?”

Her mouth pressed together tightly, warning look flashing like a million neon signs at your questioning. A quiet reminder that there were people around and that you were not in her office. That you were not just a girl with aching feet and a bruised ego. You were YN from Bloom. A leader, a brand pillar, the reliable one. You were supposed to know when to stop talking, and usually you did. Tonight, apparently, your survival instinct had clocked out early. 

Manager Lee lowered her voice. “Not here.” 

You laughed once, and it wasn’t pretty. “No, actually, here seems perfect.” 

Her eyes sharpened. “YN.” Another warning.

You looked back at the monitor, where the frozen frame showed you in the center of the formation, beautiful and untouchable and perfectly alone. “We changed the choreo because people might make edits.” 

“That is not what happened.” 

“No, that’s exactly what happened.” 

The assistant director became deeply interested in his clipboard at your words, and one of the camera operators looked away. Bloom, from across the room, had gone silent. Mina first, like usual. Her head lifted from where she was sitting against the mirror, brows raised. Lila sat up too. Hana and Sasha exchanged glances. You should have swallowed it all down then, for them, if nothing else.

But then Manager Lee said, “We’re protecting you,” and something in you snapped clean in half. 

“No, you’re managing me.” The room went still in the terrible way they do when people pretend not to hear an argument but absolutely heard every syllable. 

Manager Lee’s expression hardened and you could feel Jungkook’s eyes on you without looking up. You turned fully toward Manager Lee, keeping your voice low enough to avoid making a spectacle, but sharp enough that no one nearby could mistake it for obedience. “There’s a difference.” 

“Everything we do is for your protection and the group’s protection.” 

“Protect the performance instead.” When her brows lifted in confusion, you continued. “That version?” You asked, gesturing towards the monitor. “It’s clean and safe and it is boring.” You turned towards the choreographer then. “The whole point of the bridge and the performance in general is tension. Bloom opens the stage, BTS interrupts the formation, we meet in the middle. That’s the concept, yeah? Collision? Different backgrounds, languages, styles, and we still find rhythm with each other?” 

The choreographer, against better judgment, nodded slightly. Manager Lee did not. You looked at her again, “So why are we cutting the tension out of the section where it actually matters most?” 

Her voice was thin as she replied. “You know why.” 

“Because Jungkook stood near me?” 

“Because the camera makes it look like more.” 

“Then change the camera!” 

Silence stretched through the room, beautiful and awful. The assistant director looked up as Manager Lee stared at you with composed rage. You smiled, but there was no sweetness in it. “What?” you asked. “We’re all professionals, right? Isn’t that what you keep telling me? So, professionally speaking, if the camera angle makes clean choreography look inappropriate, maybe the camera angle is bad.” 

Mina’s mouth fell open across the room and Lila made a tiny noise that sounded like a squeak. You just barely caught the movement from the corner of the room where Jimin turned away so fast you could tell he was trying not to laugh. Jungkook definitely didn’t laugh. He did, however, stare at you like you’d done something reckless and worthy of reward.

Manager Lee stepped closer. “Careful.” 

You held her gaze. “I am careful.” 

“No,” she said quietly. “You are emotional.” 

Your smile dropped. That– well, that simply was not okay. Emotional was the kind of word people used when they wanted to make a woman’s point sound more like a symptom than a valid anything. Your shoulders squared automatically.

“I’m not emotional because I disagree with you.” You said with a shake of your head. “I have spent the last five years being told to lead this group,” you continued, voice steady now, colder. “Lead interviews and rehearsals. Lead when someone cries, or when someone messes up Japanese. Lead when an American journalist asks us if our accents make it harder for fans to connect to us. Lead when executives want us to be diverse but not difficult. You do not get to ask me to lead and then expect me to be silent when I have an opinion.” 

Bloom was still silent, listening. Manager Lee glanced toward them and then back to you. “This is not about your leadership.” 

“Is it not?” 

“No, this is about optics.” 

You stepped closer to the monitor and tapped the frozen image of yourself on-screen. “There are five girls in Bloom,” you said. “Five cultures, five sets of expectations, five families watching from five different places. We have to be perfect in every market and still somehow look effortless. We have to be strong, but not aggressive. Feminine, but we can’t be weak. International, but not confusing. Respectful, but not boring.” Your throat tightened, but you refused to let your voice shake. “And now I’m supposed to make our performance smaller because people might think I’m standing too close to a man?” 

‘Man’ was spoken harder than you expected it to, but that might just be because everyone in this room knew who you were talking about.

Manager Lee inhaled slowly. “You are oversimplifying the issue.” 

“No. You are.” 

Her eyes narrowed on you. You knew that look. You saw it mostly in conference rooms or vans or backstage before shows. That look typically meant Manager Lee was deciding whether you were worth fighting in public or whether she would drag you into a hallway and skin you alive in private. But you were already past the possibilities of the hallway version. You were exhausted of that kind of privacy. 

That privacy was where they put everything they didn’t want your fans to see. Anger, exhaustion, crushes, hunger, homesickness… The ugly parts of being a person inside pretty public packaging.

You looked to the choreographer. “Can you fix the angle without changing the formation?” 

He hesitated and Manager Lee said your name again. You ignored her.

The choreographer rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. If we shoot from the front-left instead of center-right, his hand won’t line up with your waist.” 

“Wonderful.” 

“And we can adjust Jungkook’s arm path slightly. Less hover, more extension through the turn.” 

You nodded. “Does that ruin the transition?” 

“No.” 

“Will it still read as tension?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then that seems like the fix.” 

Manager Lee laughed quietly. Not amused but warning you again. “You are not the director.” 

“No,” you nodded. “I’m the person whose body is in the shot, though.” 

That did it. You watched as her expression went completely still. For half a second, you thought maybe you’d gone too far. 

Namjoon stepped forward, voice calm and diplomatic. “She has a point.” 

Manager Lee’s eyes cut to him. Namjoon bowed his head slightly, polite as ever. “The original blocking has better energy. If the issue is the camera, we can adjust the camera.” 

Jimin, apparently done pretending, added, “the first version looked cooler.” 

Taehyung nodded from beside him. “Much cooler.” 

Mina lifted her hand from the floor. “As someone who has nearly died three times from this choreo, I would like it to look cooler, please.” 

A laugh broke out from the staff somewhere, small and nervous, but it punctured the tension just enough. Manager Lee’s mouth tightened again. 

She looked at you again, and for a second you saw the calculation behind her eyes. Not just annoyance, but some fear… because maybe she was protecting you. Maybe she was managing you. Maybe those two things had just become so tangled over the years that neither of you knew how to separate them anymore.

Her voice lowered. “And if the fans still talk?” 

You looked at the monitor, at the version of you that always came off untouchable. Then you looked at Jungkook. He was still watching you, no smile, no teasing, just a steady stream of attention that always made you feel like he could see the parts of you everyone else would mistake as strength. 

Your heart kicked painfully as you looked back to Manager Lee. “Then they talk.” You shrugged. 

Her brows lifted, and you swallowed once. “They’re going to talk either way,” you added. “If he stands behind me, they talk. If he doesn’t, they talk. If I smile, they talk. If I don’t, they talk. I can’t keep building my whole career around avoiding someone’s slowmo edit.” She said nothing. “So, let me do my job. Let us do the performance the way it was built.” 

No one moved for a long moment, then Manager Lee looked towards BTS’s staff. A silent conversation passed between people paid too much money to make invisible decisions for you all. 

Finally, the assistant director cleared his throat. “We can try one take with the original blocking and adjusted camera.” 

Manager Lee did not look happy. But she also didn’t say no. You nearly sagged with relief, but instead nodded once, professional and controlled. “Thank you.” 

Manager Lee leaned closer as people began resetting, her voice only loud enough for you to hear. “This is not over.” 

You gave her a thin smile, “yeah, I know.” 

She held your gaze before stepping away. Your pulse was still slamming, your hands were shaking faintly so you curled them into fists before anyone could notice. 

Jungkook did, though. He appeared beside you as the room shifted back into place, close enough to speak but not so close that anyone could accuse either of you of anything. Always that measured distance now. Always that invisible forsaken line neither of you could stop finding.

His voice was low, “That was…” 

You looked at him. “Stupid? Suicidal?”

“Hot.”

Your eyes widened. “Jungkook–”

“What?” he asked, all innocence, but his eyes were bright again. Alive again. “You told them to change the camera.” 

“I did not do all of that so you could flirt with me.” 

“I know that.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He leaned the slightest bit closer, voice dropping. “I’m flirting because you did all that.” 

You almost laughed. You killed it immediately, but not before his smile deepened like he had won something. Your chest hurt, god, it hurt. There he was again, not unreachable or erased, right behind that invisible line, waiting. You looked away before your face could betray you. 

“Don’t make me regret it.” 

His expression softened. “I won’t.” 

Like always, his sincerity was worse than his flirting. You nodded and stepped into position. When Bloom formed behind you and BTS moved around you, the room felt different, felt more awake.

Jungkook took his place behind you, close enough for the choreography and the ache. You caught his reflection again in the mirror. For a second, he let himself smile. Small and private and proud. Your heart stuttered. The music started and you moved, and on the count of six, Jungkook crossed behind you again. 

His hand extended through the turn exactly as adjusted, never hovering, never touching, cleaner than before. The camera caught the motion from the left, no illusion of contact, no scandalous frame, but the tension was there. Worse, maybe, because now it felt intentional. You hit the next count with your chin lifted and fire in your chest. Behind you, Jungkook matched you perfectly. For the first time in years, you danced not like something had been stolen from you, but like you’d taken it back. 

The take was good, not in the clipped way that Manager Lee’s revision was. It was good. The room felt it the second the music cut. The final pose held, one count after another. Your chest heaved and sweat slid down your spine. Your hands were still shaped exactly where the choreography left them, fingers splayed, chin lifted, Bloom fanned out behind you like a flower opening. Jungkook stood behind your shoulder, the energy of him burned at your back.

“That’s it,” the choreographer muttered. 

A ripple went through the room, recognition and congratulations spreading infectiously. It had all finally clicked into place, you could still feel the irritation coming from different figures because it had taken arguing to get there. The assistant director leaned over the monitor, replaying the bridge. “Camera angle works,” he confirmed.

Manager Lee didn’t speak. That was how you knew you’d won. Not permanently or cleanly, or without dues waiting to be paid somewhere down the line… but for that moment, in the rehearsal room where everyone had tried to sand down the edges of the performance, you had won.

You stepped out of formation and reached for your water, but Mina passed it to you before you could grab it yourself. Her eyes were sparkling. “You’re so getting yelled at later,” she whispered. 

“I know,” you nodded, taking the bottle. “Probably sooner than I’d like.”

“Worth it?” 

You looked toward the monitor, where your body and Jungkook’s shadow moved through the bridge again. The shot was pristine. Electric. There was no cheap almost-touching or accidental scandal, only tension and performance. Both were proof you were right. 

You lifted the bottle to your mouth. “So worth it.” 

Mina grinned, “that’s our girl.” 

Across the room, BTS had gathered around the playback too. Namjoon watched with a thoughtful frown as Hoseok talked animatedly with the choreographer, hands moving like he was already tweaking details in his head. Yoongi glanced over at you once and gave a small approving nod. 

Your eyes found Jungkook as they always tended to do. He was watching the monitor with Namjoon, for once not watching you. So you studied him. The set of his shoulders, the damp hair curling slightly under his beanie, the line of his jaw when he clenched it like there was something he wanted to say and had decided against it.

You knew that look because you wore it all the time. 

Manager Lee appeared at your side. “Hallway,” she said. 

You capped your water slowly. “Now?”  Mina’s smile dropped. 

“Yes.” Her tone didn’t invite argument.

Unfortunately for her, you’d apparently discovered you had a fresh appetite for it. “We’re still rehearsing.” 

“You have five minutes before reset.” 

“Then say whatever you need to say here.” 

She looked at you with exhausted disbelief. “Do not push me on this.” 

You met her eyes, and for a second, you almost did push her. There was still adrenaline in you. Still heat, and a reckless, wild pulse that had made you speak up in the first place. The part of you that had been quiet for years was awake now, pacing behind your eyes and showing teeth. 

But then Hana looked over. Your youngest member’s face was carefully blank, but her fingers were twisted around the hem of her shirt. Watching and learning, not just the choreography. 

You exhaled through your nose and set the water bottle down. “Fine.”

Manager Lee turned toward the door and you followed. The hallway outside the rehearsal room was colder, quieter, and washed in ugly fluorescent light. The noise of the room dulled behind the closed door, leaving only the low hum of vents and the distant thud of base from another studio.

She walked a few steps away from the door before stopping. You didn’t make her begin because you were petty enough for silence. 

She turned on you. “What was that?” 

You folded your arms. “Which part? The choreography is extensive.” 

Her eyebrows lifted. “Do not.” 

You smiled again without warmth. “Use your words. I’m emotional, remember?” 

Her jaw tightened and a small mean part of you enjoyed it. A more tired part of you hated that it had come to this at all. 

“You undermined me in front of two groups, three management teams, and production staff.” she said. “The girls, YN.”

“I disagreed with you.” 

“You challenged a decision that was made for your benefit.” 

“No. I challenged a lazy solution.” Her eyes flashed, but you kept going before she could cut in. “Moving him out of the formation was easier than fixing the shot. That doesn’t mean it was better.” 

“You are not seeing the bigger picture.” 

You laughed once. “Did you not hear what I said in there? I am always seeing the bigger picture. That’s the problem.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice because you were angry, not stupid. “I see it when I tell Mina not to post something because a joke reads differently across the world. I see it when Lila stumbles in Korean and I jump in before people can clip it. I see it when people call Bloom experimental like we’re not human beings who had to leave home and become experts in being observed. I see the bigger picture so much that sometimes I forget I’m in it.” 

Her expression shifted slightly, not soft but not untouched. You hated it because you saw it, that she wasn’t some cartoon villain trying to ruin your life. She looked like a woman with too many emails, too many fires to put out, and a job that already probably required her to think of every single possible disaster before it happened. But she was also standing in front of you and asking you to be grateful for a cage because the bars were padded. 

“I know what you carry,” she said carefully. 

“No,” you said. “You know what I’m useful for.” 

You regretted the words immediately, because they were true and they hurt her. You could see it.Those were always the ugliest truths, the ones that came out sharp enough to damage because you had spent too long shoving them down.

“You think I don’t fight for you…?” 

Your anger faltered.

“You think that I don’t sit in rooms and tell men twice my own age that you are not difficult, you are exhausted? That Bloom does not need to be simpler for people to understand and connect with you? That you do not need to smile more in American interviews or soften your tone in Korean ones?” 

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I fight for you, for all of you, all the time.”

You swallowed. “That doesn’t mean you get to silence me.” 

“I am trying to keep you safe.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” your voice cracked slightly. “But lately it feels like safe and small are being made the same thing.”

She didn’t reply. Behind the rehearsal room door, music started again briefly, then cut off. Someone laughed as someone else called for water. Life continued, and yours felt suspended by a thread. You took a breath. 

“I know there are rules,” you said. “I know what fans can do. I know what companies can do. I’m not asking to be reckless.” 

Her gaze sharpened on you again because she heard the thing underneath your words. The person underneath them. Jungkook. Not just the choreography or the camera or your bruised pride. 

Her expression turned into something that made your stomach drop. “Oh, YN–”

“No,” you said, stepping back immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Your face did.” 

She looked tired now, less angry. “Is it serious?” 

Your whole body locked in response, there were a thousand answers you could have given. No. Of course not. We’re just friends. We barely know each other. It’s just banter. It’s nothing.

You had actually practiced them in your head. Every idol did because denial was practically part of media training. Keep your face open, keep your tone amused, make the idea sound so silly that everyone feels ridiculous for believing it. But in the hallway, with Manager Lee looking at you like a person instead of a problem, the lies felt too heavy to lift. 

You said nothing, and she closed her eyes briefly. “YN.” 

“It’s not anything,” you said quickly. 

She opened her eyes, and looked gentle. 

“It isn’t,” you insisted, too fast. “Nothing happened. Nothing is happening. We don’t– there’s no–” 

You stopped as she inhaled slowly. “Does he know that?” 

You looked at the floor, the scuff on it near your sneaker. You focused on that because it was easier than focusing on the fact that, yes, Jungkook knew. Of course he knew. He knew more than you wanted him to, but he also knew you didn’t want him to stop. He knew you were scared, and that you could say no to him with your mouth and yes with every other part of you, brain included. 

Your manager’s silence became answer enough. 

“You’re the leader,” she said finally. 

Something in you recoiled. “I know.” 

“You are not the only one who pays if this goes badly.” 

“I know.”

“Bloom is still small enough that people are waiting for reasons to dismiss you.” 

“I know.” 

“Then act like it.” 

Your head lifted, and there it was again, the old anger all hot and bitter. “I do.” 

“Not tonight you didn’t.” 

“Yes,” you snapped. “Tonight especially. I am not going to teach my members that leadership means letting people cut away pieces of your autonomy until you’re ‘easy’ to manage. I’m not going to show them that the second someone says ‘optics,’ we fold. I’m not going to tell them their instincts don’t matter because some imaginary fan edit might maybe happen. I am careful, I am painfully careful, but I am not dead or spineless.” Your chest rose and fell and your voice softened, not because anger had left you, but because the truth beneath it all hurt. “I don’t want them to become those things either.” 

She stayed quiet again, and for a long minute you could not read her. Then she looked away and one hand came up to rub at her temple. “You’re impossible.” 

A laugh slipped out of you, small and tired. “Yeah.” 

“I mean it.” 

“I know you do.” 

She sighed like she was trying not to care, but was failing miserably. “I will talk to production about the original blocking.” 

You blinked, and she pointed at you immediately. “Do not look victorious.” 

You attempted to arrange your face but failed. She shook her head. “You’re still not to be alone with him,” she added. 

Your almost-smile disappeared immediately. “There it is.” 

“Yes. There it is.” Her voice was firm again. “I am not punishing you. I am setting a boundary before the two of you do something stupid.” 

Your mouth fell open. “Stupid?” 

“You heard me.” 

You laughed, just once, and then the ache came back because the boundary was reasonable and you also hated it. Because Jungkook was still behind the door, close enough to walk to, far enough to remain untouched, and somehow that sentiment encompassed your life now. 

Manager Lee studied your face. “You need to decide what matters most.” 

You looked at her. The answer should have been easy. 

Bloom. Always and forever, Bloom. Your girls. Your dream. The years you spent scraping yourself raw for a chance to stand in rooms like this. The little leader title you carried like armor even when it dug into your skin. But Jungkook’s face appeared in your mind anyway. His quiet Do you want me to stop? Your terribly honest No.

Manager Lee saw enough in your expression to sigh again. “God help me,” she muttered. 

You frowned. “What?” 

“Nothing. Go back inside.” 

She started toward the rehearsal room, and you followed her footsteps again. Right before she opened the door, she paused. Without turning around, she said, “And YN?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Emotions are good. Just make sure when they’re heated ones, you bite the right people.” 

She opened the door then and walked back in like she had not just knocked the air out of your lungs. You stood there for a second stupidly before stepping in yourself. 

The room had shifted while you were gone. People were scattered again, finishing up the reset for another run. Bloom was gathered near the speakers, pretending they had not been staring at the door. BTS was near the mirror, talking amongst themselves.

Jungkook looked up the second you entered. His eyes moved over you quickly, searching, asking if you were okay without saying it out loud. You gave him the smallest nod. Barely anything. His shoulders loosened by a fraction, and he pulled out his phone. 

Yours buzzed a second later. You didn’t look at him, wouldn’t risk it after the hallway debacle. You reached for your phone with the calm of a woman handling a live grenade.

JK: did you win?

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. You angled the screen away from Mina, who immediately leaned closer because she had the instincts of a raccoon near a trash can.

YN: depends who’s asking ig

Across the room, Jungkook looked down at his phone and his lips curved.

JK: the guy who got his spot back

He glanced up, found you watching him, and smirked. You looked down fast. 

YN: then yes

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again. Your heart did something embarrassing. 

JK: you were scary

YN: good

JK: no

JK: not good

JK: dangerous 

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Dangerous. You should not have liked that, but obviously, you liked that.

YN: you should be careful then

JK: i am

JK: it sucks

You stopped breathing for a second. The room continued moving around you as staff adjusted marks, the choreographer called for positions, Mina asked if you were alive and you ignored her completely.

Your phone felt warm in your hand. You should have put it away or locked the screen. You should have remembered the hallway, the warnings, the rules, your manager’s tired eyes when she said you are not the only one who pays.

YN: don’t do that

JK: do what?

YN: text sappy shit like u mean it

JK: i do mean it

JK: that sucks too

The choreographer clapped loudly. “Back to first positions!” 

Mina looked at you with an expression that was half concern, half I knew it, half ready to beat someone with a folding chair. Three halves, very Mina.

“You good?” she asked quietly.

You looked at Jungkook one last time, he was putting his phone away too. Professional face returning. Distance settled back over him like a coat. “Yeah,” you said.

Mina’s eyes narrowed. You lifted your chin. “I’m good.” 

It was not true. Not even close to a partial truth, but the music was about to start and your group was watching, and Manager Lee was standing by the monitor with her arms folded, and Jungkook was moving back into position behind you. 

So you became good. You became the leader, the center, smart and careful, as the track began. 

The rehearsal ended at 1:17 am, not that you were counting (you absolutely were.)

You counted every minute after Jungkook whispered “good job, leader,” under the music like he had any right to be proud of you after the first run through. You counted every step, every water break, every small adjustment production made to justify keeping the original blocking after all.

You counted the number of times his eyes found yours in the mirror, which was seven. You counted the number of times you looked away first, which was six. You were winning by one, which was maybe petty, but leadership required small victories.

By the time the choreographer finally clapped his hands and called it for the night, your entire body felt wrung out. Your legs ached, your hair had escaped its ponytail in soft, damp pieces around your face. Your throat was dry from calling counts and corrections, and your phone had been buzzing with messages from your company group chat for the past twenty minutes.

You knew what they were. 

Manager Lee had gone quiet after your hallway spat, which meant the lecture had likely evolved. It had grown legs or reproduced or become an email thread with subject lines like URGENT: REHEARSAL CONDUCT REVIEW and MAMA COLLAB OPTICS–FOLLOW UP.

You were thrilled to be murdered professionally. Couldn’t wait. 

“Good work today,” the choreographer said, looking between both groups. “Next week we’ll run with full camera rehearsal and wardrobe pieces. Rest and ice your knees. Do not go live with any of this stuff. Do not post clips. Do not leak anything unless you want me to personally hunt you down.” 

Mina raised a hand. “Can I leak that I almost broke my elbow on the last drop?” 

“No.” 

“What about–” 

“No.” 

“Buzzkill.” 

A few people laughed at Mina’s antics, you didn’t. You were too busy pretending not to notice Jungkook standing by the mirror, towel around his neck, talking to one of his managers while looking like he was listening to absolutely nothing. His manager said something. Jungkook nodded and then his eyes flicked to you, just once before they glanced back down at the floor. 

The room began to empty in small pieces. Staff packed cameras, assistants gathered water bottles, tape marks, discarded towels. Your members moved around you in various states of collapse, drama, and hunger. 

Lila was wrapped in her hoodie like a burrito. “I think I left my soul in the back half of the bridge on that final run.” 

Mina slung an arm around her shoulders. “Leave it. It belongs to the MAMA ghosts now.” 

Sasha, who had been mostly quiet for the last hour, glanced at you while zipping her bag. “You okay?” 

You looked up at the sound of her careful tone, gave her the leader smile. “Yeah. Just tired.” 

Mina snorted, and you shot her a look. “Girl, that smile can’t fool a toddler.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Fine is what people say when they’re either about to cry or do something shitty, like cheating.” 

“Or all of those things,” Lila said faintly from inside her hoodie. 

You sighed. “Can we please not psychoanalyze me in front of the production crew?” 

“We can psychoanalyze you in the van,” Mina offered. 

“Great. Looking forward to Hell.” 

Sasha touched your elbow lightly. “Manager Lee said we’re leaving in ten.” 

You nodded. “Okay.” 

Your manager had not said it to you directly. You glanced toward the door. She was there still, speaking quietly with someone from BTS’s team, her posture straight and tense. Always professional. You wondered if she had ever been like you, and the thought turned over something uncomfortable in your chest. 

You bent to grab your bag, but another hand reached it first, tattooed and strong. 

“Don’t,” you said quietly. 

Jungkook paused before lowering your bag to the floor like it was a bomb he had politely decided not to detonate. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize for trying to be nice.” You straightened slowly and slung your bag over your shoulder yourself. It was heavier than you expected, or maybe you were just tired enough for everything to feel like it was more.

His mouth curved slightly, but his eyes stayed serious. “Feels like I do.” 

You looked away, looked at the people who were still around. Too many of them. Staff crossing behind them, your members pretending not to stare from the speaker corner, Jimin looking over with the subtlety of a circus elephant.

“You shouldn’t come over here,” you whispered. 

“Mmm,” he nodded. “And yet.” 

You looked at him, which, admittedly, was your mistake. He looked exhausted too, but softer around the edges because of it. Less golden maknae, more boy at the end of a very long night, still unwilling to leave without making sure the damage he’d done earlier hadn’t completely eviscerated your heart.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you said. 

His eyes dipped briefly, not to your mouth, but to the tense line of your shoulders. “I think you’re already in trouble.” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Not because of me.” 

You gave him a look, to which he tilted his head, conceding. “Okay, maybe partly because of me.” 

“Mostly because of me,” you admitted.

“That’s what I was going to say, but I’m scared of you now.” 

Your mouth twitched and his face brightened a fraction. Another problem to add to your list. Every time you gave him an inch of softness, he looked like you had handed him something big and beautiful and irreplaceable. 

You shut it down fast, “I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

His smile faded. The room picked up behind you. Zippers closed, wheels rolled across polished wood, laughter peeled from the hallway, managers exchanged final notes. Jungkook stepped closer. “I’m serious all the time with you.” 

Your fingers tightened on your bag strap immediately. You wanted to be mean. You wanted to be very mean. There was safety in it. Sharpness. It was a familiar little door you could slam shut before anyone got close enough to see the mess existing inside you. But you had already used up so much anger, and beneath it there was only a heavy sense of tired.

“Don’t say that here,” you whispered. 

His gaze flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where should I say it?” 

Your breath caught when the question didn’t land like a simple line. He asked it like a question he actually wanted answered, not a practiced quick pick-up that worked on backup dancers or instructors. He asked it like some impossible place where the two of you could speak plainly and not be punished for it might exist. 

A hallway without cameras, or a city without fans, or a life without limitless contracts. You could almost picture it, which was a new cruelty in and of itself. You let out a quiet laugh with zero humor in it. “There isn’t anywhere.” 

Jungkook’s jaw tightened and for a second he looked young again, like he did eras ago when he was just a picture on a billboard or an online article, and not a man you’d spoken to many times and had texted privately without your managers knowing even more so. He also looked hurt in a way that was unhidden.

“You really believe that?” he asked.

You stared at him. Did you?

You definitely believed in rules. You believed in consequences even more. You believed in fans who would love you until they felt betrayed by an imagined version of you. You believed in companies that called you family while reminding you they owned your schedule, image, and voice at certain hours of the day.

You believed in Bloom… in your girls. 

And Jungkook was asking you to believe in something additional, between all of that. You hated him for being brave enough to even imagine it.

“I have to,” you answered. 

Disappointment flickered fast across his face. Not disappointment in you, exactly, but disappointment in your answer. 

“Right.” 

“I’m trying to be honest, Jungkook.” 

“I know,” he nodded.

“Please stop that.”

He laughed under his breath, but it sounded rough and wrong. “Sorry, I’ll schedule my feelings better next time.” 

Your eyes snapped up at the bite in his voice. He still wasn’t trying to be cruel or loud or hard with you, but the anger had shown face. “You don’t need to do that either.” 

“So you get to be upset with your manager today, but I don’t get to be upset with you?” 

“None of this is my choice, Jungkook,” Your brows furrowed, breath leaving you in an astonished laugh. Your blood heated as you took half a step closer.  

“That is…” he shook his head. “That’s just sad, YN.” 

Your stomach dropped and you worked hard to keep your face still. Mina tensed near the door, still watching over you while the other members chatted with a mix of production crew members and backup dancers.

“That is rich,” you scoffed. 

“Is it?” Jungkook replied, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” your voice stayed low. “Coming from the man who eats, breathes and sleeps NDA’s and limited public outings? I mean, be serious, Jungkook. I’ve heard stories. You flirt until shit gets real and then you hide behind having contractual obligations and policies.”

His face went still. Part of you was happy with the way your words hit him, and you should have left it there. But you didn’t. 

“You want to ask me if there’s something between us? Fine. Ask. Go ahead. You want to act hurt when I won’t say the thing out loud in a room full of people paid to keep me profitable? Fine. Be hurt. Do whatever. You don’t get to stand here and pretend that you’re not also choosing the easier version of this, too, though.” 

His gaze sharpened on you. “Easy version?” 

“Yeah. This picture you have in your head that somehow makes me the scared one. The one who won’t own up to whatever this is,” you whisper, motioning between the two of you.

His jaw ticked. You had never seen Jungkook like this before. Still controlled, still aware of the room, but something was under his expression. Something dark and stung and painful. “You think this has just been easy for me?” 

“I think people forgive you faster,” you shrug.

Jungkook blinked and your chest tightened. The words were out there, and you couldn’t take them back. So you kept moving forward, quieter. “You know they do.”

He looked away for a second, which was enough to tell you that he knew exactly what you meant. It was not his fault. Jungkook hadn’t built the industry. He hadn’t invented the double standards that made male desire romantic and female desire reckless. He hadn’t asked to become a symbol people projected purity and fantasy onto until every human thing he did became either worshipped or weaponized. He just lived in a different version of your cage. Bigger, but still locked. 

You swallowed. “If this went wrong, you’d be heartbroken. Maybe you’d be criticized, maybe watched more closely.” 

His eyes met yours. “And you?” 

You gave him a humorless little smile. “I’d become the girl who distracted Jungkook.” 

His expression cracked and you nodded once, like he had finally caught up. He said nothing and you hated the silence. “I become selfish,” you explained. “Calculating. Too flirty, not serious enough. Too forward, too much. Bloom would become the group with the leader who couldn’t keep her hands clean during their first MAMA collab. My members would answer for me in interviews. My company would stop trusting me in any rooms ever. Fans would start looking at every interaction I have with any idol as possible evidence for another dating scandal.” Your throat burned. “And maybe you end up defending me, maybe you don’t. Maybe you can’t. Either way, I’m the story.” 

Jungkook’s face was tired under the flush of rehearsal. “I wouldn’t let that happen.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

He flinched at the words neither of you had been able to say in the eight months of intermittent phone calls and texts. The eight months of memes exchanged over various social media outlets. The words hurt, but they were true. Jungkook, who could sell out stadiums, break records, trend worldwide by breathing differently, could still not protect you from the thing loving him would turn you into. 

Not publicly, not completely, and not without costing you both.

“Maybe you’re right,” he sighed. You wished he would say something stupid, or arrogant, something worthy of making you hate him, even. Instead he just looked at you with horrible and steady honesty. “Maybe I can’t stop people from talking, maybe I can’t make things fair. But stop telling me I’m choosing an easy version of things. I’m still reaching out. Still coming up to talk to you. You’re the one who keeps deciding for the both of us.” 

Your head snapped back. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

You stared at him, too stunned to speak. He stepped back. “You tell me what’s impossible. You tell me what fans will say. You tell me what I can and can’t do. You tell me when I’m allowed to flirt with you and when I have to pretend like I don’t want to. You gonna get mad when I listen and finally stop reaching out, too?” 

Your mouth open and closed, and you realized that he wasn’t wrong. You would build up a stupid wall, brick by brick, and then hate it when he didn’t tear himself up trying to bring it down. His face softened when he saw your face.

He sighed quietly. “YN–”

“YN. Van is here.” Manager Lee called from across the room.

You both turned. She stood near the door, looking between you and Jungkook. Her expression didn’t change much, but you knew that while she hadn’t heard everything, she had heard enough. Your throat tightened and you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. 

“Coming,” you nodded.

Jungkook said nothing. You passed by him slowly, turned once when he continued to be silent. For once, he looked vulnerable. Looked like he was waiting for you to choose anything but leaving with Manager Lee. You hated your fear, then.

“Good rehearsal,” you told him.

The words sounded awful as soon as they left your mouth. They were flat and polite. A door closing. His face shuttered, though not completely. “Yeah. Good rehearsal.” 

You deserved it, but it still hurt. You turned away before any of the pain could register on your face. Mina was waiting by the door still, arms folded, face unreadable in a way that meant she was choosing between hugging you and calling you out on your bullshit. Hana hovered beside her, quieter but equally concerned. Manager Lee held the door open. You walked through it and did not look back.

The van waited outside beneath the black entrance awning. Seoul at night glowed around the building, pavement slick from rain you hadn’t seen start. Security moved ahead, checking the side alleys. A staff member opened the van door. You climbed in first, Mina slid in after and sat beside you without asking. The others piled in quietly, Manager Lee in the front passenger seat.

No one spoke for almost three blocks.

“So,” Mina started. 

“‘So,’” you mimicked. “Let’s not, please.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” 

“Mina.” 

She softened a little, leaning in to bump your shoulder and whisper quietly. “Did he hurt you?” 

Your eyes stayed closed. “No.” 

“Did you hurt him?” 

The answer sat between you in the dark van, ugly and obvious. 

Mina sighed. “Oh, babe.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mina.” 

“Okay.” 

That surprised you enough to open your eyes. She was looking out the window, jaw set. 

“That’s it?” 

“For now,” she shrugged.

“That is ominous.” 

“I’m being respectful. It’s new for me,” Mina offered.

Hana, from the back row, whispered, “I hated that.”

You turned slightly. “What?”

“You saying good rehearsal.” She peeked out from her hood, face scrunched. “That was nasty.”

Sasha nodded gravely. “You said ‘good rehearsal?’ Brutal.”

You stared at them.

Mina pointed at Hana. “See? Even baby mushroom knows.”

“I panicked,” you muttered.

“No shit,” Mina said.

Manager Lee made a sound from the front. “Language.” 

Mina leaned forward. “Respectfully, tonight seems like a bad night to police language.” 

Your phone buzzed in your lap. You looked down, no message preview, just a notification from your private account. Your pulse jumped and you unlocked your screen before you could talk yourself out of it.

JK: sorry

Your chest caved in around the word. Mina leaned in, and you shoved your phone against your chest. “Privacy, Mina.” 

“I saw nothing,” she smiled. 

“You saw everything.” 

“I saw five letters and a period. Devastating punctuation, honestly.”

Your fingers hovered over your screen. You shouldn’t reply. Not with your members around, and especially not with your manager in the front seat. Not with your heart still bruised from words that were too true on both sides. Your phone buzzed again. 

JK: i shouldn’t have said it like that.

You stared at the message until the letters blurred. Mina was quiet beside you. You typed, deleted, typed again… deleted. Before your courage could completely evaporate, you replied.

YN: no, you should’ve

Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again. You watched them unblinkingly.

JK: i don’t want to make things harder for you.

Your throat tightened and you stared out the window. Watched Seoul pass by in smears of wet neon, at your own reflection staring back at you from the glass. You looked tired, young, and not untouchable at all.

YN: you do

YN: but not because you’re doing something wrong

He didn’t answer right away. The lapse of response stretched long enough for Mina to stop pretending she wasn’t invested. She reached over and squeezed your knee once.

JK: what do u want me to do? 

It was a reshaped version of the questions from earlier. Do you want me to stop? Where should I say it? What do you want me to do? He kept asking like your answer mattered more than the rules you were sworn by contracts to live by. 

YN: I don’t know

YN: but I don’t want you to disappear.

Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure everyone inside the van could hear it. Three dots, gone, three dots, gone. 

JK: okay

JK: I won’t

Your mouth trembled and you pressed your lips together hard. Mina leaned against your shoulder like she was pretending to be casual, but her hand found yours on the seat and squeezed. Those two little words he sent sat on your lap and stared up at you. A promise that was small enough to survive between the two of you, but not big enough to build anything on. It wouldn’t stand against companies, fans, contracts, or rules. But it’d last the night. It was enough for the night. Enough that when the van stopped at a red light, and Manager Lee glanced back at you through the mirror, you didn’t look away. 

She held your gaze and you held hers. Neither of you spoke. Your phone buzzed again. 

JK: and for the record

JK: good rehearsal was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me

YN: you deserved it

JK: maybe

JK: next time i piss you off tho just tell me to shut up

You stared at the second text. Next time. Dangerous.

YN: shut up, jungkook