Stephie

“I wouldn’t kill him,” you said, turning your attention back to your drink. “I’m just… irritated.”

“At him?”

“No.”

You weren’t really certain what exactly was irritating you, to be honest. Law hadn’t done anything particularly irritating and you had no real problem with any of the Straw Hats. They were a little rowdy but that wasn’t the worst thing… it was just that every time you heard snippets of conversation involving history, it made you vaguely annoyed.

The more you thought of it, the more you did know what was irritating you. And it wasn’t something even in the realm of logical.

Which didn’t make it better.

“So, Robin,” you said.

Zoro frowned at you. “Robin?”

“You should know her,” you told him. “Is she… nice?”

What a stupid thing to ask, really. You cursed yourself for the ridiculous question but at least it seemed to somewhat go over his head. He shrugged.

“Guess so. Why?”

“I was just wondering. I felt like you should know considering she’s on your crew.”

He didn’t respond and you sighed to yourself. Honestly, you didn’t know what you were thinking. Both the times you’d met the Straw Hat Pirates before now, you’d realised that Zoro didn’t have much of an opinion on the social dynamics of his crew.

You looked at your empty tankard and swung your legs off the table to get another.

“Mind grabbing me a second one?” he asked, one eye open.

“Don’t you mean a fourth?”

“You counting?”

You had been out of curiosity more than anything else. Thankfully, no sooner had you approached the table with various foods and drinks laid out and Sanji offered to pour you something, only mildly grumbling when you asked after something for Zoro too.

While you waited, you leaned back against the table and looked around the Thousand Sunny.

Lantern light swayed gently overhead, throwing warm gold across the deck while music and laughter drifted between clusters of pirates. Plates crowded every available surface and somebody had already started a drinking competition near the railings. Beyond them, the sea stretched dark and endless beneath the stars.

It was a lovely ship.

You hadn’t spent enough time aboard it to properly appreciate it before now but the open space alone felt like a luxury. The Straw Hats had somehow turned half the deck into a feast and there was still room for people to move around without colliding with each other.

Beside the Sunny, the Polar Tang rose and fell with the waves.

You loved the submarine. You always would.

But looking at it from here made it very easy to remember that most of your life was spent inside a giant metal tube.

“Are you and the captain fighting?”

You jumped at Bepo’s sudden appearance, swatting at him in protest for the minor heart attack he’d given you. “Please tell me before you do that,” you complained. “And no?”

Why would he think that? Law and you certainly hadn’t been fighting before you boarded the Thousand Sunny. Quite the opposite. He’d liked your choice of outfit enough that if you moved the fabric too much, a fresh bruise might show on your collarbone.

Bepo didn’t look convinced, tapping his claws together. “I’m worried,” he said. “You’ve both been glaring for a while now. Ikkaku thought you might have argued.”

“Glaring?” you said. “We’ve barely spoken the whole evening.”

“I know. That’s the weird part,” he said, voice quiet.

“We’re fine,” you promised.

You were. There was nothing to really be upset with Law about… he hadn’t done anything wrong. The strange annoyance curling beneath your ribs wasn’t something you could blame on him anyway. You looked over to him, still deep in conversation with Robin whose faint smile made something curl in your chest.

Jealousy? It felt vaguely familiar enough to be even though logically you knew there was no reason to be.

“This is for mosshead,” Sanji said, putting a tankard down next to you. “Tell him to get the next one himself rather than bothering a lady to do it.”

You glanced at the drink. “Is this watered down?”

“He won’t know the difference.”

Bepo was frowning at you. “I think you should go and talk to the captain,” he said. “Just in case.”

“He’s in the middle of a conversation,” you countered though you knew you didn’t have to avoid him. “Besides, I don’t have enough energy to handle Straw Hat right now.”

“That’s fair,” Sanji commented. “Luffy can be a bit loud at times but you get used to it.”

Bepo tapped his claws together. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you said. “Bepo, I’m fine. I’m having a great time. This ship is actually really nice.”

“I can imagine it’s considerably better than a submarine,” Sanji said. “No offense intended but it does seem a little cramped for such a large crew.”

You couldn’t deny it. The Polar Tang had been an adjustment even if you wouldn’t trade it away for the world. The Heart Pirates were hardly a small crew and they could certainly be enthusiastic in a way that echoed in a metal submarine.

That didn’t make you love them any less.

“I do like the open air,” you admitted. “And I imagine moving furniture around is much easier on a ship like this but I’ve come to see the Tang as a far safer vessel.”

Sanji nodded in acknowledgement. “It’s not for me, chéri, but as long as a beautiful woman is happy, she should stay wherever she pleases.”

“There are other benefits too,” you said. “Brooding swordsman are very good reasons to stick around.”

He rolled his eyes. “We have one of those too. You’re more than welcome to take him back with you. It would certainly make my life far easier.”

“No thank you. One is more than enough but speaking of.” You held up Zoro’s drink. “You okay Bepo?”

“I think so,” he said.

His expression hadn’t really changed, his ears still slightly twitchy like they became when he was feeling anxious, his eyes big and watery. Someday, you should tell him that he looked absolutely terrifying when he pulled that face but you had a feeling it would upset him to know.

The liquid in the tankard almost sloshed over when you shoved it Zoro, sitting by him again and glancing toward Law. You met his eyes and for a second, you stared at your captain across the deck in silence.

Then Straw Hat said something and his attention shifted again.

You breathed out through your nose and refocused on the sky. He was just having a normal conversation and yet, you found yourself mildly annoyed at him. Worse than that, he looked good in this lighting which felt deeply inconsiderate given your mood.

Zoro didn’t speak to you and neither you to him. It wasn’t like you even particularly cared about the swordsman but of all the choices on this crew, he was the quietest.

Yet thirty minutes and two drinks later, Zoro lazily opened an eye and looked over your shoulder. “Your crew’s staring at you like you’re about to jump overboard,” he commented. “Don’t know if you want to deal with that or…”

“What?” you asked.

You turned your head to find the Heart Pirates, who had been spread out mingling, had now gathered together in a small group. A tiny cult formed in the corner of the ship that immediately refocused their attention when you looked over to them.

You breathed out sharply through your nose. “Oh no.”

“Something wrong?”

You sighed. “Whenever they start doing that, I know they’ve got a stupid idea.”

“Sounds like when Luffy and Usopp hold a conversation for suspiciously long,” he muttered. “At least the bear can swim, right?”

“Not that kind of idea,” you said. “It’s usually a theory.”

You looked over at Law and met Robin’s eyes. She said something to him and he turned his head and you looked at the crew. He frowned at their huddle, glancing at you as though you had some kind of answer.

You shrugged helplessly.

He gestured for you to go talk to them and you returned it with a gesture for him to go instead. For a few seconds, you had a standoff, waiting for the other to cave first.

Normally, you would have given in and dealt with the headache before he had to but you had an added motive of kind of wanting him to move away from the Straw Hats. Petty or not, you were particularly stubborn about this.

“Captain,” you mouthed at him, reminding him that they were technically his problem.

He responded with an expression you took to mean they were more likely to talk to you because of that very reason. They didn’t always want to bother him with things and he also dismissed their theories far quicker than you did. You gave him an exhausted look to remind him that you’d dealt with this the last time and that had just made it go on longer.

He narrowed his eyes but you shook your head regardless. He was your captain but you weren’t about to jump to these kinds of problems just because he told you to.

Besides, you were at a party. You held up your drink to show him it was still half full.

“You two always just stare at each other for awkward lengths of time?” Zoro asked.

You froze and realised this must look ridiculous to anybody who witnessed it and didn’t understand. Indeed, most of the Straw Hats were looking mildly confused. Robin laughed behind her hand.

“He won’t go and see what the problem is,” you griped. “Because he’s being stubborn.”

Zoro frowned. “Are you a mind reader or something?”

“No but he’s trying to get me to go and I don’t particularly want to. I’m not the one who’s been sitting still the whole evening.”

Law glanced back at you and raised an eyebrow. You shook your head minutely and he sighed, exasperated, but he stood. It was a minor victory but it relaxed you a little more now that he was walking over to the crew.

Honestly, it was probably better. They listened to him far better than they did to you.

“Right,” Zoro said with a nod. “You got all that through staring?”

“I know him well enough and he’s easy to read,” you defended yourself.

“No. Luffy’s easy to read. I don’t know what that was.”

You couldn’t particularly argue with him about that because admittedly, you didn’t always find Law easy to read. Sometimes he was quite impossible. But that was only when he was in a particularly bad mood.

“He’s annoying me tonight,” you relented. “So, I’m also more aware of him.” It was a poor excuse but it was the best you had.

“Why?”

“Because he’s over there.”

“So, go over there.”

“No, I – ”

The whispering from your crew had become sharper and you turned your head toward them to find the enthusiasm was very much being directed toward you. Penguin was directly gesturing toward you; his attention locked on Law. Law’s jaw twitched and he turned to you, crystal clear in what he wanted. You sighed and stood.

“Wish me luck,” you muttered, grabbing your knife.

“Don’t stab people on deck. Franky doesn’t shut up about it.”

You strolled toward the circle, already knowing this had to be something ridiculous from your captain’s expression. What idea they had come up with now…

“What’s going on?” you asked.

Law sighed. “Stop whining about it to me and ask her then.”

It was good to hear his voice. After avoiding it for the whole evening, you hadn’t realised just how much you missed it until now. You smiled faintly before you looked toward the crew, scanning for the weakest link.

“Yes?”

It turned out to be Shachi because the second you stared at him for too long, he blurted out, “Are you planning on leaving the crew?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Bepo said – ”

“Not that you were leaving,” Bepo hurried to say. “But that we should make sure you didn’t want to. You said you liked their ship more than ours!”

“For moving furniture around, yes,” you said. “What does that have to do with me leaving the crew?”

Law frowned at you. “Why are you moving furniture around?”

“I’m not. I was just saying that it would be easier on a ship like this because the doors are wider,” you said. “Last week, it was an absolute pain to drag the broken bench out of my room because of how narrow the door was.”

“I could have used shambles for that.”

“I wasn’t going to bother you about a bench.”

“You’re also sitting with their swordsman,” Uni said accusingly. “So how are we meant to know you’re not considering their group?”

“We have a swordsman who I prefer,” you reminded him. “But there are like two quiet people on this ship and one of them was busy.”

“You could have joined us,” Law said.

“You were having a conversation.”

“Not one that didn’t have space for you. I made space for you to join me multiple times.”

“No, you didn’t?”

Had he? You had to admit that you’d been so focused on not being caught staring at him that you hadn’t really been paying much attention to the subtle ways he’d normally have invited you to join him.

“And the two of you have been glaring at each other the entire night,” Ikkaku said. “So, we thought maybe you were arguing about something.”

“Which might make you leave because you’re so desperately in love with the captain,” Penguin added in. “And we know that if he said something rude, it would really upset you.”

“Not that he wouldn’t be upset,” Shachi mentioned. “Because he’s obsessed with you and that’s saying something because he’s a bit dense towards women – ”

“Hey,” Law said warningly and they all quietened. “That’s enough. Nobody’s leaving.”

You pressed your lips together to stifle your faint embarrassment. Maybe you had been staring a decent amount but Ikkaku had said that both of you were glaring so that meant… you glanced toward Law and then back at Zoro for a second before realisation hit you.

You brought a hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh as you connected the dots. Oh. Oh that was actually a little embarrassing that you hadn’t noticed.

There was a faint red on the edges of his ears.

“We’re not fighting,” you reassured. “Here, see.”

You pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to Law’s cheek and he immediately flushed, glaring at you briefly before he looked toward your second audience. The Straw Hats were absolutely staring also.

“We’re perfectly normal,” you reassured.

“But the staring – ”

“It’s normal to look at people,” Law said firmly.

The Heart Pirates looked very confused and you placed a hand against his arm. “Normal,” you agreed. “Do you want something to drink?”

He nodded stiffly and you both stepped away, though not before he gave them a warning look. “Stop theorising about nothing.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reiterated. “And there’s nothing wrong with us.”

“Are you sure?” Bepo asked.

You sighed and hurried away, practically hauling him with you and it said something about his own embarrassment that he just followed after you. You fought not to laugh as you whispered, hopefully quiet enough to avoid eavesdropping.

“You’ve been staring at me all night?”

“Apparently it’s a mutual hobby.”

“Talk about it later?”

“Yes. For now, join us. I need some relief from Straw Hat-ya.”

You had clearly underestimated Bepo’s hearing because he swivelled his head to you immediately. “So, something is wrong?”

“No,” you both answered.

The party with the Straw Hats went late enough that your feet ached by the time you finally stepped back aboard the Polar Tang. The quiet felt almost strange after hours of music, shouting, and Luffy's voice carrying effortlessly across an entire ship.

The familiar metal halls hummed softly around you as you made your way toward the captain's quarters.

You were tired. Not exhausted enough to skip checking the corridor three separate times before entering, but tired.

“Be doubly sure,” he said firmly.

You checked once more and then closed the door and finally locked it. For a second, you stared at each other and then you burst into honest laughter. Law shook his head but you didn’t miss the smirk on his face.

“I’m leaving?” you asked.

“Honestly…” he sighed and draped his coat over a chair. “Do you know they had a tally of how often we looked at each other?”

You groaned. “I probably won. I was so ridiculously jealous.”

“Jealous?” he repeated. “Of what?”

“The same thing you were,” you countered.

He didn’t refute you, just sighed and shook his head. “Logically, I know I have nothing to be jealous about. You wouldn’t survive with that crew. Not a single one of them has an ounce of self-preservation. They throw themselves against walls for the fun of it.”

You chuckled and walked closer to him, reaching for his hat. He let you take it and put it on your own head instead. “I know, logically, I have nothing to be jealous about either. And yet…”

“Yet you were.”

“It seems that knowing you’re in love with me and knowing that you’re dense about other women existing isn’t enough for me some days.”

Law gave you an exhausted look. “I know other women exist.”

“I would hope so otherwise you need some new medical books.”

“Ikkaku also lives on this submarine,” he said. “But that aside, you could not possibly have found that swordsman interesting for more than a few sentences.”

“I didn’t,” you said. “But I was already annoyed and wanted some peace which seeing as he was passed out for most of the night, I could get. I like my swordsman far more intelligent. And dark-haired. And attractive. And – ”

“And I like my woman far more like you.”

You paused, momentarily caught off-guard by the sudden compliment. It soothed over some of the tension that still coiled in your heart. “I was upset,” you admitted. “But I still can’t believe they jumped to me leaving.”

“Ridiculous,” he muttered. And then, softer, as though it was something that needed confirmation. “Not for something like that.”

“Not ever,” you said.

“That’s not something you can promise.”

“Watch me.”

Law met your gaze for a second and then he sighed. “You have nothing to be upset over. There’s no other person that’s even set foot in this room.”

“I know you love me,” you said. “But that doesn’t stop me from being foolish sometimes.”

“Clearly that’s a trait we share then.”

You hummed and stepped forward, moving into his space just enough for the room to feel considerably smaller than it had. The irritation melted away into something warmer. “You know, I feel considerably better knowing you were jealous too.”

He gave you a blank expression. “I’m not sure you should.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel better to know I was looking at you far more than the swordsman?”

He didn’t answer. It was enough of a confirmation that you laughed softly.

“See, it’s flattering.”

His hand settled at your waist, drawing you a fraction closer to him. “Slightly,” he admitted. “If you were truly jealous though, you could have shown it a bit clearer.”

“Me?” you asked, draping your arms around his neck and moving closer. “What about you? I wouldn’t have minded seeing a little possessiveness.”

“You’d regret asking for that.”

His thumb brushed over your hip before his hand slipped to your lower back, pulling your body flush against his own. Heat curled pleasantly through your stomach and your eyes flicked to his lips for a second, head tilting towards his just slightly.

“There isn’t anyone else,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “There isn’t. Not ever.”

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Good.”

The word barely left his mouth before you leaned in and kissed him.

After an evening spent sharing his attention with an entire ship full of people, you intended to be far greedier with it now.

Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly. 

The thought made you want to break something.

So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right? 

He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes. 

"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.

Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"

"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?" 

He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down. 

Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."

"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"

Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"

"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."

"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper. 

"It ain't your concern." 

"It is my concern when—" and louder again. 

"Enough." 

He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down. 

Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.

"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."

"Don't you dare—"

"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."

The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.

"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."

The words landed like a bucket of cold water.

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment. 

"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering. 

"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"

"But you didn't tell me."

"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."

"I'm not a cat." You pouted. 

"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"

Now what.

You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid. 

And still so, so fucking wound up.

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.

"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"I don't know what I am."

"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."

"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."

Suddenly he turned you. 

The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.

"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."

You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days. 

Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent. 

"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.

"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.

"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.

"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."

He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.

Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.

"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."

Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. 

The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.

"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.

"You—Joel—only you—"

"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."

Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him. 

But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.

"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."

He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands. 

Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt. 

"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop—need you—"

He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you. 

Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.

"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."

You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you. 

Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely. 

He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you. 

After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.

"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"

You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."

Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."

ME DOING REQUESTS FINALLY???? 🫪🫪

The hyperspace tunnel finally dissolved into streaks of blue and black, and the old gunship groaned like it, too, was exhausted.

Din Djarin sat heavily in the pilot seat, one gloved hand still on the controls while the other rubbed slowly down the front of his helmet.

Behind him came a tiny, sleepy chirp.

“I know,” Din muttered. “I’m tired too.”

Grogu blinked at him from his seat, ears drooping dramatically in betrayal.

The mission had gone wrong approximately seventeen times.

First, the Hutt they were hired to escort had attempted to betray them. Then pirates got involved. Then the Empire. Then, somehow, an exploding fuel station. Din still wasn’t entirely sure how Grogu had gotten hold of detonators.

The child made an innocent face.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Grogu cooed louder.

Din sighed. “You’re lucky she likes you more than me.”

At that, Grogu perked up immediately, tiny claws tapping excitedly against the seat.

Home.

The ship descended through the atmosphere toward the hidden repair dock tucked deep into the canyon settlement. Warm lights glowed through the dusk, and Din felt that familiar pull in his chest the second he saw the open hangar doors.

Her.

He could already picture her standing there with grease on her hands and that unimpressed expression she always wore when he came back half-dead.

The ship landed rougher than usual.

“Easy,” Din grunted.

Grogu squealed as the ship bounced once.

The ramp lowered with a hiss.

And there she was.

Y/N stood beneath the workshop lights with a hydrospanner hanging from her belt, dark streaks of grease smeared across one cheek. One side of the docked ship behind her was still open from repairs, sparks occasionally flashing inside its exposed paneling.

Din’s heartbeat slowed instantly at the sight of her.

Stars.

Every single time.

She crossed her arms immediately. “You’re late.”

Grogu launched himself down the ramp with a happy shriek.

“Hey, my little green love—”

You barely had time to crouch before Grogu collided with your chest, climbing up you like a tiny monkey. You laughed breathlessly, kissing the top of his head while he made clingy little noises into your neck.

“Oh, I missed you too.”

Din watched silently from the ramp.

He always did that.

Watched the two of you like you were something sacred.

Your eyes finally lifted to him. “What happened this time?”

“Mission complications.”

“That means something exploded.”

“A few things exploded.”

You narrowed your eyes instantly.

Din knew that look.

“I had it under control.”

“You always say that right before you almost die.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Grogu made a very dramatic sad noise.

You looked down sharply. “What happened?”

The little traitor pointed at Din and babbled furiously.

Din actually stiffened.

“You snitch.”

Grogu barked happily.

Your expression darkened more and more the longer Din explained.

“You WHAT?”

“The Hutt wasn’t the target—”

“You took on three Imperial cruisers for a HUTT?”

“There were not three cruisers.”

“How many?”

Din paused.

“…Two.”

Your jaw dropped.

Grogu slowly hid his face against your shoulder.

“You are unbelievable.”

“It worked.”

“You got shot!”

“It barely hit me.”

“You crashed the ship!”

“We landed.”

“You are impossible to—”

Grogu suddenly grabbed your face with both tiny hands.

You stopped instantly.

The little green child pressed his forehead against yours and gave the saddest little whine imaginable.

Your anger melted so fast Din almost laughed.

“Oh, no,” you whispered, rubbing his ears gently. “You thought I was mad at you?”

Grogu nodded pitifully.

“I could never be mad at you.”

The child chirped triumphantly and immediately cuddled closer.

Din shook his head.

Manipulator.

You pointed at Din over Grogu’s shoulder. “We are continuing this argument later.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘yes ma’am’ me.”

Din almost smiled beneath the helmet.

Home.

This was home.

Later that night, the ship was quiet.

For once.

Grogu had finally fallen asleep in his little bunk after demanding approximately forty-seven minutes of cuddles from both of you.

Din had taken the first real shower he’d had in days, steam still curling through the tiny fresher as he stood shirtless beside the sink.

Water rolled down scarred skin.

Old knife wounds. Burn marks. Bruises spreading dark along his ribs.

New ones.

He stared at them silently in the mirror.

The door slid open behind him.

Din looked up immediately.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely across your chest.

Your eyes traveled slowly over him.

Not teasing.

Not joking.

Just… looking.

Din suddenly became very aware of every scar on his body.

“You got hurt,” you said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that too.”

He watched your reflection approach him.

Closer.

Your fingers brushed carefully over the fresh bruising on his side, and Din inhaled sharply despite himself.

Your gaze lifted instantly to his.

There it was.

That shift.

The air changed all at once.

Din’s hand closed around your wrist before he could stop himself.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Like you’d been waiting for it.

Din backed you against the wall so fast the metal clanged beneath you both, his hands instantly at your waist while your fingers tangled into his damp curls.

The sound he made against your mouth was low and rough.

Hungry.

Stars, he’d missed you.

The kiss turned messy almost immediately, all breath and restrained frustration and months of near-misses between missions.

“You drive me insane,” you mumbled against his lips.

Din laughed once under his breath before kissing you again, harder this time.

“You like me insane.”

“I like you alive.”

His forehead pressed briefly against yours before his mouth found your jaw, then your neck.

You gasped softly as his hands tightened on your hips.

Without the armor, without the helmet, without all the layers between you, Din always felt overwhelming.

Large hands. Warm skin. Quiet little sounds he only made around you.

“You worried about me?” he murmured against your throat.

“You almost got yourself killed over a Hutt.”

“Mhm.”

“I should hit you.”

“Mhm.. Try me..”

Instead, your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently.

Din groaned softly against your neck, kissing lower, pressing his hips on yours while you laughed breathlessly at the sound.

“Careful,” you whispered.

“You started this.”

“You pinned me to a wall!”

“You kissed me first.”

You opened your mouth to argue—

Tiny footsteps.

Rapid little pitter-patters approaching the fresher.

Both of you froze.

Din lifted his head slowly.

The door slid open.

Grogu stood there holding his blanket.

Silence.

The child looked at Din.

Then at you pinned between him and the wall.

Then at Din’s mouth on your neck.

Grogu’s face scrunched instantly.

A tiny offended growl left him.

Like: yuck.

You burst into laughter immediately, covering your face.

Din closed his eyes in defeat.

“Kid…”

Grogu made another judgmental noise and waddled over, demanding uppies with both hands.

Just like that, the moment shattered.

Din stared down at him for a long second before reluctantly picking him up.

Grogu immediately wedged himself between the two of you possessively.

You laughed harder. “I think he’s jealous.”

“I noticed.”

Grogu glared at Din.

Din stared back.

“…I fought pirates for you.”

Grogu blinked once.

Then deliberately snuggled into your chest instead.

Little traitor.

Guys, would you like some Mando smutt??

Tell me by the comments 🙏

She had confided that she wasn't entirely convinced as to what species he was. You simply hid behind your coy smile because you knew that Din was human, you'd shared enough intimate moments alone with him in the cot on board the Razor Crest to know that on previous trips. Many stolen moments where you had removed his beskar piece by piece, kissed the constellations of scars that littered his battle-worn body, and explored places that few others had. You had never seen his face, but that didn't bother you; your ability to read his gestures and body movements told you everything you needed to know about how he felt about you.

“So, where are we off to?” You were spinning around in the co-pilot's chair - your chair - right by his side, looking at him as you spoke.

“Thought we might take a trip to Rishi,” he said as he continued to crunch numbers into the console. Adept at reading his body language, you noticed a slight shift as he spoke. Your eyes narrowed, slightly.

“What are you up to Din Djarin, hmmm?”

The question made him look up, “Nothing, cyar'ika.”

You reached out for the holopad on the console, wanting to check your destination. It wasn't the name of a planet you recognized. Scanning through the notes that appeared in front of you, you read it out loud, “A tropical planet in the Outer Rim. What are we going there for?”

“I have some business that I need to take care of.”

This news surprised you, because Din usually shared all of his plans with you - you were a team. Very rarely did he make a decision without you.

“Oh, okay,” you said, frowning. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“Once we hit the hyperlane, about forty standard hours.”

“Oh no,” you deadpanned, with a twinkle in your eye, as you reached across to take his gloved hand in your own bare one. You began to slowly peel the glove from his hand, keeping your eyes trained solely on his visor. “How are we going to fill the time?”

“Cyar'ika,” he growled, “we haven't taken off yet.”

“Too right,” you replied smugly.

Rishi

You walked down the ramp of the Razor Crest, side by side with the Mandalorian. The ship was resting on a lush, green landing strip just outside of Corataani Town, the main trading center of the planet. 

The vibrantly green rainforest that sat adjacent to the space port, was teeming with exotic wildlife. You could hear the chatter of the Orobirds that sat high in the trees above the hum of nearby engines.

It was both hot and humid and you were hit by a wall of tropical heat as you descended from the cool belly of durasteel that had been your home for the duration of the trip.

Rishi was not a hostile planet, but Din was always armed and ready. It used to be a hive of pirate activity and there were still reminders of their activities here and there.

“Where are we headed, D-Mando?” You always struggled to remember his public moniker, especially after spending several days holed up in the Crest together where you had spent so much time whispering his real name reverently over and over again.

He cleared his throat and took his time before replying, “Rishi lies on the Manda Merchant Trade Route and has a busy market. I thought you might like a visit. I need you to pick up some more supplies because we have a few more stops after this.” 

“We do?” For the second time in the last few standard days, Din had caught you by surprise.

“We do,” he confirmed. “Let's divide and conquer. But keep your comlink handy. And keep your eyes peeled for thieves and pirates.”

“Always,” you said, brightly as he handed you a bag of credits. “How long will you be?”

“Meet you back here in an hour,” he said, pointing at the town gates.

“In an hour,” you said over your shoulder as you skipped off to find the marketplace.

Just as you'd hoped, the market was vibrant and exciting. Delicious smells, colorful fruits, luxurious fabrics - the list went on. It was an assault on all of the senses. You strode through with purpose, haggling for supplies for your onward journey, feeling jubilant every time you bartered with a vendor and lowered the price.

Satisfied with your purchases, you made your way out of the market and back towards your meeting point. Because he was easy to pick out in a crowd, Din's absence at the gate was immediately obvious. You panicked a little, it was unlike Din to be late. He was never late. 

You were juggling too many parcels to reach your comlink, which was safely stowed in your pocket, and so you decided to wait - and hope.

After standing for ten or so minutes, you were seriously starting to think of returning to the space port, because the Trandoshan standing on the opposite side of the gate was starting to take too much interest in you, you caught a glint of silver on the corner of your eye and relaxed.

“Ready?” He surveyed the parcels you were struggling to hold on to and lifted a few out of your hands.

“Ready,” you affirmed. “Not sure I like the look that guy is giving me.” You raised your eyebrows and nodded in the direction of your observer. Din's head turned to look and the Trandoshan shrank back into the shadows, leaving only his scaly tail visible.

On the walk back to the ship, something felt off. It took you a few minutes to figure out what it was. It lingered in the air, something familiar  - it smelled like ozone and carbon. It was definitely blaster fire.

“Everything okay? Have you been in a fight?”

“All good,” said Din firmly as he lowered the ramp on the Crest, pressing a button on his vambrace, ignoring your second question.

“Where are we going next?”

“Ilum.”

Ilum

As the Razor Crest dropped out of hyperspace, you looked out of the viewport towards the gray planet looming towards you. 

You pulled your tunic down as you spoke, “What's that white swirling pattern in the atmosphere?” 

You turned towards Din, who was still half-dressed and didn't look in a great hurry to put his armor back on.

“It’s an ice planet,” he said, turning his head to look for himself. “Inhospitable for most species. Would you like to land there?”

You shivered at the thought and doubted that you had enough warm clothes to survive for more than five minutes outside of the spacecraft. “I'd rather stay where it's nice and warm.”

Din just shrugged as he let his flight suit drop back to the floor, “It's close enough, I suppose. Maybe we should just move on.”

You arched an eyebrow at him, “Close enough to what?” You echoed his words back at him. “Move on to where?”

Din pulled your tunic back over your head, making you squeal as he roughly pulled you in, tugging at the buttons on your pants as he reeled you into his body.

“But we’ve only just…,” you panted as you brushed up against his cold breastplate.

“I'll set a course for Dalna,” he said, walking you backwards towards the pilot's chair, making you forget your other questions.

Dalna

Looking up from the holopad,  Dalna came into view. It looked interesting shades of green and blue from this vantage point, and you stood up to get a better view. After traveling in hyperspace for around a standard week, seeing a physical planet felt like a small luxury. As much as you loved spending time with Din on the Razor Crest, you needed to stretch your legs and feel a solid planet beneath your feet.

Din dropped into the pilot's seat and casually flipped a few switches to guide the ship towards the planet's surface.

You looked back down at the notes that you were reading, “It says here that Dalna is agricultural. Do we need anything agricultural?”

“There are some magnificent waterfalls here and I thought…”

Unable to contain your excitement, you jumped out of your seat and caused the holopad to fly out of your lap, where it was deftly caught by Din.

“Yes!” You cheered loudly. “I've only ever seen one on the holonet. Yes!” Din gave a small snort of approval and a loud huff as you grabbed him tightly around the waist.

“How did you remember?”

“I always remember what you tell me, cyar'ika. It's about an hour's walk from here.”

“I could do with stretching my legs and getting some decent exercise.”

He pulled you in tightly and his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, “Are you saying you aren't getting enough exercise? Do you want more? I can give you more, cyare.”

You fluttered your eyelashes at him, “I’ll take as much as you can give. But first, let’s see this cascade of water.”

Din released you from his hold. “Mr'sheb,” he whispered as you gathered some belongings together. You wiggled your rear at him as you bent down to tie your boot laces.

The walk through was pleasant, the terrain was gentle and the canopy of trees provided cool shade from the two suns. As you walked, you listened to the symphony of birds in the high-up branches and the rustle of animals running through the undergrowth, reminding you that this forest was a living, breathing thing.

Finally, the woodland began to thin, the air became fresher and cleaner, and the light became brighter. You could hear the roar of the water rushing as you approached the edge of the trees.

And then you stopped in your tracks, staring in wonder at the sight ahead. It was a tumbling, cascading, tumult of water which rumbled down into the plunge pool below. The sun picked out the droplets of spray that bounced back into the air, creating a vibrant rainbow of iridescence which danced around. It took your breath away and you stopped in your tracks as you stared.

“Din,” you said, reaching out to take his hand in yours, “It's beautiful. Thank you”

Din said nothing, but simply reciprocated by giving your hand a squeeze whilst he looked at you, as you looked at the magnificent sight ahead.

You both stood in silence and awe, watching and admiring. Finally, Din spoke up, “I think you would stand here forever, but we need to get moving.”

“We do?” You reluctantly dragged your eyes up to look at his visor. 

“We do,” he confirmed. “We're going to Utapau.”

Utapau

You had been sitting in your chair watching through the viewport as Utapau loomed up on you. This one was unlike the others you had visited so far, consisting of vast stretches of grasslands interspersed with what looked like deep sinkholes, making for an interesting terrain.

“Where are the inhabitants?” You couldn't see any settlements, just grasslands.

“All underground,” replied Din, guiding the craft, towards the largest sinkhole, before dropping down inside it. The Razor Crest made a smooth landing on one of the upper level docks just on the fringes.

The walk into the city was a short one, but fascinating. The buildings were carved into the bedrock, with supporting bone structures, making them beautiful and slightly creepy. You also tried not to look down too often, because the eleven levels seemed to go downwards forever and the drop was endless.

“I have to go and meet someone on the trade level. There are plenty of places for you to look at whilst I'm gone.” he didn't look at you as he spoke.

“Again?” You turned to look at him, searching for any indicators in his body language. 

“I won't be any longer than necessary. Try to stay out of trouble.” His gloved hand brushed against yours, giving it an almost imperceptible squeeze.

“I think you'll find that I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble finds me.” You hooked your little finger around his, your way of saying goodbye.

“You have your comlink. Use it if you sense danger.” With those parting words, he moved off on a different trajectory and you watched him move away into the jostling crowds. 

Slipping your hand into your tunic pocket, there was no sign of your comlink.

"Dank farrik,” you sighed, as you realized it was still sitting on the console in the Crest. 

Looking around, the shops were bustling with activity and you thought that it would be best to mingle with the crowds rather than stand and wait, you needed new socks anyway.

Browsing around, you found an ancient-looking antique store that looked like it contained a treasure trove of artifacts. And then you found them, lurking in a dark and dusty corner - a set of children's books. You had only encountered books a couple of times in your life - they were rarities because most of the Galaxy preferred flimsiplast, data-tapes or holovids.

Picking them carefully off of the shelf, you turned them over in your hands, wondering if they might fall apart if you turned the pages. You held your breath as you opened the cover of the first book and miraculously, it was complete and intact.

You weren't sure how long you stood there staring at the books, turning them over in your hands, debating with yourself as to whether you could afford to buy them. You only stopped thinking about them when you felt a familiar presence come to rest behind you.

“They're yours,” said Din, coming to stand close. “Put them in your shoulder bag.”

“Sorry? Are you telling me to steal them?”

“No, I’ve been watching you through the window. You have that dreamy look on your face; it's the same one you have when you watch Grogu sleeping, so I bought them for you.”

“For me? You bought them? I don't know how to say thank you.” You hugged the books tightly to your chest as though they were as precious as the foundling.

“I can think of a few ways,” he said, leaning in closely as he furtively ran a finger down the curve of your spine. The coarse leather of the glove dragged the fabric with a friction that made your skin tingle.

“Back to the Crest, then?” You surreptitiously pressed your back into his body. “And did you sort out whatever it was you needed to do?”

“Yes and no,” he replied cryptically, leading you out of the store.

“So we aren't going home yet?” Your mind wandered to Grogu how much you missed him.

“Not yet, two more stops. Umbara next.”

Umbara

“Why Umbara, Mando? You walked down the ramp together and into the cityscape.

“We need to refuel and do some running repairs,” he said as he scanned around looking for a port maintenance hand.

You tutted - The Crest was always in need of repairs and you watched as Din found who he needed and headed off to sort it out.

You caught up with him just as he finished handing over a bag of credits.

“Might take a few hours,” he said. “We could take a look around.” You reluctantly agreed with him. Ueda was a giant metropolis, nowhere near as beautiful as Utapau nor Dalna. The ships buzzed past in their lanes, sweeping in and out, around the skyscrapers and the bustle reminded you of Coruscant. You followed Din’s lead and headed into the noise and bustle.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you rounded the next corner- there in front of you was a large statue of an Imperial Admiral which glared down on all he surveyed. It was a stark reminder of those that you'd lost in the name of freedom and it made the bile rise in your throat.

“Was this an Imperial stronghold?”

“Looks like it,” said Din, as he too stared up at the monument. He'd never talked about what he was doing during the years of The Empire, but you knew his allegiances lay elsewhere now.

“You know how I don't go looking for trouble,” you said, unable to tear your eyes away, “but how do you like the idea of bringing down that monstrosity?”

Din turned his visor towards you. “You're serious?”

“Deadly,” you replied as you reached into your bag to find your thermal detonators. “It's not busy right now. How about we go and plant them and then clear the area?” Without waiting for a response, you both moved towards the statue.

As you approached, you read the plaque at its base “Admiral Thrawn.” You were going to enjoy this - really enjoy this, and you bent down to lay the charges. Din moved to the position side.

“Oi!” You ignored the voice as you set to work. 

“You!” The voice rang out again and you looked up to see a large Houk approach your location. He was approaching with his blaster drawn. 

You stood up slowly, placing your back towards the statue, wondering where Din was.

“I want your weapons. I don't give a mudskuffer's tail about the statue,” he growled, pointing his weapon directly at your chest. Slowly, trying to buy time, you reached for your bag, but before you could do anything, blaster fire rang out. The Houk grabbed you by the throat and pulled you into his body, using you as a shield, pointing his blaster in the direction of the noise. He was so close that the smell of his breath made your stomach roil.

“Release her or I'll gut you like a burr fish,” growled the deep tones of the vocoder behind you, and you relaxed, knowing that Din was safe and soon you would be too. The Houk just laughed and gripped tighter to your neck, making you gasp for air as you struggled in his hands. 

Without any further warning, the large hand that was squeezing yours slackened its grip and you collapsed to the ground clutching your throat as your large captor toppled behind you with a heavy thud.

A pair of strong arms lifted you up, hoisting you up into safety. Din ignored the looks from passersby as he walked through the metropolis back towards the port. He flicked the vambrace on his wrist and several of the grenades detonated, causing the statue to topple and crumble. You watched Din's parting gift to Umbara as it hit the floor with a loud crash, plumes of dust, and screaming

“Not going to lose you, cyar'ika,” he grunted as he headed for the Crest on the landing pad. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head and whispered, “No. I'm fine.” You watched the lights retreat over his shoulder as he moved swiftly and resolutely towards the docking bay and the safety of his ship.

“Good, then let me take care of you.”

“But I'm not… oh,” you said, catching onto his meaning.

As he climbed the ramp, holding you still in his arms, you buried your head in his shoulder and whispered, “Let's get out of here. Where next?”

“Ryloth,” came the reply.

Ryloth

Sitting on a rocky outcrop with the sun on your back, you surveyed the landscape before you. You had been on an incredible journey over that last standard month and had seen more in that time than you had over most of your lifetime and experienced dangers across the galaxy. The tropical rainforest stretched out ahead of you, as far as the eye could see.

You didn't think you had encountered a place with as much beauty as this. As much as you loved your little home on the lava flats of Nevarro, it couldn't compare with this.

Behind you, you heard the gentle swish of a cape. His footsteps might be silent, but the breeze could not disguise his advance. You stood up as Din approached, turning to face him.

“Meshla.”

“Yes, it is very beautiful here,” you sighed, looking from Din back to the valley behind you.

“No, I meant you. It's pretty here, but nothing compared to you,” he moved to stand beside you, close enough to feel his presence, his vambrace lightly brushing your arm, and instead of looking at the vista, his visor was trained on you.

“Haven't you worked it out yet?” He sounded amused. Din rarely did amused, or games. He had no patience for riddles or puzzles.

“I-I don't understand what you mean, Din,” you said. 

“Think about all of the places that we have visited. Where have we been?” He was amused by your confusion. 

You looked at the beskar helmet. “We've been to Rishi, Ilum, Dalna, Utapau, Umbara, and now we are standing on the surface of Ryloth.” You recited each planet on your fingers as you recounted your journey.

Suddenly, the tempo of your heart increased as you worked through the answer.

“Oh. Oh,” you said, clapping your hand over your mouth in realization. “If-if I take the first letter of each planet, it spells R-I-D-U-U-R.” 

It was an important word and its significance was not lost on you. You knew what it meant, of course. Din had told you that one day he would ask you to take the vow with him.

“Riduur. Partner,” you whispered, closing your eyes for a moment as you let the truth sink in. A tear pricked at the corner of your eye and your heart was hammering so hard in your chest that you thought that it might burst through your ribcage. 

Din, who had been watching you closely during your revelation, finally spoke. His vocoder sounded hoarse, “Riduur. If you will say the vows with me?”

“Din!” You gasped. “Kriff! That is one hell of a proposal. How could I ever turn you down after that? But here? Now?”

“Can't think of anywhere better,” he said, clasping your hand in his and turning to face you. “Mandalorian's can make their riduurok wherever, whenever. If you want to?” His last words were softly spoken and gentle. He opened his gloved palm to show you a silvery, delicate looking chain, adorned with a mudhorn pendant - the sign of his clan. Now, your clan.

“A beskar pedant,” he said, “as a symbol of my commitment to you. To us. I acquired the beskar in Rishi and had the pendant made on Utapau. The Armorer is more skilled, but there wasn't time to return to Mandalore.”

He had done this for you - all of it for you. You raised yourself up, placing your free hand upon the side of his helmet, roughly where you imagined his cheek to be and stroked the cold armor with your thumb, looking into the t-shaped visor. 

Pressing your forehead against the top of his helmet, you whispered, “I am ready, riduur.”

Cyar'ika - darling

Mr'sheb - smart ass

Riduur - spouse

Meshla - beautiful

Author's Note: well done if you figured it our before the end.

Here is each planet that they dropped on.

Rishi

Ilum

Dalnar

Utapau

Umbara

The helmet tilted slightly toward you.

“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.

Very much down.

Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.

He followed a heartbeat later.

The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.

Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.

The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.

Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.

At least he was standing.

You, on the other hand…

You lifted your gaze slowly.

From the floor.

From where you were kneeling.

Directly between his legs.

“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”

Technically speaking, you were right.

Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.

An easy contract, he had said.

Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.

Simple.

Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.

The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.

What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.

Air vents.

Abandoned wastewater tunnels.

Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.

The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.

Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.

Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.

Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.

You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.

Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.

Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.

Not just a few.

Dozens.

The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.

That was when the plan changed.

Getting out immediately had become impossible.

But hiding?

Hiding might buy time.

Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.

At least, that had been the theory.

Which was how you ended up here.

Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.

Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.

Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.

You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.

“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.

You snorted quietly.

“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”

You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.

Your muscles protested.

“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”

Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.

You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.

“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”

The response came immediately.

“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.

Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.

You had seen that smirk before though.

More than once.

Because you have seen his face many times now.

The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.

The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.

The third…

Well.

That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.

Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.

Lately, things had become a little more complicated.

“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”

A faint pause followed.

Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”

Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.

You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.

Something affectionate, you suspected.

Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.

Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”

Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.

“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.

“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”

Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.

Still, both of you kept your voices low.

Better safe than discovered.

“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”

You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.

“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”

Your gaze lifted.

The visor angled down toward you.

“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.

Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”

“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”

His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.

“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”

You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.

As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly - 

 - and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.

The reaction was immediate.

Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.

You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.

“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.

And there it was.

A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.

Your mouth curved slightly.

Well. That answered that.

“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.

Except the tone betrayed him.

Half caution. Half something else entirely.

“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”

His breath caught.

“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”

A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.

“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.

Your hand didn’t slow.

If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.

Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.

Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.

“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.

But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.

It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.

Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.

You slipped beneath it.

The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.

A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.

“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”

Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.

The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.

You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.

But this?

This was different.

With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.

Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.

Every small shift of muscle.

Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.

The signals were clearer than he probably realized.

And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.

His length twitched faintly in your grasp.

Yes.

Definitely the right track.

“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”

Your hand moved again.

With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.

Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.

Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.

Now the discomfort barely registered.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.

Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.

Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.

“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.

You smiled faintly.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.

The thing was,  you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.

The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.

Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.

You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.

Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.

For a moment the two of you went completely still.

The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.

Din’s breath hitched again.

“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.

“You look… perfect like this.”

The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.

Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.

You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.   

Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.

It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.

But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.

For now though, the focus was entirely on him.

Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.

“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.

Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.

You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.

“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”

You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment - 

 - but suddenly he froze.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.

The situation became instantly absurd.

You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.

Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.

You felt it.

You understood it.

You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.

The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.

Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.

You didn’t.

Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.

That was all it took.

Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.

The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.

Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.

True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.

His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.

The footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.

The breath came out slow and shaky.

After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.

“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”

You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.

“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.

With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.

“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.

The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.

“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”

“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”

He glanced down toward you.

“Can you get it open again?”

Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.

You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.

“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.

Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.

“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”

Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.

“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.

The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.

He leaned closer.

“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”

You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.

Pins and needles shot through your calves.

“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”

Din didn’t slow.

“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”

Waiting had been the right call.

The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.

Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.

Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.

Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.

Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.

You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.

Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.

You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

But the grin on your face refused to fade.

From your pocket you produced the prize.

The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.

“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”

You flipped the shard once more.

Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.

The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.

You glanced sideways at him.

“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.

Still nothing.

A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?

You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.

You tossed the shard again - 

 - but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.

The motion was so quick it left you blinking.

Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.

Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.

“Bunk,” he said.

Just one word.

No humor left in it.

The tone wasn’t angry.

But it was unmistakably an order.

And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.

You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.

Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.

You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin - 

The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.

Your grin widened.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.

You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.

He always believed in settling the score.

My Masterlist

Taglist:

You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible. 

You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts. 

Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.

Yours started with Hoseok.

Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.

You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history. 

Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.

One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off. 

He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.” 

You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.

It added up over time. 

Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then. 

You tried to pay him back. He just looked at you, shrugged, and said, “If you really want to, just stay with us. Stay in the team.”

So you do.

The boys noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that. From MOTS to PTD Live On Stage to Arirang.

The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.

You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.

The boys are fine as fuck. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous. Except for two of them, who you suspected had something non-platonic going on, but you don’t want to speculate further.

You’ve seen some of them try dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.

It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.

You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.

There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.

Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.

Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s… 

You ended up becoming Yoongi’s.

…and it all begins with a very mature game of Spin the Bottle.

You and the rest of the crew had stayed back in the rehearsal studio to celebrate the birthday of Rei, assistant performance director, resident tyrant, and class president of your little dysfunctional sorority.

There’s food, balloons, and too many empty soju bottles. One of which is currently spinning… and lands on you.

“Shit,” you mutter, already reaching for your beer. “Truth.”

A chorus of groans.

“Boring!”

“Ask her something good!”

The birthday girl leans forward, eyes glassy, tipsy as hell. “Aight, gun to your head—which member you gonna fuck?”

You choke on your drink. “No way I’m answering that. Next question.”

“Nah,” Tiff tosses a handful of popcorn at you. “You know the rules.”

You groan, tilting your head back dramatically before swatting the kernels off your lap. “You guys…”

“Wuss!” Bina teases.

“C’mon, you’ve thought about it. Don’t even play,” Rei smirks.

All eyes are on you. The pressure is mounting so high that you almost want to hurl. You take another swig. Rei is right though, as she almost annoyingly always is. You’ve definitely checked the boys out. It’s not even a question of who (singular), because if you’re gonna be honest, you have biblical levels of greed and there’s two in particular you’d let rearrange your guts.

But ugh. You’ll play along. 

Just one name to satiate these hoes.

“Fine,” you huff, wiping your lip with the back of your palm, readying to reveal your answer:

“Kim Seokjin.”

The room erupts.

“OHHHH—”

“I knew it!”

And even if you know you could stop at that, the alcohol kicks your courage into overdrive. 

“I’d let him fuck me raw until the inside of my coochie moulds to the shape of his dick...”**

The rest spills out of you in a half-slurred, disgustingly specific ramble that has the girls screaming and Angel spilling her shot.

You’re laughing, face hot, still high off everyone’s reactions when you feel the heat of someone’s stare.

You glance up and holy shit. It’s the name you withheld.

Feline eyes piercing and lips curling at the corners, oh Yoongi looks hella amused. He’s right there and he heard it all.

Fucking hell. Your life is literally over.

It’s later, much later, when you run into him again.

The hallway outside the bathrooms is quieter, the bass from the dance studio muffled into a distant thrum. Your head is a little light, steps a little uneven, but you’re mostly sober now. Okay, not really.

You push the door open and there he is, almost like he’s been waiting.

Yoongi’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, head tilted just enough that his hair falls into his eyes. He looks… loose. Drunk, then. Obviously. Just like everyone else in the party.

His gaze slides over you and that same almost-smile returns. “Seokjinnie-hyung, huh?”

You groan immediately, covering your face. “Oh my god, don’t.”

He huffs out a scratchy laugh and your fist collides against his arm.

He rubs the spot with his palm. “Didn’t know you had that much to say about him.” 

“I didn’t know you were listening,” you shoot back.

“Right place at the right time,” he shrugs.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying my demise way too much.”

“Am I?” he says, pushing off the wall.

He steps closer. “I mean…” his gaze flicks down, then back up. “You were pretty detailed.”

This close, he smells like warm musk and whisky. It hits you all at once, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. You swallow it down, deflecting. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.” He smiles sweetly, pretty teeth and pink gums on show. Then he circles back smoothly to the topic because he is a piece of shit. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You scoff, folding your arms like that’ll save you. “Oh, there’s a lot of things you don’t know ‘bout me.”

His gaze dips, trailing down the exposed skin where your cardigan has conveniently fallen off your shoulder, towards your breasts hugged by your camisole. His eyes linger just a second too long before dragging back up to your face.

And there it is. He did the thing for you. That thing he does where his tongue presses into his cheek. Fucker.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

Alarm bells are ringing in your head because is Min fuckin’ Yoongi lowkey hitting on you right now?

“Well…” his head tilts, voice dropping just enough to feel it. “Was that just talk?”

He is! Fuck. Why? No, shut up. It doesn’t matter right now. Say something.

You swallow, then tilt your chin up, meeting him head-on as liquid courage pushes you to say the next words. “What?” You shrug, forcing a smirk. “You wanna stand-in for your hyung?”

His lips curve, slow and amused. “Maybe.”

“I… could be open,” you say almost lazily.

And then he moves.

Rough hands find your wrist, tugging you down the hall before you can think too hard about it. You let him and the next thing you know you’re pressed behind his studio door.

Just the two of you.

Too close that you feel the heat emanating from his body.

“Jin’s got a girl,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel his hot breath grazing your cheek.

That makes you pause, because you didn’t know Jin was steady with someone. Else you wouldn’t have said what you said.

 “And y’all won’t fuck nasty like that.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in, just enough that your lips brush his when you speak.

“No?” You lick between his parted mouth, pulling back with a smirk. “And… we would?”

“Like animals.”

And then he cups the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours.

Monday comes faster than you’d like.

You don’t know what you were expecting from Yoongi exactly. A text, maybe? Something more than the thumbs up he sent after you told him you got home safe. Friday night feels like it happened in a vacuum, sealed off like crime scene evidence the second he booked you that Uber.

You’ve spent the weekend turning it over in your head, wondering if things are supposed to be different now that you’ve had sex. Are you supposed to be different? Is it going to be awkward?

You’re about to find out.

You don’t usually hang around after hours unless there’s a reason.

Tonight, the reason is Jimin, who’d dragged you in with the promise of early access to the new tracks you’d be helping to choreograph. You felt a little strange when you entered the studio and found just two members of Bangtan and one of their producers, who nodded at you casually as you entered.

So here you are, curled up on the couch in the corner of the studio, laptop open but mostly forgotten, as the last bits of a track play through the speakers. You’re too deep in thought to notice the delivery guy come in, but you do notice when Yoongi picks up the coffee tray, wordlessly plucking a cup free and walking it over to you.

He holds it out, no expression, no explanation.

“Hyung,” Jimin calls lazily from where he’s sprawled out on the floor. “Where’s my coffee?”

Yoongi doesn’t even glance up. “Just grab a Coke from the fridge.”

You stifle a laugh as Jimin groans dramatically, dragging himself up to rummage through the mini fridge.

A few minutes later, Yoongi slips out of the room, muttering something about finding Namjoon because he should have joined you all 30 minutes ago.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Jimin flops back down beside you, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to spill. “That’s him flirting, by the way.”

You blink at him. “What?”

Jimin points at the cup still in your hand. “Hyung doesn’t even order me coffee.”

“Why would he? You’re an annoying lil bitch.”

Jimin playfully slaps the visor of your baseball cap down so that it covers your eyes.

Which works out just fine because as you glance down at the cup again, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth seeping into your palms. You shake your head, trying to play it off, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging up into a smile you can’t quite hide.

You take a sip of your warm drink and pretend it doesn’t taste sweeter somehow.

Namjoon finally walks in ten minutes later, forehead sweaty, hoodie hanging off his shoulder. Yoongi follows behind him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Namjoon says, already reaching for the aux like he owns the place. He knocks over a cup of pens as he does so.

Then, his eyes land on you. “You ate?”

You nod, lifting your coffee, lipstick-stained spout and all.

“That’s not food,” Namjoon shakes his head, dimples deepening, as he reaches for something in his pocket. “This one’s better.”

A tiny Quaker Oats bar, a bit warm from pocket heat, lands on your lap.

“Thank you.”

The crinkle of the granola bar mixes with Jimin’s whines. “Why doesn’t anyone give me food?”

In the weeks that follow, when tour prep shifts into high gear, nothing else really happens—not in the way you thought it might, at least. Yoongi doesn’t seek you out. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t bring up that night, ever. You’re not really suprised, considering…

But you do notice he lingers in small ways. A bottle of water left by your things before you even realize you’re thirsty. A quiet “eat” when the catering after a shoot finally finishes setting up. The occasional glance. Maybe even a tiny smile here and there. You fall into an easy rhythm with him, familiar but not quite the same, and you catch yourself thinking, maybe something did shift. 

Maybe this is just how it starts.

Rehearsals just wrapped up and your heart is reckless with exhaustion.

You’ve never asked anyone out before. Let alone a fuckin’ idol. But you’re young and dumb. Heavy on the dumb, actually. Anyway, you’ve already slept together. And you’re convinced the chemistry is off the charts. So, why not? And it’s just hanging out anyway. It’s not that deep.

You approach Yoongi as he’s wiping off his neck with a white terry cloth, still breathing heavily. It’s probably serendipity, how everyone else has already slipped out of the room, leaving just the two of you.

He lifts his eyes towards you, mouth slightly agape as he gulps oxygen back in.

Ugh. 

Your earlier bravado is slowly evaporating.

This is stupid. So stupid. But wasn’t it him who said if you know you’re going to crash, accelerate harder?

“So there’s this café in Yeonnam,” you say, stopping in front of him as he ties his shoelaces. 

“Apparently, the building it’s in has been standing since the Joseon dynasty. Crazy. Used to be an apothecary or a medical clinic and they restored it so well it looks so legit...”

You’re blabbing. His face is unreadable, but you press on, fumbling toward hope.

“You’re into historical shit… Daechwita vibes, right? Anyway, the place looks pretty cool. If you’re free sometime, we could—”

There’s an audible inhale as Yoongi stands, dusting off his jeans, slow and careful, before he lifts his head towards you.

“Look,” he says, and you already know how this ends just from the weight of that word. You wish the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.

“I’m not really…” he tilts his head, like you should know. Like you shouldn’t even be having this conversation. “You get it, right?”

You force your face into something neutral, something that won’t betray you. Shrug like embarrassment is not a fire razing you from the inside.

“‘S all good.” You smile albeit tightly. You even pat his shoulder as you pass, casual, almost laughing. But inside you’re ash.

“Oh, get that shoulder pop on 2.0 sharper,” you toss on the way out. “I’ll tell Junho to run it with you again tomorrow.”

Behind you, his eyes slant with what you can only tell is pity.

You make it to the hallway before the first tear slips free, quick and traitorous and pathetic, falling soundless onto the worn carpet. 

You’re already a few beats away when you hear it, “Hey Y/N!“ and then frantic steps.

You don’t stop walking. No. No fuckin’ way. You speed up.

He can’t see you like this. 

You round the corner and run straight to the fire exit to extinguish the heat of shame before you’re burned to a crisp.

It’s sort of easy to get back into the normal swing of things, despite everything. You’re not friends. You probably never will be. And that’s okay.

You have your dignity.

You have the girls. 

You have Rei. 

…who proceeded to scream at you when you explained to her why your eyes were bloodshot the day after you made that reckless decision to ask a world-famous idol out.

She had to re-orient you how this goes. The boys are not off-limits per se, but they do have limits. Fuck, it’s not like you forgot, you just thought… it was different. You were different. Or you could be, given your history. You’ve been in the team for years now and you’d like to consider yourself not just a colleague, but maybe even a friend.

Because there was that one time in Hannam when he… fuck. It’s probably irrelevant. Unimportant. You’re just making it a thing.

And you know what, honestly, you’re fine with rejection. You’ve had practice.

Jongho, back in fifth grade, returned the paper heart you gave him because Bora sent him one first. Bigger, more glittery. 

Baekhyun, in college, dumped you for that French exchange student with ginormous tits.

Even recently, word got to Seokjin about your little drunken speech, and he wasted no time reminding you exactly where you’ve always stood—firmly in the friend zone. He has a girl after all.

It was during the Swim choreo shoot. Jin flicked your forehead when he caught you staring too long during break. He was sweaty and his lips were really plump and pink, and…

“Focus,” he said. “I know I’m handsome, but you can’t do that. Next time, I’ll have to charge you.”

You flipped him off. And thank God he laughed like a windshield wiper, otherwise it would just be really unfair.

As always, you survive. You move on. You always do.

But the real problem? Life is dangling you the man of your dreams like a keychain and you can’t seem to catch it.

Yoongi’s haircut. Right before tour.

It’s almost cruel, because Yoongi’s long hair is most revered by society, widely beloved. Tiktoks and shrines were dedicated to that lionesque mane. ARMY yearned for it. Scissors were manifested to disappear within a 5-mile radius from him.

But you? You personally liked cleaner cuts on guys. When you joined the team circa-MOTS, he had that sharp, neat cut that you were very much into. 

To add insult to injury, you’ve always liked Nerds. You consider yourself one, too.

And now Yoongi’s walking around with this new pair of specs—rimless frames, whenever he feels like wrecking your equilibrium. It sits low on his nose when he’s tired or playing League of Legends Chess during breaks or sipping on his coffee in between takes, and it’s…

Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.

Comeback season officially starts and everything else falls away. Days blur into soundchecks and rehearsals, quick meals eaten standing, ears popping from cabin pressure.

There’s no time to think about anything else when you’re moving from the Netflix show in Gwanghwamun to New York for that Spotify event and then back home again. You’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, counting formations in your head even when you’re off-work. You don’t have time to breathe, but somehow it’s easier like this.

Once in a while during rehearsals, Yoongi still asks for your input on how to execute a move better. Of course you give it; it’s your job. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting when he, famously allergic to eye contact, suddenly makes an effort to meet your gaze.

Honestly, you don’t know why he bothers. He doesn’t owe you anything. No line was crossed without your consent. And whatever that was, it’s not happening again. You almost wish you could just hate him, because that would be easier than this neutral middle ground you’re stranded in.

But you can’t.

Because you see the quiet way he takes care of people, especially Jimin. He shows up, every time, steady and professional and so annoyingly good at what he does. There’s something about that you can’t ignore.

You respect it, because you respect him.

Maybe that’s the worst part. Because he didn’t string you along and didn’t blur the lines more than you let him. You gotta hand it to him, he shut it down clean.

So… you just gotta move on.

Right?

And you… You’ve built this life carefully, piece by piece. You didn’t fight this hard just to get distracted now. So you buckle up. You lock in.

It’s days before the World Tour kicks off and you’re knee-deep in rehearsals. Day in, day out, you’re in the dance studio, double-hatting as a dancer and an assistant choreographer. You’re exhausted–bone-deep, muscle-aching tired, but you’re focused on the grind, on making this show the best fucking tour in history. The boys deserve it. The whole team deserves it. So do you.

You used to rewind dance practice videos frame by frame, pausing just to study the angle of an arm, the timing of a step. Back then, it was just you, your reflection, and the stubborn belief that if you worked hard enough, you could belong in rooms like this. And now you do.

“Let’s start?” Seung Eun calls and everybody hops back into formation. You drop your strawberry lip balm back in your bag.

There’s this sequence in Hooligan.

You and the other dancers crowd Yoongi during his verse, closing in until there’s barely any space left between bodies. It’s choreographed, calculated chaos. You’re meant to get in his face, invade his space just enough to look dangerous, just enough to feel menacing for him. And he’s supposed to hold eye contact, like he’s unbothered. 

For this run, you’re standing in for Kian, who pulled his calf muscle and needed to get iced real quick. Injuries are part of the game, but there’s always a medic on standby to ensure any impact is minimized.

The music starts and your bodies move to the choreography. You slide into position on the last count, stepping into Yoongi’s space. He recites his line.

“Hooligan, like hooligan, ttaeryeo buswo like hooligan…”

You tilt your chin up slightly, eyes on his—ready, steady, professional. But that’s when it shifts.

His gaze doesn’t land where it usually does with the others. It drops to your mouth. 

Anyone else might miss it, but you don’t.

And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of the way you’re breathing, the way your lips part just slightly, the way your body feels a fraction too close to his.

“Sigan dwaesseuni jom bikyeo jom…”

His next line stumbles.

“Ah, fuck—”

The music cuts.

Yoongi lifts a hand, already half-turning away. “My bad.”

There’s a ripple of movement around you as everyone resets, but you’re still standing there as blood rushes up your neck, your cheeks warming before you can stop it.

You glance at him. He glances back.

And then, quieter—almost under his breath—he mumbles to you without meeting your eyes. “That‘s… distracting.”

You gulp.

When the next sequence starts, there’s a faint smudge of red staining the back of your sleeve. You don’t remember doing it. But you do remember how Yoongi doesn’t miss a single beat when Kian steps back in to take your place.

⊙⊝⊜ Goyang, SK, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

“Stay safe out there!” Namjoon calls just before the curtains are drawn and the opening beat of Hooligan detonates through the speakers.

The crowd goes wild as the bassline rattles your ribs, syncs with your pulse, turns your body into music before you even think. On cue, you surge forward with the rest of the dancers, breaking through the curtain like a wave, energy ripping out of you in sharp bursts, boots slamming against the stage in perfect unison. 

You’re gripping a red smoke stick, heat blooming in your palm as it spits thick plumes into the air, bleeding color into the stage until everything is drenched in crimson. It curls around your bodies, around the lights slicing down from above like blades, burning the stage with fire without flames.

Man. Goyang hits different.

Maybe it’s because it’s home. Maybe it’s because this is the first real show where everything finally clicks into place—not just in your head, not just in rehearsals, but out here, in front of thousands of people screaming like the world is ending.

The 360 stage feels massive under your feet, lights slicing through the dark in perfect sync, pyro exploding at just the right beat. Every cue lands. Every formation locks. Every transition you’ve drilled into muscle memory finally breathes.

It’s insane and you feel even more insane because you’re in it. On stage, moving with everyone, keeping up, matching energy, feeding off it. The crowd roars and it vibrates through your bones, through your chest, through everything.

As rain pours down from the sky like blessings from above, you feel genuinely alive. Even though you’re damp and drenched and soaked to your very core, there really is no place else you’d rather be.

When you hit backstage after the encore, everyone’s wet, loud, breathless, half-laughing, half-shouting over each other, still riding the high of the first show. You don’t even think; you’re just moving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as you high five whoever’s in reach, grinning like an idiot.

“Good job!” someone yells.

“You killed it!” another voice.

You barely register who’s who.

Hoseok finds you in the middle of it all and just pulls you into the biggest hug, squeezing tight like he’s just as proud of you as you are of yourself.

“You did so good,” he says, bright and warm and Hobi, and you laugh into his shoulder, still catching your breath. He praises you like you’re the global superstar, not him.

When you pull back, everything’s still squishing about, still loud and electric. 

Namjoon messes up your hair. Jungkook gives you a high five. Yoongi’s across the room, exchanging quick fist bumps with some of the dancers, head dipped, saying something you can’t quite catch. Then he looks up and sees you.

There’s a split-second of indecision. But, you smile. He nods. A tiny one. He looks a little tired. He’s never been one to hide when he’s exhausted, but just like you he’s glowing. Tired, but certainly happy.

And then someone grabs him from the side, pulling him into a quick hug, and the moment’s gone just as easily as it came, replaced by high-pitched screams, and too-tight hugs from your girls.

⊙⊝⊜ Tokyo, JP, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

You find Hobi slumped against the wall of the green room, half-hidden behind a rack of wardrobe like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.

You’d heard. Everyone had, in that quiet, careful way news like that travels—soft voices, lowered eyes, staff moving around a little more gently than usual.

You hesitate for a second, unsure if it’s your place. When you think about it, Hoseok isn’t just one of them to you. He’s your mentor. The reason you’re even here. The first person who saw something in you and decided it was worth something. And more than that, he’s someone you really care about.

Before you can think yourself out of it, you move closer. He looks up and red-rimmed eyes meet yours. Then, something in his expression breaks the distance you were trying to keep. You’re kneeling in front of him the next second, and he’s leaning into you, folding into your arms like he’s been holding himself together for too long.

His sobs are quiet, restrained, but they shake through him all the same.

You wrap your arms around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.

“I’m sorry, Hobi,” you murmur softly. “I know she meant everything to you.”

He lets out a shaky breath against your shoulder, voice breaking. “I hate this. I should be home. I should be there, but I…” his grip tightens slightly. “I fuckin’ can’t.”

Your chest caves at that.

“She knows,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. “She understands. She’s looking down on you right now, smiling, so proud of you. I promise.”

Hobi looks up at you then and for a second, beneath the stage makeup and styled hair and everything that makes him him to the world, he just looks like a little boy.

Small. Hurt. Lost.

As your heart breaks a little, a soft cough breaks the moment.

You glance over your shoulder. Yoongi stands a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, like he walked in on something he wasn’t meant to interrupt.

“I—um…” he shifts slightly. “They told me to come get you.” He means Hoseok, but for some reason, his eyes are fixed on you.

“Shit,” Hobi exhales, scrubbing at his face as he pulls away. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a second.”

Hobi stands, walking over to the makeup station, picking up a tissue and carefully blotting at his cheeks, trying to undo what he can.

It feels like your cue to leave. Rei’s probably already looking for you anyway because there’s a hole in the formation.

Hobi disappears into one of the changing rooms, pulling the curtain shut behind him as he gets ready.

You turn to go, but a hand catches your arm.

“Y/N,” Yoongi says quietly, before his fingers lose their grip.

There’s something in Yoongi’s expression that stops you for half a second. You don’t know what it is. But mostly you think, it’s gratitude sitting heavy in his gaze like he doesn’t know all the words for it.

You shrug lightly, because it doesn’t feel like something you should be thanked for. It’s the least you can do for someone who changed the trajectory of your life without ever asking for anything in return.

He just nods, still looking at you. You see his fingers reaching then drawing back.

It’s… a lot. More than you’re used to with him.

So you look away first, swallowing the tightness in your throat before the sting in your eyes turns into something else.

⊙⊝⊜ Tampa, FL, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

Being in America is always exciting. Something about stepping onto U.S. soil flips a switch in the boys, like there’s something in the water, or maybe it’s just the distance from home loosening something in their bones.

Tae, for one, fully commits to the bit—gray sweats, tank tops, lewd little ad libs to the choreo. No one questions it. Angel is definitely going through it. Lucky bitch.

Jungkook is on his phone 24/7, liking everything in sight to send any and all users in a frenzy to fuel them until their next life. He also films these borderline menacing TikToks alone in his hotel room at ungodly hours, looking fucked out because well, he probably has done just that.

Jimin wakes up one day and decides he wants to have an even longer ponytail. And suddenly the internet is in shambles, ARMY collectively just losing their shit.

And that’s just the maknaes. 

It’s fascinating to watch all of them, seeing different versions surface depending on where they are, like they’re all just slightly more themselves here. Or maybe just slightly less guarded.

After the last show in Tampa, the members decide to treat the crew to KBBQ at some nearby strip mall. You squeeze into a long table with some of the dancers and a couple of the boys, smoke from the grill curling into your hair, soju flowing a little too easily.

For one reason or another, as people made room for others, and chairs were moved left then right, you somehow end up in front of Yoongi like you just played musical chairs. 

“How’s it going?” you say.

“Not bad. You?”

You shrug, “I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

The awkwardness is like a knot that loosens as drinks flow. Then, the easy back-and-forth comes like you do this on a daily basis instead of pretending you don’t think about him at all.

“You’re in a good mood,” you say, watching as he pours you another shot.

“Am I?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “You talk more when you are.”

He huffs softly, like he doesn’t agree but won’t argue it either. He looks pretty like this, barefaced and sleepy. Then you remember something and you decide to be a menace. “Give me a reason to not tattle.”

His brows meet in the middle. Confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh you know full well.” You mimic a head turn and flail your arms.

Yoongi’s cheeks turn pink. He fumbled the Run choreo. AGAIN.

“I recovered faster this time.”

“Not the point,” you reply pointedly.

“I ate in Day 1.”

“You did,” you nod. “Not the point though.”  

He gives a wary glance over at Hoseok who has half a rib inside his mouth at the moment, when he looks back at you and challenges. “Name your price.”

“RP gift card. Could use some new arena skins.” You smile sweetly, knowing he’s been obsessed with LoL Teamfight Tactics, too. You’ve seen it on his phone.

“Fine.” Yoongi laughs, actually laughs,  because he didn’t expect the response. “We should play sometime.”

And it was your turn to not expect that response.

“Oh, alright. Sure.” You nod, a little flustered even as you recall the nugget you’ve seen from one of his interviews. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Yoongi smiles, so gummy and wide, like he has a praise kink that you just discovered. “Thank you. Diamond is very hard to achieve.” So you let him brag a bit, before you decide to knock him down a peg.

“Trust me, I get it.” You bring the spout of your beer to your mouth and before you take a swig, you quip. “I’m a grandmaster.”

His jaw hits the floor and you almost spit your beer out. “You are not.”

You tilt your head as if to say, try me. He is still waiting. And the smirk disappears from his mouth when swipes of your screen later you show him your profile and your level is as you disclosed.

“Wow.”

“I know. Wow.” You say, smug. “Anyway, do you think you’re gonna get away with it, or is there a fan cam already circulating?”

“You tell me. I don’t watch those things.”

“My phone probably heard us and is about to add it to my algorithm. I’ll let you know.”

“Taehyung-ie threw me off, honestly.” He leans back and exhales deeply.

A giggle slips out of you because you know exactly what he means. “Yeah, no, everyone was just feeling it. Kookie did the dougie to Life Goes On. Namjoon was fucking the air to Butter of all songs. Insane behavior from all of you, actually.”

“I’m innocent.” 

Oho. “You’re not off the hook.” You wag your finger.

“Wae?”

“Baepsae.” You lean your chin on your palm, referring to the Army time surprise song.

“What?” 

“You got real close to a camera and let ‘er rip.”

“Did no such thing,” His lips stretch into that infuriating bracket-like grin. He’s obviously lying.

“Don’t even play. I saw the smile you tried to hide when you turned around, you dog.”

“So you were really watching me, huh?”

“I was monitoring the performances from backstage. As it is my job.” 

“Mhm,” he hums, biting his lip to hide a smile as he shakes his head.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not saying anything,” he chuckles, voice a little higher than usual.

“Silence is admission.” You point your chopsticks at him and smirk. “It’s fine. You were just feeling yourself.” 

You thought you were gonna have the last laugh. But as always, Yoongi knows how to render you speechless.

“And if I am,” he tilts his head slightly, eyes straight to yours. “What you gon’ do ‘bout it?” 

You have a comeback. You definitely do. It’s just stuck in your brain traffic, unable to come out.

He pushes his glasses up higher on his nose bridge and the single action almost makes you fall to your knees.

God, you hope he doesn’t notice.

But he does. 

That’s the only explanation for the text that you get while you’re settling in your hotel room that night. 

Rei is on her bed already semi-snoring, her phone still lit up as a TikTok live seller continues to peddle a hyaluronic acid sheet mask bundle. 3+1 event—you’d check it out if you didn’t have a booty call staring back at you.

You check it again. Still not sure if you’re reading the text correctly.

Yoongi: 2004 Yoongi: come over if ur feelin it

So you find yourself on his floor thirty minutes later, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to your blouse as you walk down the hallway.

Room 2002 has a very loud and dramatic show playing inside. For sure it’s one of the members as they’re typically roomed in the same floor. You just don’t know who.

A few steps over is your destination. Room 2004.

Fuck. You’re doing this. (Again.)

Except… There’s a sound.

No. A moan.

Your knuckles are frozen, inches from the door.

Someone is definitely having a great time in there.

You check the text again, because maybe you got the room wrong. 

The numbers match. And yet, the math is not mathing. If he invited you, then why—

Oh.

Oh shit.

You look at your messages again and realize, all at once, what happened.

Your reply sits there with a red exclamation point. Which only means one thing. It was Unsent.

You:  yeah, i’ll come ❗

Well.

Now?

No, you won’t.

“Fucking shit,” your phone flies out of your hand when you trip on the carpet floor like a complete klutz. You can’t believe you’re risking injury and getting benched for the rest of the tour for this stupid cat man.

“Y/N?”

Noooooooooo

You straighten up immediately, thankful it wasn’t Yoongi’s door that flew open. “Namjoon, hi.” 

“Is this yours?” he bends to pick up your phone, which is resting by his doorway. 

“Yeah, umm. That’s mine.”

He studies you as you take the device from his hand. Your screen is still bright and open and your Kakao app is just there. Ain’t no way he didn’t see who’s on your thread.

“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m totally fine.” You pocket your device, forcing a light smile. But before you can say anything else, Namjoon is pulling his door wider.

You stay rooted in place, even as your eyes dart inside the plush suite. You realize he is wearing a black tank top and matching pajamas. 

“I got food and a drama. Could use some company,” Namjoon says simply. No malice, no undertone. You’re sure Namjoon has no way of knowing you had a lacy thong underneath, so this is really just a simple invitation to hang out. 

You consider it. At the same time, you think, huh, his dimples are really, really deep. Your reply came easy after that. “I–sure, yeah. I’m down.”

“Cool.” he tilts his head, gesturing you in.

The night settles into something softer in Room 2002, the noise in your brain fading into nothing thanks to room service, wine samplers from the mini bar, and Namjoon’s running commentary over a drama. He’s literally such a yapper. You lean back into the couch, listening to him more than watching the show, letting his voice fill the space instead of your thoughts.

It’s easy hanging with Namjoon. No guessing. No second-guessing. And you don’t realize until now how much you needed Namjoon’s friendship until now, but you’re glad he is offering it.

And maybe more than that, you’re glad he didn’t ask any questions you couldn't answer even if you tried.

The next day, rumors fly that Gwayoung from Digital was bragging about being on the receiving end of that tongue technology.

The same day, you also receive a 50,000 won gift card credited in your mobile game.

You know it’s from the same person. And you know which one you would’ve wanted more.

The tour goes on. It starts off like a high you can’t come down from. New cities, new crowds. You collect moments like souvenirs—late-night convenience store runs, inside jokes backstage, someone filming content here and there, drinking sessions inside someone’s hotel room. There’s always something happening, always someone around. You don’t have to think too much because everything moves too fast. It feels like living ten lives at once, and for a while, it’s enough.

But somewhere along the way, the novelty starts to thin out. The cities blur into one long stretch of airports, hotel hallways, empty highways, and backstage corridors that all feel vaguely the same. You wake up and sometimes it takes a second to remember where you are. Your suitcase never really gets unpacked—just opened, lived out of, closed again. Everyone’s tired in that bone-deep way that makes even laughter feel like effort. You’re surrounded by people all the time, and somehow, it still feels lonely.

You and the girls have a kind of unspoken understanding between all of you now, forged in cramped dressing rooms and shared mirrors, in the quiet rituals of getting ready before a show. Someone’s always borrowing someone else’s lip tint, someone’s fixing a crooked lash, someone’s complaining about a bruise they didn’t notice until they caught it under the harsh vanity lights.

“Why are we like this?” Angel groans one night, poking at a purple mark on her thigh.

“Occupational hazard,” Bina shrugs, already halfway through redoing her eyeliner for the third time.

“Is that the one that you banged on the clothing rack, or, ahem…”

Angel’s face heats. It was Tae. Rough Tae, as per usual.

Rei rolls her eyes. “Alright, we know you’re getting it good. No need to shove it in our faces.”

“You know who I wouldn’t mind shoving something in my face?” Lisa pipes in. She’s one of the newer dancers that joined the US leg.

“Who?” You ask, curious.

“Yoongi. Fuck. He looks so daddy these days. Literally need that.”

Rei shoves a protein bar into your hand, with a stern look to match. “Eat.”

You do, because if you don’t you might say something you’ll regret.

Since that late night hallway encounter several stops ago, you and Namjoon have somehow made hanging out into a thing. It just happens seamlessly. Over meals, passing conversations end up lasting longer than expected. 

Off-handedly, he confides in you that he struggles to sleep. You piece together the rest on your own. Military life has altered his mental state in ways he is still struggling to undo and it’s been tough, but at least he’s a work in progress. 

As far as you know, he’s the only member who doesn’t really… distract himself the way the others do on tour. Nobody waiting for a quick one backstage, no regular to help release all that adrenaline after long shows.

So instead, he watches dramas. It’s funny, really. But you guess, it works for him. He really likes those cheesy lovey dovey ones or those about heartache. Tells you it’s the closest he can feel something real and he lets them play until he passes out.

He invites you to join him sometimes.

At first, you’re suspicious. You wouldn’t have blamed him (or minded, to be honest) if there were other intentions. Everyone has needs, after all. And honestly, you would have been flattered to be considered by a catch like him. But after the third or fourth time of bingeing on drama and food, it becomes clear that he doesn’t want you like that. And you have to admit—he’s a fun time. So it’s cool.

When you hang out, he tells you about the books he’s reading, summarizing them in a way that makes you want to pick them up yourself. You tell him about choreography ideas, about how certain movements sit in your body, about how you think music should look when it’s danced.

“You think in shapes,” he says once, mimicking the way your hands move as you explain.

“You think in paragraphs,” you shoot back.

He laughs at that, dimples deep, eyes soft. “True.”

“Long-ass paragraphs, actually. Mr. Yapper.”

Sometimes, when the days feel too long and the nights stretch a little too quiet, you find yourself standing outside his door without really remembering how you got there.

No matter, Namjoon always lets you in.

⊙⊝⊜ Las Vegas, NV, May 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

One night, you get a message from Hobi inviting you for drinks. You haven’t hung out with him in a while, so it was a no-brainer when you said yes. You don’t go out every night at every tour stop, but you made an exception this time.

You put on something cute. Not to impress Hobi particularly, but because you know he always dresses well, and you will not be caught dead looking shabby beside him. Lips a little glossy and cheeks a little rosy, you make your way to the hotel bar, heels clicking against the marble. 

But instead of Hobi, you find someone else instead.

“Hey.”

“You stalkin’ me?” Yoongi smirks at his lowball.

“Yup, this is exactly what this is. Call Mr. Lee,” You deadpan, sitting on the bar stool beside him. “Where’s Hob-ah?”

He shrugs. “Not his keeper.”

“Is there another hotel bar?” You ask the bartender who was polishing off a wine glass.

“Yes, miss. There's another on the 31st.”

Realizing you might’ve gotten the venue wrong, you grab your clutch and start to slide off the stool. “I guess I’ll—”

“Stay.” 

He says it so quietly, almost like he was hoping you don’t hear it.

You pause.

When you look at him, he’s not even looking at you—just staring into his drink like there’s something at the bottom of it worth pondering. You know you should leave, but you don’t.

“You look… a little worse for wear,” you say as you settle back into your seat.

“You can say I look like shit.”

You glance at him, then nod once. “Okay. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

A beat.

“Everything okay?”

He shrugs. Noncommittal. Dismissive. Yoongi core.

You signal the bartender for a drink, letting the noise of the bar fill the space between you for a while as you wait for your cocktail.

It’s him who breaks first.

He slides a bowl of roasted edamame toward you, like a peace offering he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“I dunno,” he mutters, more to the glass than to you.

You wait.

He exhales, long and slow, the amber liquid in his glass rippling with the movement.

“I keep listening to the album and it all just…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Trash.”

You blink, shock evident in your face. “What do you mean?”

“Like I should’ve done it differently.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Every track. Every arrangement. Feels like I missed out on changing something obvious.”

“That’s just—”

“I know,” he cuts in, already shaking his head. “I know it’s not real. I know it’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fatigue. Whatever.”

But it doesn’t sound like he believes that.

“I can’t turn it off,” he adds, quieter now. “Even when I see how fans enjoy the songs, the doubt just eats at me.”

There’s something raw in that. Something he doesn’t usually let slip. You watch him for a second, really look at him. And it pulls something up from the back of your mind:

Hannam-dong.

A random weeknight. You’d gone out alone, too proud to call anyone after your ex ended things over something stupid that somehow still shattered you. You were busy ugly-crying over your gin until someone slid into the seat beside you.

Him. Yoongi.

“What are you doing here, Yoongi?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You looked like you needed someone.”

“You heard me crying from across the room?”

“It was a bit loud, yeah.”

Your face crumples again and you let out a broken sound, covering your eyes. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing…”

“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, even. “No one’s looking.”

You sniff again. “I look disgusting.”

“You look like you’re crying.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you.

You let out a weak huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob, before taking it.

He didn’t ask questions or make it a big thing. Just sat there with his black face mask, providing you with the comfort of company. He let you talk when you wanted. Let you cry when you couldn’t stop. 

At some point, you’d leaned into him without thinking, and he’d just let you. Steady. Warm. He rubbed your back as you wrapped your arms around in his slight torso, sobbing slightly against his tee.

“Yoongi. Why are men pigs?” you sniff.

“I dunno. I’m a cat.” He shrugs. “...apparently.”

That makes you laugh, all wet and snotty. But it makes all the difference to lighten your mood.

“Look. I don’t know who the guy is. But I know he’s an idiot.”

“He is,” You nod immediately. “… but I am, too.”

A pause, before he chides. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I just…” You trail off lifting your head from his shoulder and looking up at the track lights hanging from the bar. “I just really love love, you know?”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I like the idea of it,” you continue, words coming slower now, more honest. “Falling for someone. Growing with them. Having… I dunno, fuck…” you laugh weakly, shaking your head. “Someone to hold your hand ‘til it’s all sweaty and gross, like… I love that shit.”

It sounds stupid out loud.

“So even if I knew he wasn’t it, I tried to hold on. Because I’m scared of being alone. And I’m scared I won’t find someone who’d want me again.”

Jeez, that was a lot to unpack. You expect him to say something dry. He’s good at that.

No words come.

Instead, his fingers brush against yours where your hand rests on the bartop.

You glance down.

He’s not looking at you. Just placing his palm on the back of yours, before turning it over. And slowly, his hand closes around yours, fingers interlacing between each digit.

You’re staring at your conjoined hands and then his stoic face. He doesn’t look back, but he squeezes your hand tighter as if to say: I’m here. Not forever. But at least you’re not alone for now.

And that was enough. That night, you had someone to hold your hand til it was all sweaty and gross. You swallow, something tight in your chest easing just a little.

He walks you out after, hands still clasped. Makes sure you get into a cab. Waits until the door shuts before stepping back. Your hand feels cold without the feel of his when the car drives off.

But after that… nothing. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. Life got complicated. You don’t know what happened during his enlistment. So now you both just act like it didn’t happen.

If you will be honest, you still think about Hannam-dong sometimes. More than you will ever admit.

You’re reminded of it every time you see that random quote hanging on your foyer.

“The most romantic thing in the world is being understood. It’s even deeper than love.”

Things with Yoongi never really took off. But you will always have Hannam-dong.

Yoongi looks at you now, the same way you looked at him then, a little lost, a little broken, trying to stay strong. So you don’t make it a big thing either. You just reach for an edamame, pop it into your mouth, pull the peel, and shrug lightly as you mash the beans with your teeth.

“Sounds like your brain needs to shut the fuck up for a bit.”

He huffs, something almost like a laugh slipping out. “Yeah,” he mutters. “If only.”

“For what it’s worth, Album of the year, in my opinion.”

Yoongi can’t stop his lips from curling.

Satisfied, you call for the server. “Let’s eat something first. Then we solve your existential crisis.”

He glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’m the best, right?”

He gives you a thumbs up. “Kkaepjjang.”

Ass.

You order food, which comes out quicker than expected, but what you really wanted to do to distract him comes in the form of a mobile game.

“You still play?” you ask, showing the app now loading in your phone.

Face instantly lighting up, he unlocks his phone and presses the same app sitting on the home screen. “One game.”

You grin. “Double Up?”

A small nod.

“Don’t drag me down,” he mutters as the queue pops.

“Tsss,” you shoot back. “I’ll carry.”

He huffs, but there’s no bite to it.

You fall into rhythm without needing to talk much—checking in here and there, nudging each other when it matters, covering where the other slips. Just quiet coordination, the kind that only happens when both people know what they’re doing.

At some point, you lose a round you shouldn’t have. You fumble a turn.

“I got you,” he says, and he does.

By the time the game ends—with a win you barely scrape—you’re both facing each other, knees touching, smiles plastered on your faces.

“Not bad,” you murmur, setting your phone down. “You did well.”

“But I always do well?” he replies.

You push him lightly. “Take a humble W for once.”

“No, cause I can’t remember ever doing poorly…”

“Oh my gooood, I’m tired of you.” You roll your eyes, attempting to swivel away from him, but his knees stop you.

He glances at you, something softer flickering through his expression. You look away first, because what’s with the face? You reach for your drink, swirling what’s left and sip.

“Thanks,” he says, and why are his fingers drumming on your knee? It’s kind of distracting, actually.

“Are you feeling a little better now?” You reply, forcing a neutral expression.

He pauses, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I just got tired of my own head.”

And maybe it’s the fact that you’re sipping the final dredges of your margarita that the next words carelessly tumble out.  “Maybe you just need good head.”

The dining area is still loud around you, but somehow, between you and him, it has become z-z-z. His fingers cease tapping against your skin.

Panicking, you blab. “Just text Gwayoung. Or Haein… I’m sure they’re available. You don’t have to look too far, you know.”

His eyes bear a weight you didn’t anticipate. 

“I’m not,” he says quietly.

And the way he’s looking at you makes it very clear he’s not looking far at all. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t remember deciding to leave or how he even paid. Just the deja vu of how his hand found your wrist and the way you let it. Of how a door opens and then your back is firmly against it.

The next thing you feel is Yoongi’s soft lips sliding against your own. 

His hand drifts up the side of your neck, fingers settling at the base like he’s keeping you right where he wants you, and it does something weird to your breathing—shortens it, stutters it—without needing to press.

The strap of your dress sags against your shoulder, but you make no move to fix it.

Your fingers find his hair instead, threading through the longer strands at the nape. It’s softer than you remember, just enough length to catch between your fingers, and when you tug, he groans against your mouth, the sound going straight to your center.

Total brain fog. 

Your heartbeat, faint but present, is somehow the one that warns you about the risks. Because you’ve been in this situation before with Yoongi. You’ve been vulnerable in Hannam, and in his studio, and in the rehearsal space, and in room 2004. There’s a host of reasons why you should run away.

But it’s only taking one slow, smooth swipe of his tongue against the roof of your mouth for you to run in. 

Your mouths part at the same time, an accidental knock of teeth, before he catches your lower lip between his and sucks softly, almost sweetly.

God. Yoongi makes your head swim.

And all this kissing is making you feel like there’s something more, when there is none. You’d do well to remind yourself of that.

By some miracle you find the strength to pull away.

“Yoongi, if we’re doing this, just…” you place your palm gently against his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t confuse me.”

Yoongi frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I know what this is,” you say, still a little breathless. “And I’m down, but I just… let’s not…”

The words stall out, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto them. You inhale sharply, trying to piece together something that makes sense, something that doesn’t sound as messy as it feels in your head.

Because if you’re being honest—really honest—you’re already in deeper than you should be.

You never quite bounced back from his rejections. It lingers, quieter now, but still there, still tender in places you don’t like to acknowledge. And that’s not something you can tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips are a soft, distracting pink. Not when he’s looking at you like this—like, for once, all of his attention is yours.

So you decide on something, albeit hastily. You shift your weight, looking him dead in the eye. “You can’t kiss me.”

He studies you curiously, too amused for your liking. His eyes are transfixed on your mouth, observing how they’re still shiny from his own spit. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

“No, you can’t do it again. Not anymore.”

If he is confused, he doesn’t let it show. He scratches his nape. “Just your mouth, right? Anywhere else is fair game?”

His eyes dip, trailing your body like he’s already mentally undressing you. You feel heat building beneath your skin.

“Yes.”

“Sweet.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, dragging lightly across your lower lip to wipe away the trail he left behind. Then he turns, moving further into his hotel room, dropping the keycard into an empty fruit bowl. “Anything else?”

You follow him in, dragging your feet on the plush carpet, still deep in thought.

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your tone even. “Don’t make me sign an NDA.”

“No need, your current NDA’s already airtight.”

That—

You blink, thrown for half a second. The reminder lands colder than you expected, like a bucket of reality dumped over something that was just starting to feel… not real.

“Right.” You nod slowly, arms tightening across your chest. “Way to make a girl feel special, Yoongi.”

“Legal contracts don’t turn you on?” Yoongi drops to the couch.

“Not particularly. My dad’s a lawyer.”

He makes a face.

You snort. “What? Talking about my old hairy lawyer dad doesn’t turn you on?”

“Pass.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again.

He watches you when you do, like he’s taking note of something. Almost like he’s fascinated with you.

Then his head tilts slightly, a small gesture, almost nothing. “C’mere.”

You hesitate for half a second, but step forward anyway, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, standing between his parted legs as he looks up at you.

His hand finds your wrist first, then your waist, guiding you down like it’s nothing. You end up on his lap, breath catching just a little as his hand slides under your dress, resting on your upper thigh.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your face, slower this time. “What does?”

The question sinks somewhere low, coiling tight, as he squeezes your soft flesh, so close to where you need him.

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already leaning in.

His lips brush your collarbone first, not really doing anything but press his mouth against your skin. It’s almost absent-minded, the way he does it, like he can ask a question and distract you at the same time.

You inhale sharply.

His mouth drifts lower, grazing the hollow between your chest, and your thoughts start slipping, unraveling faster than you can catch them.

“Yoongi…”

He hums against your skin, like he heard you, but doesn’t want to stop. Frankly you don’t want him to when you feel his lips latch on the top of your breast and your brain goes foggy, words dissolving before they can form.

And that’s exactly why you…

“Wait.” You feel the solidness of him under your palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, as you lean back.

He stills, mouth swollen.

“Mm?” he hums, lifting his head but not moving far, like he’s willing to wait—but only just.

“Don’t you have your own rules?”

There’s a brief flicker of something, before his expression smooths back out.

He blinks once and huffs. “Don’t leave me on read.”

You almost react. Almost say something about that night, about the message that never sent, about the door you stood in front of, and the sounds that destroyed you before his friend picked up the pieces of you that shattered in front of room 2004.

But you swallow it down. He doesn’t need to know.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

You study him for a second longer, like you’re trying to find something deeper and coming up short.

“Okay.”

A beat.

It’s decided.

“So,” he says, voice lower, like it’s already done. “Are we gonna do this, or—”

“Fuck me, Yoongi.”

His mouth curves, just slightly one corner. “Gladly.”

Part 2

A/N: .....hi? :)

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With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.

This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.

If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.

You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.

As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.

As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.

Good thing you don’t have one.

Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.

The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?

You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.

From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.

The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.

Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.

El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.

“What is this place?”

You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.

Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.

It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.

And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.

You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.

“It looks like a nightmare.”

El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.

“I’ve been to worse.”

For once, you don’t question her.

El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.

Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.

The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.

You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.

That doesn’t sit right.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.

Whatever is about to happen in that ring—

You’re not sure you want to see it.

But the crowd isn’t leaving.

And neither are you.

Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.

He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.

“Here.”

Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.

You glance toward the ring again.

Up close, it’s worse.

The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.

Your stomach tightens.

Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”

He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.

“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”

You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.

“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”

El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.

Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”

You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”

“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.

Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.

For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—

And then the music cuts.

Just like that.

A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.

“Alright, alright—eyes up!”

You look toward the ring.

The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.

He has that same look, too.

Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

But here—here, he owns the room.

“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”

A laugh almost slips out of you.

It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.

Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The reaction is instant.

The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.

You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.

The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.

“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”

The name hits, and the crowd roars again.

A man steps into the ring.

He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.

It probably does.

“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.

Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.

“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.

But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.

“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.

“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”

For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.

And then—

The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.

The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.

And then he steps in.

JK.

The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.

On his opponent.

He moves like he already knows how this ends.

Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.

His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.

Like he already feels it.

Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.

You hate to admit it.

But—yeah. He’s hot.

And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.

You glance at El, and—

Right. Of course.

She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”

You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.

Still…

Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.

Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.

And somehow, Mario brought you here.

Of all places.

Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.

Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.

Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.

You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”

He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.

“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”

El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.

“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.

Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.

The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.

You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.

For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.

Taunting him.

The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.

The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.

Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.

Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—

it’s hooked.

The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.

Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.

The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.

JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.

Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.

“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”

You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.

Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.

Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.

A cold thought settles in as you watch.

You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.

Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.

You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.

The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.

The restroom is worse.

One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.

You look… composed.

More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.

You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.

You don’t want to be here.

But you also don’t want to be left out.

The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.

It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.

You’re halfway down when it happens.

You nearly stop in your tracks.

He’s there.

The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.

And behind him—

The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.

Your attention snaps forward again.

Because coming straight toward you—

JK.

He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.

For a second, you freeze.

Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Like if you hadn’t moved—

He would’ve walked straight through you.

Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.

“El—?”

She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.

“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”

You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”

El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”

You frown immediately.

Of course he did.

You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.

Great.

You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.

Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.

Or someone could’ve—

You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.

Because you can feel it now.

The looks.

They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.

You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.

“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”

El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”

Yeah. No arguing with that.

You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”

She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.

You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.

Still—

You really hope no one tries to talk to you.

You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.

Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.

“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.

The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.

The reaction is immediate.

Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.

You feel your stomach turn.

Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.

You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.

That thought alone makes your skin crawl.

Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.

And for a split second, you see inside.

It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.

Mario.

Standing there like he belongs.

Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.

But the shock doesn’t stop there.

Because sitting in one of the chairs—

JK.

Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.

The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.

Of course it is.

Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.

Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.

Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.

You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.

Mario. In there. With him.

“El?”

She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”

You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”

El freezes. “What?”

“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”

El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”

You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”

She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”

You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.

Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.

The reaction is immediate.

Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.

Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Your gaze shifts past him.

JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.

“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.

El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.

You don’t react to her.

Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”

He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.

The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.

The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.

He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.

Maybe he has.

“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”

“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Your patience is gone.

Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.

JK stands.

The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.

“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.

It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.

He doesn’t look at anyone again.

Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.

Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.

Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”

He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.

It’s not an offer.

It’s an order.

You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.

You turn on him immediately.

“What the actual fuck, Mario?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”

“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.

You do. Of course you do.

El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.

That’s enough.

You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.

“Speak,” you demand.

He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.

“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.

Alarms go off in your head.

You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.

The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.

By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.

It follows you all the way into his apartment.

The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.

Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.

Anything to stall.

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.

Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.

You just look at him.

He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”

You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”

He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”

You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”

He doesn’t argue.

So you keep going.

“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”

The words hang heavy between you.

Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”

That lands badly.

Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.

You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.

“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.

Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”

You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.

Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”

Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”

He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”

“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”

Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”

Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”

“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”

You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”

Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”

You don’t respond to that. Not really.

Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”

You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”

El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.

“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.

She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”

You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”

“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.

“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.

The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.

It should feel normal.

Familiar.

But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.

The ring. The blood. The crowd.

And him.

Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.

Life moves on.

Or at least, it pretends to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in.

A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory.

Something that happened.

Something you don’t talk about.

Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.

Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.

And apparently, he does.

Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.

Just not always honest.

Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.

It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.

El, though, seems off.

At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.

You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”

She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”

“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”

“I’m just waiting for a message.”

“From who?”

She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”

You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.

Something’s not right.

By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.

Then she checks it again.

You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”

She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”

“I know where Mario is.”

You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”

She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”

“El.”

“Okay—he went back there.”

You frown. “Back where?”

Her voice lowers. “The ring.”

You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.

“What do you mean, the ring?”

“He’s there. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.

“Unbelievable.”

El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”

You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”

She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”

You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”

“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”

You cross your arms. “And?”

“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”

You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.

“What was he even doing there?” you ask.

El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”

Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.

“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”

That lands.

Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.

But that place?

That’s not most situations.

He’s still your friend.

And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.

El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer.

“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”

Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”

You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.

El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

You had hoped you’d never go back.

But just like that—that hope is gone.

You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.

“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.

You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”

Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”

You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.

The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.

“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.

She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.

“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”

The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.

“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.

You ignore it.

“First time in the ring—”

Still moving.

“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”

You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.

“—challenging JK himself—”

The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.

“And let’s hear it for—”

You don’t slow down.

“Maaaario.”

El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.

Then it hits.

Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.

Neither of you says anything.

Because you both heard it.

And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.

It feels like a problem.

The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.

You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.

El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.

And what you see makes your breath catch.

Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.

JK is circling him.

Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.

Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?

You don’t know.

“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.

“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”

There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.

He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.

Then he strikes.

It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.

The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.

One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.

You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.

“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”

El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?

Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.

People cheer.

The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.

JK notices.

It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.

For a second, everything feels still.

Then he moves.

He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.

JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.

And then he smirks.

Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—

Before slamming it back down against the ground.

The sound is sickening.

It cuts through everything.

Mario goes limp.

And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.

The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.

You force yourself to move.

Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.

You follow them.

They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.

“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”

“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”

“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”

They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.

“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.

You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.

The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.

They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.

You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.

The door opens again.

A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.

“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.

“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.

The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”

Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.

The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

You can’t stand still.

You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.

The way Mario just… stopped.

Your jaw tightens.

Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”

“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”

That gets his attention.

He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”

You don’t care.

You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.

Your anger is already too far gone.

“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.

The room stills for a second.

“Who?” one of the men asks.

You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”

They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.

You don’t answer that.

You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”

She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”

But you’re already moving.

You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.

You’re too angry to think.

You reach the door and push it open hard.

Empty.

The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.

“Where the hell—”

The door opens behind you.

You turn immediately.

JK stands there.

He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.

Like nothing matters.

He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

That’s what sets you off.

Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”

He barely moves.

Not even a step back.

Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.

“You done?” he asks.

The words hit harder than they should.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.

“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.

This time, he catches your wrist.

Effortlessly.

His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.

“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”

“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.

For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.

Then he lets go.

Abruptly.

You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”

The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.

“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.

“Out,” he says.

You don’t move.

You don’t even consider it.

“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.

That only makes it worse.

You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”

His hand moves before you can react.

Fast.

Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.

“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.

“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The shift is instant.

You’re not in control anymore.

Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.

He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.

“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”

His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.

Your pulse spikes despite yourself.

“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”

There’s a beat.

Short.

Deliberate.

Then—

“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.

No hesitation. No explanation.

Just fact.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.

“And a fight you can’t win.”

He lets go of you.

The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.

“Leave,” he says.

Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.

You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—

The door swings open.

A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.

The air changes.

“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.

“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.

You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”

That gets a reaction.

Not from her.

From him.

It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.

Provocative.

The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”

You don’t move.

Not an inch.

“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”

Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.

The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.

Not the fight.

Him.

You almost snort at the realization.

She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”

Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.

He doesn’t even look at her.

“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.

The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.

If anything, she leans into it.

She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.

Oh.

There it is.

She sees you as a problem.

A threat.

The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.

Actually grin.

You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them. 

Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.

JK finally looks at her.

Not interested. Not even tempted.

“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.

It’s enough.

Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles for a beat.

Then his attention shifts.

Back to you.

And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.

Just irritation.

“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.

You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”

He doesn’t respond.

That only makes it worse.

“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”

Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.

“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”

His expression barely shifts.

If anything, it hardens.

He doesn’t react the way you expect.

No apology. No defense.

Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.

“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”

You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.

You’re about to throw it straight back at him—

But he speaks again.

“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”

There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.

Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”

Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.

Before you can react—

He moves.

It’s quick. Too quick.

His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.

You freeze.

Not because you want to.

Because you didn’t expect it.

He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.

“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”

His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”

And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.

The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.

You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.

Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.

Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.

Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.

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Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Your head felt heavy and foggy. Emerging from the depths of unconsciousness, you didn't know where you were.

« Who are you? » A voice. You couldn't tell right away where, who, or what it came from. It sounded computer-like. You turned your head and saw a form, shiny, metallic. You couldn’t see more, eyes still blurry, brain banging inside your skull. But your annoyance with the question was very real.

« What? Who are you? »

The voice didn’t answer. But you could make more of the shape. A human form, an armor, the voice masculine, filtered by a modulator, a helmet. A Mandalorian. Shit. You were in trouble.

« How do you know my name? » His next question stopped your train of thought. You frowned. The pounding in your head grew louder, more painful.

« I didn’t… I don’t know your name, I don’t know who you are. » Silence again. Now that your eyes had adapted to the semi-darkness, you could make out his stature, the way he leaned on a wall. A head tilt, questioning. Not a chatty person. Taking in more of your environment, you realized you were lying down, head propped, on what looked like a makeshift bed, you couldn't make more of the place you were in.

« Where am I?» You tried not to show your fear, but you could feel it bleed out in the quiver of your voice.

« On my ship. You were hurt. »

"What? I need to go…" You tried to get up, to leave, you had to go, but it hurt everywhere. Head spinning, the blood drained from your upper body, and darkness surrounded you. Before you succumbed to it, you heard the voice "Don't get up, you're badly…"

And then nothing.

The next time you woke up, it was harsh. Light blinding, noise banging in your head. A cool hand on your arm, a sting and blackness, again.

The rest was a blur. In a state of barely consciousness, you felt like you were gliding through time. Awake, the surroundings changing. Asleep, dreaming, or drifting. 

Another time, you woke to the sound of voices, muffled, modulated. Room in the darkness and hushed tones further away.

"She's been through a lot, those injuries..." 

"How long..." 

"I can take her to the medcenter..." 

"No, that's not what I'm asking, she can stay here..." And you drifted back into oblivion.

And then you were awake. It was sudden, you felt doozy, but conscious. Eyes closed, you listened to your surroundings, trying to gather your thoughts. You opened your eyes, but it hurt, so you closed them again. You let your mind scan your body. It was whole, every limb was accounted for, and apart from the headache, nothing else hurt. Softness surrounded you, fluffy mattress and soft sheets around your body.

Then a sound, like little feet pounding on the ground, a thump like something small jumped on the bed you were sleeping in. An animal? But the small voice that cooed sounded more like a child. It was shuffling closer to you. You opened your eyes again, tentatively, and glimpsed a small form, green, with large ears and brown eyes, that bore into you, curious and worried. You couldn't help the smile on your face. 

"Hey, little one, who are you?" 

A sigh and a modulated voice came from further away.

"Grogu, let her rest."

You turned your head to the voice. The Mandalorian, the one from before, was standing at the doorway, and the little one, Grogu, apparently, babbled excitedly, something you didn't understand, arms extended toward the man. He walked in and picked up the small creature that instantly snuggled into the arms holding him. You had so many questions just from this small interaction, but first, you needed to know where you were. Before you could ask, the armored man spoke.

"You are in my house, on Nevarro. You refused to go to a medcenter; you were very adamant about that. Do you remember ?" You shook your head, the motion bringing a soreness in your head, and you knew your face showed it because he sighed and added, "You need to rest. Don't worry about anything, you're safe". You wanted to talk more, ask all those questions that were bustling in your brain, but exhaustion overcame you, and you felt your eyes shut, the warmth of the bed and the weariness of your body letting sleep overtake you.

The room was quiet, the house dark. You felt the need to use the 'fresher all of a sudden. A quick mental check of your body told you all your bones were healed, and nothing, not even your head hurt. You slowly sat up, one tentative foot after the other on the ground. Everything seemed to work. You were kept in that cell so long, bones barely mended that it was like a new sensation, not to hurt, no pain, just weariness of the body. Standing up and one small step after the other, you managed to get out of the room. You felt slightly weak but not too much. You were probably fed and changed during your stay. You imagined you had slept for at least a few days.

"You shouldn't be up." The voice startled you, and you almost fell, but two hands gripped you tightly, without hurting you, keeping you upright.

"I need to use the 'fresher." Without a word, the Mandalorian guided you to it.

When you were done, he helped you back to bed and brought you some water. No words, just small acts that made you feel safe. You should be wary, you knew Mandolarians, you'd been around them enough to know how deadly they could be. Especially his type, if your suspicions were correct.

"How long have I been here?" 

"Three days. The doctor came twice a day to take care of you. He says you had old injuries that didn't mend right. He took care of it. But you might need more time." This felt like the most you'd heard him speak. The modulation was soothing, something from your past that always brought comfort.

After a beat of silence, he added. "You said my name before you lost consciousness. Do you remember?"

"You mentioned that before. Are you sure? I don't know you, have never seen …" Behind your unfinished sentence lingered a question you didn't voice: "Do you know me?" A shake of his head brought relief. He didn't know you, but you were safe.

Instead of dwelling on the matter, he embarked on another subject.

"When I found you, you were hurt but outside your cell..." His hesitancy made you interrupt him.

"I was running away, your intervention was what I needed to try to escape." 

There was a beat of silence as he was trying to find the right question to ask.

"How long were you held captive?" 

"When are we?" At his answer, you did a quick calculation." About 8 months." 

"Why were you captive?" His questions were measured and straight to the point.

"Why? You want to bring me in? You're a bounty hunter, aren't you?" 

"I don't have a quarry on you." That seemed to be enough for him to settle the matter. It wasn't for you, but you knew he would feel less wary of you if he had all the information. At least part of it. You settled into telling him the reason you were captive.

"The person you were here for, he didn't appreciate my thieving skills." 

"You stole from him?" 

"Let's say I took what he had stolen in the first place and gave it back to the people it belonged to. He was enriching himself and stealing the resources of the inhabitants of that planet. I just wanted to help. But got caught after a while." 

At your confession, there was a slight pause. The Mandalorian didn't give much, you couldn't see his face, and his posture was calculated to give little tell. But you'd been enough of his kind to know he was hesitating and about to ask another question, a difficult one.

"Did he... did he hurt you in other ways than what the doctor saw?" You understood what he meant.

"No. No, just light torture here and there. It happened less recently, he forgot about me. I was entertainment when he had receptions." 

You could tell he wanted to ask what type of entertainment, but you were happy he didn't press further. You didn't feel ready to talk about it now.

He stayed quiet, his helmet tilted toward you, his gaze searching even through the beskar. You didn't speak, studying his countenance. 

You had so many questions. What were you going to do? When should you leave? Where would you go? It started to feel overwhelming, yet his steady presence grounded you. You only voiced one question, one you didn't even have to finish.

"Did you bring him...?" 

"I brought him cold." The finality of his statement took away the weight you still had on your chest.

"Good." 

As if satisfied by this, his search over, he started to leave you, but just before he added, "You can stay as long as you need." 

"I don't want to impose." Your protest was barely out.

"You are not. Besides, Grogu likes you. We can talk more in the morning." 

And with this, he left, and you surrendered to slumber.

The next few days passed in a daze. You felt yourself heal slowly. Heal from your past injuries, but also from the running around of the past years. You rarely settled anywhere for more than a couple of years. And while young, it was exciting, growing older, it got tiring. You knew you couldn't stay here, that eventually you would have to leave and start the cycle of moving again. But this forced rest helped you recharge. Mando, as he asked you to call him, never pressured you to leave. He inquired after your health in a way that showed it wasn't urgent but caring, going about his daily business around you as if it always were like this.

Your routine evolved, from getting out of bed only a few minutes at a time, long stretches of sleep in between, to staying up for hours, walking outside, and playing with Grogu.

Those quiet moments brought you too much joy and comfort. A sense of ease and belonging you shouldn't feel.

And so you settled comfortably. Way too comfortably in the presence of a Mandalorian, you knew his kind, the faceless and nameless Mandalorians, and of their creed. You should have been guarded. But instead, you felt safe. And you slipped, giving access to parts of yourself you didn't want to. Apart from jobs you did, your approximate age, and the name you gave yourself when your new life began almost two decades ago, you started giving more. Things from your past that you didn't want anyone to know, places you'd seen, people you met, and a small knowledge of his culture.

You felt his caution slip, day after day. As welcoming as he was, he always seemed guarded in the first few days. Never bringing back the fact that you apparently called him by his real name on your first encounter, something you didn't remember and barely believed. Studying you as you moved around, trying to understand you, deciphering your every move and word.

But eventually trusting you with, you soon realized was like his son, a quick explanation giving little details of you, they became a clan, one you didn't need, being very well aware of the necessity of foundlings in the Mandalorian culture, one of your first blunders. One he noticed but let pass, probably storing it somewhere in his brain for later.

And then it was trusting you with himself. Shedding some pieces of his armor, being more at ease in his own house, walking around in his flight suit and helmet. You even notice his gloves off more and more. Which sometimes meant you could graze his skin when you passed objects, Grogu's toys, a glass of water, a mug of caf. Light touch that brought tingle and warmth.

And as you got better and better, as you were able to stay up longer, you both evolved to spending evenings together, quiet moments of reflection and discussion, ones that seem like old friends when you forgot that none of you actually talked about your past, of certain parts of your situation. But you managed to talk about parts of the galaxy, as you are both very well-traveled, about Grogu, about your days.

And you learned to respect him, and, if you were honest, even admire him. His devotion to his son, to his tribe, creed, even if he didn't talk about it much. It was something you always respected and admired. But his steadiness, his skills and unaffected intelligence, his quiet presence, all of it turned your admiration to something more. Something that made you feel warm in his presence. Something you hoped would stop once you leave.

So you started talking about finding a job, here or elsewhere, Mando telling you he could talk around if you wanted to stay, and you accepted, startled to realize you wanted to put roots here.

One day, as you were playing with Grogu, about a month after your arrived, letting a ball roll between the two of you, him catching it, squealing with delight and tossing it back at you, with a precision you fond uncanny for a child his age (even if he was over 50, you still couldn't wrap your head around that fact). The game was starting to tire out Grogu, who showed signs of boredom and started looking for something else to play with. As you were getting up, you absentmindedly talked to him, never sure he understood, but his eyes, always expressive, showed signs he might, so you continued.

" Grogu, when do you think you're Buir is coming back?" 

"What did you say?" Mando was standing by the door to the living quarters, his stature looming over you, still like a statue. You could feel how dangerous he was. Not that you didn't know it, but you sometimes forgot.

"Kriff, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in." You were stalling, you knew it, and he knew it.

"That word, how did you know it?" His tone was not menacing, but not kind either.

"I've traveled, you are not the first Mandalorian I've met." You tried to look innocent and added, "although I haven't seen a Children of the Watch in a long time." That was a mistake you realized as soon as it left your mouth, still tired or too comfortable with him. He came closer, wide and menacing. Your brain screamed danger.

"How do...?" 

"I told you. I traveled." You brushed it off and quickly turned to Grogu, who had been watching the exchange with some worry, busying yourself with putting toys away and talking about dinner.

You could feel Mando watching you, searching, trying to see the truth and lies. But eventually his countenance changed to slightly more relaxed.

"Greef Karga, the magistrate, mentioned there might be some work for you. If you still want to stay. You don't have to leave right away, but..." Again, you interrupted him.

"That's fine, I'm feeling much better, might as well get a job and find a place to live." You knew you needed to go. Too many mistakes were made, and you are feeling attached too much. To Grogu, yes, but also to Mando, if you stopped lying to yourself.

He looked at you like he wanted to say something. But instead, you heard a sigh, frustration, or regret, it was hard to tell.

The next day, walking to the city for the first time, you listened to Mando as he showed you around, taking in the streets, the market, and the people surrounding you. You felt good here, at peace, in this growing community, rebuilding itself from past wounds, a little like yourself.

That's what you got from your exchange with Greef Karga, explaining with grandiloquence the past this planet lived through and the ideas he had for the future. You could envision it, he made compelling arguments. You knew the type, you knew that he was the king to embellish things, just so you would agree with him. But he seemed sincere, and you wanted to believe him. And if Mando brought you to him, you would trust him. Your decision was made on the spot. You would take the job, and you would move into the unit he was offering. You would stay for the community, for what it had to offer, for a glimpse of ease and a sense of belonging you felt. Not for a silent Mandalorian and his child.

That was a lie, but you didn't want to acknowledge it yet.

Life in Nevarro was exactly as you expected it. Quiet, yet bustling, easy, yet interesting. You settled in your small but cozy unit, decorating it, sensing your desire to settle for a bit. Your job was challenging and kept you busy. People were welcoming, and after a month, you realized you actually liked your life here. That, without really deciding it, your thoughts of leaving the planet were slowly being pushed to the background, and you were making plans for the next day, next week, next month. You were staying.

You thought you wouldn't see Mando and Grogu much, no real need for it. While you had stayed at their place, they hadn't been much into the city, their life was further out.

But eventually your path did merge. In town, in the market, at Karga's, more and more. Small talks, longing looks. Walking around the city is comfortable and easy. You hated it because every time your eyes would see a reflection akin to the sun on beskar, your heart skipped a bit. And when it was actually him, you would feel the butterflies in your stomach. And every time, Mando would come to you, walking a small distance together, Grogu stretching his arms so that you would pick him up for a cuddle for the duration of your walk. Walks that got longer and longer.

And then, before you knew it, they were both fully back in your life.

It started with helping out with Grogu, picking him up from school when Mando was late from whatever job he was doing, apparently helping the Marshall. You loved doing it, helping, and spending time with the child. You felt so thankful for the trust Mando gave you. Trusting with his son, but also, you felt it, trusting in you, even with your secrets, like he had decided that whatever your past and knowledge of Mandalorians were, he accepted it and wouldn't push.

And each time, the moments you spent at his place stretched longer. From just waiting until he got home, to staying a bit, to actually having dinner together, that is you and Grogu with Mando at your table, but eating later. Until one night you stayed over because it was late, and he insisted you didn't walk back home. And then you were staying the night more often because you watched on Grogu while Mando was off-world.

It was so easy, you were surprised. It shouldn't be, it always was easy. It was as if you had always been here, part of their little family. And every time you came back to your unit, you felt lonely. This was bad because you were getting attached. You could feel it. And you were afraid Mando was too. It was not something that should have happened.

One night, it slipped into the conversation, this something growing between you. Both of you on the couch talking, Mando in his flight suit and helmet, gloves off, Grogu put to bed, you needing to leave but staying. Talking about work, yours and his, and like a confession, it pours out of his mouth, the word "mesh'la" (beautiful).

The silence that ensued, his from the realization of what he said, yours from the understanding, heat creeping up your neck, it puts weight on the word. And he notices your reaction, of course, he does. The question that comes out of him flusters you even more.

"Have you been. ..?" He stopped, the end of the sentence settling on his tongue but never spilled.

"What?"

"With a Mandalorian… you know so many words."

You pondered your answer. "No. Never."

It was time to go back home.

You woke up suddenly, groggy from sleep as a dream slipped away through your consciousness. Warm hands touching you, cold metal under your own, voice deep and metal-like murmuring in your ear, "Would you look at that," as his lips unraveled you, a feat only possible in the daze of unconsciousness, face masked and unmasked at the same time. You felt the need inside your body, slick and deep. The vision was slowly going away, and you tried to catch it, willing yourself to fall back to sleep, to fall back in those beskar arms that you've wished to feel for so long. You knew it was not possible, even if you felt that sometimes the unnamed feeling was reciprocated, even if you felt his gaze and persistent touches. But how could it be with the secrets that surrounded both of you? Dreams were the only moments where you let yourself feel it, where you let the heat of your desire overtake you. Those dreams that grew more intense whenever you stayed in his house, reminiscing on those first days, weeks, when you observed him in quiet and learned to admire and respect him, before you learned to love him. The scent and feeling were overpowering in this house, your dreams always more intense, like this one you tried desperately to fall back into, cursing whatever woke you up, until you heard it again. A sound, something falling, or banging, it was hard to tell. You jolted awake, a million thoughts running in your head. The more logical, Grogu was awake and full of mischief, the more anxious one, someone had broken into the house. You pushed the fear aside and got up, tiptoeing to the sound, trying to understand what it was.

Walking quietly, you heard heavy breathing as you rounded to the 'fresher and were faced with a sight you didn't expect. Skin. Bronze skin displayed, a naked back, muscle and softness, tan and bruises bent over the sink. You let out a gasp before closing your eyes, before the head turned to you, hiding behind a wall.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see anything! I didn't see your face! I swear, Mando. I'm so sorry," you were pleading, hoping he believed you, because you didn't see anything, just glorious skin that made your own tingle, food for thought, but not his face. Part relief and disappointment, something you pushed aside.

"It's OK, I believe you." The voice was modulated, the helmet back on.

You opened your eyes and peeked inside the 'fresher. He was standing by the sink, armor off, the top of the flight suit pushed back, leaving his upper body naked. You couldn't help but rake your eyes over his body until you noticed more bruises and a wound on his side, gushing and deep.

"Mando! You're hurt!" You rushed to his side, hands ready to help, when you stopped, not wanting to cross another boundary.

"Do you need help?"

The helmet was on you, and you sensed his gaze, searching you, overwhelming as tension settled around you. Then a sigh. "Yes"

Rummaging through the medpac, you got what you needed, pushing Mando to sit on the side of the bath so you could help him better, allowing better access to his body. A wet towel in your hand, you lightly washed the wound. As delicately as you tried, you heard the pain he felt, a whimper, almost like a moan, coming out modulating. A sound that had you flustered, rubbing your legs together, need encompassing you. It was only now that you realized how you were dressed, only a long shirt covering your body to your thighs, both in a state of undress you had never been in each other's presence. The breath you drew as a reaction brought Mando's gaze to you.

In the midst of this realization, it was as if all pretense had fallen. After applying the bacta patch on his wound, you picked up the towel and continued to clean his body, even if there was no real need, except to bring comfort with a cool cloth. Soothing the bruises sustained even through the armor. It must have been a mighty opponent. And hearing his breath heavier and heavier, your own, echoing. Caressing his strong arms, his shoulders, settling on his torso. His hands gripped your hips, and his voice sounded like a warning.

« Cyar'ika. »

You breath hitched at the word, and Mando pulled slightly away, head tilted to study your eyes.

You felt his gaze piercing you as his hands on your hip started to stroke you. Hands without gloves. A rare occurrence, the brush of his fingers on you. When you were hurt, once or twice, as you were healing in the comfort of his home, fingers brushing when he handed you something. And now soft fingers gently circling over your shirt.

« You understood that word, didn’t you? »

You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, imagining brown eyes. On instinct.

“Tion’cuy gar?” (Who are you?)

You didn’t answer, just shook your head, not because you didn't understand, but because you couldn't answer, not now. The silence was charged with more than questions, and your hands, now on his shoulder, continue their caress, light strokes on his body. Towel forgotten, so you could feel his skin under your own. You were so close, closer than you ever had been. His fingers boldly went under your shirt, making your breath catch. A slight whimper that made him pull it up slightly, discovering parts of yourself. Skin for skin. A dip of your head and your lips connected with his shoulder, a slight touch, barely a kiss. You wanted to lick his skin, taste the salt on him. Your eyes were drawn to his back, catching something you hadn’t seen earlier, when you caught a glimpse of him. A mark on his shoulder blade, an exploding star, faded and distorted by time and age, but one you knew so well.

And as you realized this, you felt Din's hands freeze on your body, a shock sound coming from his mouth as he surely recognized your own mark, one that looked like a shooting star, on your hipbone. The one you used to joke was a mirror of his, yours before the crash, his after. In a time when helmets and armor weren’t yet put on, they weren’t deserved or won. Before the creed. Before you left.

And both your names echoed in the other's mouth as you push out of each other's arms. 

The daze of the moment is gone, but there is horror that lies ahead as you run away, run to your room, pulling up clothes, hearing his steps, usually so calm, so silent, now heavy and loud.

Your name, your real name, the old one forgotten when you left, rings out, a whisper, hurt in his voice.

"You were dead."

You stopped, back turned, you didn't want to see his face, even with the helmet, you knew you would feel it, the hurt, the anger.

"I faked it, I ran away."

"Why?" You turned. His voice was cold, mean, you couldn't bear it.

"I couldn't… I couldn't swear to the creed, so I left." There were no words, there was nothing but a helmet, voiceless, a mask in front of you. You have lost him, you knew it, lost the connection, lost the sense of belonging to this small family. You felt the tears and closed your eyes, willing them to go away. When you opened them, he was gone.

The steps that brought you home, the way back, were blurred in your mind from the overwhelming thoughts and blurred in your vision from the tears, the one falling freely.

It was over.

As you went through the motion of your life the next couple of days, waking, working, eating, poorly sleeping, rinse and repeat. Yet you couldn't help but feel a lingering hope. It oscillated with despair as your life moved in front of your eyes, one you barely participated in, lost in that night. If only it were repeated in a loop. If you had talked sooner, maybe he wouldn't be angry? If you had not helped him, touched him, you might still have his presence, you could live with only that. And as you lost yourself, you thought about what was next, but were unwilling to decide until you saw him again, and hoped that after thinking, he might forgive you and at least talk to you, if only that.

But that thought was crushed. Walking through the market, you saw him, his figure first, giving you butterflies, seeing him with the child buying food. When the purchase was over, his head turned your way, where you stood frozen, people pushing past you. A second that felt like a century, one of suspended hope and dread, one where you forget to breathe, hear, and see. Until he turned and was gone. The cold you felt was real, shivers and weight, surrounding you as you went back to the sanctuary of your home, where you decided to pack and leave.

Nothing held you back in Nevarro, not anymore.

Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. You could just pick up and leave, but you liked it here, liked the people with whom you worked, and you wanted a chance to say thank you and goodbye. So with a lie ready you announced your departure, giving yourself a couple of days to gather your things and find your next place to go to, studying your datapad, with different planets on your radar, ready to buy a one way ticket to a promising place, green and lush and cold, needing the opposite of Nevarro, the opposite of heat and dry, the opposite of metal and warmth.

The bangs on your unit door startled you. Three knocks, decisive, not giving you any second thoughts. You weren't expecting anyone, but you were definitely not expecting Din, as you opened the door in surprise, and when he pushed past you. Standing inside your small space.

You hadn't seen him this agitated, this restless, since you left the Tribe. Before you stood a reminiscence of a teenage Din, the hot head, full of revolt, subdued by time but never tamed. The one you shared your dreams with, your sorrows, your first kiss. He was angry, he was demanding, but he wasn't speaking.

With your back against the closed door behind you, you waited. And you tried not to let the small hope bloom in your chest as soon as you saw him.

"You are leaving. Again. Running away, without owning to your actions." The accusation, the underlying insult of cowardice, crushed the hope but flared the anger. You might have left long ago, you might have forgotten a lot of your Mandalorian upbringing, but you couldn't stand being called a coward. Even if you had fled, even if you were doing it again. Suddenly, resentment made you push away from the door, stride toward him, stand tall and large, looking at him straight into his eyes behind the helmet.

"Yes, I'm leaving. Why would you care?" Daring him to say anything else, after he had turned away from you.

"We welcomed you, we were your family, the Tribe was there when you needed. You betrayed us."His voice was rising with every word, standing in front of you, menacing and dangerous. Everything that wasn't said but didn't need to, echoed in the silence: leaving without saying goodbye, betraying his trust.

"But you weren't! My family died, and I never felt accepted. YOU never felt accepted either. I remember our talks, I remember what we used to say! I couldn't swear to the creed. I respected it. And I respected your own wish to swear, but I couldn't, because I never felt part of it. So I just left."

"You could have said it! They would have understood!"

"They wouldn't! And maybe leaving like I did was wrong, but I was an angry teenager, and my only ally left me when he swore to the creed. I felt abandoned because you were going away, I felt utterly alone, so I just left."

"You left us! You left me." Finally, the words were out. You could feel his anger abating, so did yours.

"I'm sorry. I truly am. I regretted it as soon as I left, but couldn't look back."

"I missed you. I grieved you." He was so close to you, so close you could hear his breath, the tremor in his voice, the sadness. It made your heart break over again.

"I know. I'm sorry." The tears were back, you didn't want to cry because you were the one who inflicted the hurt, but you couldn't help it. "I missed you, too. So much." Closer even now that you could almost touch. An untouched boundary that needed to be stepped over. One Din crossed when his hands pulled you into him.

"Close your eyes." He breathed it like a plea, desperate.

"Din…" You hesitated, knowing what was about to happen, overwhelmed by the idea, the faith placed in you.

"Do it, Cyar'ika. I trust you."

And so you did. You closed your eyes, the last tears falling from your lashes, down your cheeks, hearing the unmistakable sound of his helmet being taken off and put on the ground. You felt his breath before his touch, then his fingers, lightly brushing the tears away, before you felt his mouth on yours. Lips light, tentative. A second kiss that felt like the first, after so many years. But one that soon felt like home, meant to be, and like no time had flown by, not years, not decades, but merely seconds, as both of you reacquainted yourself with each other. Lips full, tender than demanding, touching, pulling, your teeth grazing his lower lip, a moan coming from so deep inside his throat.

And hands, hands that touched each other, that took off gloves, pieces of armor, and clothes.

In the darkness of your place, shutters closed and drapes blocking light, only shapes that could be seen, you rediscovered his face, under the beskar, his skin under the armor, bodies alight with need and pleasure, shared past and shared breath, to the point of not knowing where you began and ended. Soft cries and gasps and sweet praises murmured in the dark.

Tomorrow, you'd have to reclaim your job, tomorrow, you'd have to think about your future here.

A/N: The sound Din makes when he is hurt is directly inspired by this post and what he murmurs in reader's dream by this one

Read more about Din and his cyare: Stars are Fire

“A moment, Y/N?”

You were not often irritated. It was actually quite hard to get you to a point where it showed on the surface. You know, customer service and all that. 

But there was something about finishing your seven hour shift – that in actuality turned to nine hours – only to have your name called with your jacket halfway over your shoulders.

Your mouth probably quivered in the effort, but you managed to force on a half-smile anyways. “Yeah?”

“Listen, I hate to ask you this, but can you take a shift tomorrow?”

If your manager hated it as much as she claimed, she would have asked anyone but you. Especially knowing how many extra shifts you had picked up lately due to sickness from other employees. More often than not, you cursed your strong immune system. 

Where was a cold when you truly needed it?

“I’m sorry, I’m actually busy tomorrow.” The lie was effortless on your part.

Your manager’s brows furrowed. “No way you can postpone?”

“No sorry. It’s a family birthday, can’t really postpone that, you know.”

You were honestly bone-tired after working the entire week, with all your six hour shifts becoming overtime by several hours and you just needed one damn day of rest. To just bed rot to your heart’s content without worrying. 

Your pride was usually too stubborn, and a few extra bucks in your account each month definitely never hurt, but you were certainly feeling your age right now.

“Oh okay.”

That was it, you supposed, mentally rolling your eyes as your manager turned back around without a goodbye as you watched her walk away with the tight smile still present.

God, you were not paid enough to deal with her attitude. 

“Bitch.” you couldn’t help but mutter to yourself. 

The cold was unforgiving in the beginning of this year, and you had never been much of an ice, snow or even cold weather person to begin with, which added to your already foul mood. 

You had to switch metro lines once, and then take a bus to get to your destination. And the idiot should appreciate your effort after a long shift. Not to mention all the security measures needed for you to get past just to get to his building.

The front door had never looked more inviting as you entered the doorcode and let it close shut behind you with a rhythmic beep. You could hear the sound of talking coming from the living room or kitchen, as well as the sound of the TV somewhere in the background.

“If anybody’s looking for me, it’s your birthday tomorrow!” You called out just before rounding the corner to the kitchen.

Yoongi blinked at you, while Jimin and Taehyung were mid-giggle about something.

“Oh, hey boys,” you added quickly, trying to hide the fatigue in your voice. 

A black little fluff ball weaved out from beneath the dinner table and trotted over to you eagerly as you cooed and bent down to greet him. “Look who it is, hi Tangie.”

The black cat was vocal, meowing at you in greeting and rubbing against your legs until you gently pushed him away to go sit down. 

“Hiyaa noona,” Tae grinned at you, picking up a piece of meat from the grill on the table. 

“Noona, come eat with us!” Jimin stood up to grab an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl of rice as you plopped down on the chair next to Yoongi. 

“What are you talking about?” He drawled to your sudden shoutout while wrapping up his ssam. 

“If my manager is asking, I'm busy with a family birthday tomorrow.”

“And how would your manager know me?”

“It’s a what-if situation, Yoongs. Just go with it.”

He huffed and wordlessly plated your bowl with rice and several pieces of perfectly grilled meat, as Jimin poured you a glass of soju. Always the gentlemen. 

You caught yourself smiling, small and soft, and felt the weariness in your chest ease just a little from their presence.

“Was work tough today, noona?”

“Less tough and more annoying, to be honest.”

“Let’s drink to that!” Tae held out his glass as you two clinked and downed it one shot. 

“What’s with the impromptu dinner?” You asked after a few bites. 

“We were bored,” Jimin shrugged. 

“They didn’t exactly ask to come,” Yoongi clarified in return. “Barged in like an hour ago demanding me to cook.”

“We asked you,” Taehyung corrected. “And came bearing gifts.”

“You mean soju which I already had in my fridge?”

“And now you got double, you’re welcome.”

You only chuckled to yourself at the usual bickering between the boys as they continued to talk about the past, and down alcohol like it was water. 

Maybe it was the weather, or even the significance of a new year beginning. But your mind somehow felt reminiscent. Sitting here in Yoongi’s large home, silently watching as he acted annoyed by his two younger members with that smile on his face. 

And somewhere in the back of your mind, the memories started to drift.

Your parents had been close – were close to this day. Though Yoongi’s family had moved to a newer house in the years that followed whilst your family still remained in the same neighborhood. 

They had dragged you to dinner at the petulant age of ten, promising there was going to be another kid there your age, and someone for you to play with. They just never mentioned it was a boy. And at that age, boys were very much gross to you. And yet, you grew inseparable. 

Yearly summer vacations spent together, sitting on the curb eating ice creams, biking through the streets and waiting for each other after school to walk home together. During your middle school years the two of you would often hang out on the school’s rooftop during breaks, being split into different classes. He was always scribbling away, and you beside him lounging tilting your head curiously now and then. 

“I’m gonna move to Seoul one day,” he often declared. 

“I know.”

“You do?”

“You love music, of course you’ll move.”

He frowned. “Do you think I’ll make it?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. “Because you’re stubborn.”

By the time the two of you turned seventeen he was already active in the underground hip hop scene in Daegu. And you were often used as a scapegoat to distract his parents from his absence rather than being by his side.

“I’m supposed to be cool, Y/N. I can’t have you by my side like a clingy sister every performance,” he had whined while you gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Cool, my butt.”

You had been the one to help him pack the day before his move to Seoul, choosing which clothes were best fit for the fancy big city neither of you had experience living in. 

“Take the black one,” you had ordered.

“But I like the yellow one.”

“It makes you look like a middle schooler, don’t you want to be taken seriously?”

He switched it out without another word. 

His first year in Seoul went by with constant phone calls and texts. You even got scolded by your mother for spending your entire monthly phone credit in just two weeks for constantly calling him. 

And then one day it just stopped.

At first you hadn’t thought much of it. Yoongi was busy, and he often left you on read due to time restraints. But then it got suspicious. To the point even his own mother had received the same treatment. 

‘Are you dead?’

‘Yoongs?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Did I do something?’

‘Hello?’

There were days between each one. And then weeks later, you got a reply;

‘I’m fine.’ 

You called right away, but it went unanswered. 

You couldn’t even remember your feelings back then, it felt too long ago. An emotional turmoil of a teenager that made no sense. And you had no choice but to grow up and continue your own life despite the heartbreak of a friendship lost. 

That’s why it felt strange at first when you stumbled across it; Bangtan Sonyeondan’s debut. 

It was a strange name, with an even stranger concept. But you had recognized him. 

Of course you had. 

And ever since that moment, he had never left your orbit even from a distance. Even when you didn’t want to, you saw it all. From their failed attempts to remain popular, to songs that didn’t make it big yet were still added to your playlist for genuinely being good music. 

It came to a point where you no longer viewed him as your Yoongi. But rather BTS’ Suga, and a part of you was convinced it helped you move on quicker. 

Then COVID hit, and you were forced to move back home to your parents. 

You chalked it up to coincidence at first; running into his mother at the grocery store after how many years? She had grown excited, even teary-eyed and hugged the life out of you as she cooed over how grown you were. A beautiful young woman. 

“You know, I think he’d love to hear from you.”

Your breath had hitched, until you forced out a small, polite laugh. “It’s been years. I doubt he even remembers.”

She had given you a knowing glance, rummaged in her bag and ripped out a small piece of paper and written a number on it. “He’s having a bit of a rough time right now, with everything being cancelled. I think a text from you would cheer him up.”

You felt your chest tighten, memories flooding back. The late-night calls, the unanswered messages, even the reluctant acceptance of distance.

“I’ll think about it, thank you.”

And you thought about it. For days. Staring at that single slip of paper like it was your largest obstacle.

‘Hey. It’s Y/N. From Daegu.’ 

It had only been an hour when the reply came. 

‘I know.’

“Another shot?” Jimin’s voice snapped you from your thoughts, chopsticks hovering dramatically over the grill.

“Yeah,” you said with a small laugh, reaching for your glass. Tae clinked his against yours, smirking.

Yoongi glanced at you, brow slightly raised, as if he could tell your mind was elsewhere. ‘You okay?’ His silent question was obvious and you just assured him with a smile. 

Yoongi always kept the grill going and filled your bowl to the point you were ready to roll home. So when it hit 10PM, you stood up with a stretch. “Right, time for me to head off.”

Yoongi’s brows furrowed as he glanced at the time. “It’s late already, just stay over.”

“Nuh uh. I stay at your place almost more than my own, and I still pay my bills.”

“Just stay and let me drive you home tomorrow morning.”

“The bus straight to my house is literally down the road,” You gave him a pointed look. “Besides, It’s my first day off in a week, so I will be rotting in my own bed and eating unhealthy food the entire day.”

With that declaration you grabbed your bag and gave them all a wave over your shoulder. “Don’t text me tomorrow unless someone’s dying.”

“At least let me call you a taxi!” He called at your retreating back.

“Buh bye!” Was all you said, and the sound of the door being unlocked and closing again. You left behind a waft of your favorite perfume; a deep warm combination of something spicy and floral.

Silence swiftly took over in your departure besides the TV. Well, for five seconds at least, until Jimin broke it.

“So when’s the wedding, hyung?”

“What are you on about?”

“Oh come on!” He giggled. “You’re telling me she isn’t the perfect woman for you?”

“She’s Y/N,” Yoongi rolled his eyes.

Taehyung smirked knowingly “Yeah, Y/N who’s been by your side since you were both ten.”

“Yah, not you too, Taehyung.”

“I’m just saying, hyung. Jimin has a point.”

“What point? She’s my best friend.”

“The point, that she's the only female who’s been by your side longer than your mom. And you’re saying you don’t have feelings for her?”

“Stop being a nuisance and finish the food.”

“Hyungnim!” Jimin suddenly spat out firmly, his face exaggeratingly strict which did not go in hand with his flushed cheeks and messy hair, as Taehyung snorted.

Yoongi only raised a brow silently, waiting.

“As your family, we think you need to pull your denial out of your ass and start looking.”

He ran a hand through his longer hair now, sighing heavily, knowing the two younger men wouldn’t let this go until he heard them out.

“Meaning?”

“Be honest, hyung,” Taehyung had dropped his chopsticks, leaning forward conspicuously over the table like they were discussing some kind of secret. “Are you telling us you haven’t once looked at Y/N noona and thought she was attractive?” 

Whether he was actually thinking about it or just teasing them by taking an extra long time to pour his shot and then sip it, they didn’t know. But Yoongi finally answered with a light shrug. “I have.”

“Because I can definitely tell you that Jeonggukie–wait what?” Taehyung actually looked genuinely surprised whilst Jimin let out a triumphant laugh while clapping.

“You have?”

Another shrug. “I’m well aware that Y/N is a pretty woman.”

“Then why haven’t you told her?”

“I tell her all the time.”

Jimin cut in with his continuous giggles. “Hyung, telling her she looks good, is not the same as telling your potential girlfriend you look beautiful.”

“Stop getting ahead of yourself. Who said anything about a girlfriend?”

“Oh my God.”

Leaning back in his chair, Yoongi zeroed back on Tae. “What were you saying about Jeongguk?”

It was Taehyung’s turn to shrug. “We’re pretty sure he has a crush on Y/N.”

“What makes you say that?”

Jimin exhaled, holding up his hand ready to count. “She’s pretty, smart, independent, physically fit, has tattoos and bonus points for being older. That’s pretty much his type.”

Yoongi didn’t react immediately. Because when Min Yoongi didn’t react, he was thinking. Deeply at that. 

Their hyung usually had a quick brain, and never failed to make them speechless with how smart he actually was. 

So this…this was a good sign. Right?

"He told you that?”

Jimin blinked. “Huh?”

“Didn’t think he had a type,,” Yoongi repeated flatly, eyes still on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. “Did he tell you that, or are you just assuming?”

Taehyung and Jimin shared a look.

“We have eyes, hyung,” Taehyung said carefully. “He’s not exactly subtle.”

Jimin nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, he gets all–” he gestured vaguely, shoulders hunching as he put on a poor imitation, “–Noona~ did you eat?’ ‘Noona~ you look tired’–”

“It’s actually quite pitiful to witness,” Taehyung added. 

Yoongi clicked his tongue, looking away. “You’re both reading too much into it.”

“Are we?” Taehyung asked, brows raising slightly.

“Most likely, like always..”

“Then why do you look like that?”

Yoongi frowned. “Like what?”

“Like you want to punch something.”

Jimin snorted. “Or someone.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” he repeated, firmer this time.

Then Jimin leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand, eyes narrowing just a little. “Hyung.”

“What.”

“You know we’re not saying this to mess with you, right?”

He rolled his eyes, mouth tugging. “I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Yoongi exhaled sharply, standing up before either of them could say anything else to grab a bottle of soju and shutting the fridge door a little harder than needed. “Because the two of you are trying to fish for something that isn’t there..”

“You’re certain about that?” Taehyung asked unflinchingly. He had grown more outspoken with his thoughts around his oldest members after the military, and Yoongi was getting the whole spectacle right now. “You’ve been weird about her for a while now.”

Yoongi turned slightly, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing. “Okay, weird how?”

Jimin exchanged another look with Taehyung before answering. “You watch her.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched, expression still trying to feign disinterest. 

“Like, all the time,” Jimin added. “You think no one notices, but–”

“That’s–”

“You do,” Taehyung smirked. “And you get annoyed when someone else is paying attention to her.”

“I don’t–”

“And you always make sure she eats,” Jimin continued, back to counting on his fingers now. “And you let her do whatever she wants here, but if anyone else does the same thing, you complain.”

Yoongi opened his mouth to protest, but his members were doing their darn best to not let him get a single word in. 

“You remember things she says that she doesn’t even remember saying.”

He looked away, down at the floor, really. At the slippers covering his feet “…so what?” he muttered. “She’s my friend.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Is that all she is?”

“Yes.” The answer came out automatically.

But it must have worked, because the persistence of Jimin and Taehyung seemed to calm down as they shrugged and finally left the topic alone, as if agreeing to let him off the hook for tonight. 

So to distract himself from their annoying gazes and muttered laughter, he did the dishes. Slowly and meticulously, because his brain was whirring too much to actually focus. 

And without his knowledge, Jimin smiled lightly behind his tense back exchanging a silent fist bump with Tae, as if the both of them didn’t just drop something in their second-oldest hyung’s lap and just disappear. 

“…Tch.”

+

The tip of your pointed heels were pinching your toes for each step as you got off the bus in a slight hurry, trying to smooth down your freshly curled hair and flyaways all in one movement as the venue got closer. There were already dozens of guests mingling inside, holding champagne flutes and exchanging polite conversation as you brushed past them. 

You spotted the main couple near one of the double entrances greeting guests, and as you got closer your friend’s face brightened in recognition. 

“Y/N, you came!” She squealed happily, hugging you as her white poofy dress swallowed your legs as you stepped into the hug. 

You grinned at her excitement, impressed that she still had that much energy and returned the hug gently to not ruin anything. “Of course I came, you invited me.”

“Thank you for coming, Y/N,” Her husband smiled beside her, shaking your hand. 

“Of course, of course,” you waved off their gratitude before pulling out the white envelope from your purse. “Where’s the box?”

“Oooh, I’ll show you!” Soojin, your childhood friend, looped her arm through yours. “Honey, will you take over a bit? I need some girl talk.”

Her husband only smiled. “You two go ahead, I can handle the crowd.”

Before you had a chance to protest, Soojin was already pulling you into the venue hall where dozens of round tables were set up filled with people, but she pulled you further to the back where a large box for money envelopes stood and grabbed a flute of champagne for you on the way. 

“So,” you finally managed to pull her to a stop as the two of you stood in the corner, private but not hidden from sight. “How does it feel to be married?”

“Ugh, tiring,” Soojin let her head drop back, long veil brushing the floor. “But at least it’s almost over and done with.”

You glanced out of the room. “Who are even all these people?”

She waved her hand. “No idea. Most of them are his colleagues or friends of his parents’. My family and I just invited close friends and relatives.”

Sipping from the glass, you chuckled but stopped when noticing her looking. “What?”

“How’s everything on your end? Any handsome gentleman that is making those wedding bells ring?”

“God no!” You scoffed. “I’m a single, thirty-three year old woman who works at two different cafés. Not exactly dating material.”

“Girl,” Soojin pushed your shoulder in disagreement. “Who gives a shit what your job is, at least you have one!”

Fair point. 

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you took another sip of champagne. “Yeah, well, try telling that to literally any man over thirty.”

“They’re idiots,” she dismissed immediately. “And probably intimidated.”

“By what? My ability to steam milk and survive on three hours of sleep?”

“By this,” she gestured vaguely at you, up and down, as if that explained everything. “You’ve always had this thing, you know. Like you don’t need anyone. Independent woman and all that shit.”

A part of you was strangely touched by that. 

“I don’t,” you replied lightly, though it came out quieter than intended.

Soojin’s expression softened just a fraction, like she caught the shift but chose not to dig. “Still,” she nudged you again, grin returning. “if anyone tries anything tonight, I expect a full report.”

You rolled your eyes. “At your own wedding?”

“Especially at my own wedding. It’s prime matchmaking territory.”

“I’m not getting set up with someone’s cousin.”

“Too late,” she sang, already reaching for your hand again. “Come on, I need to introduce you to–”

“Soojin!” Her name was called from across the room, sharp enough to cut through the chatter.

She groaned dramatically. “Saved by the bell.”

“Go,” you laughed, gently pushing her away. “Bride duties.”

She squeezed your hand once more before letting go. “Don’t disappear, okay?”

“No promises.”

And just like that, she was gone, swallowed back into the crowd, her white dress a moving beacon among dark suits and muted colors of people dressed in mostly sleek business attires rather than fancy dresses. 

You ended up seated somewhere in the middle of the hall, wedged between a couple who introduced themselves as Soojin’s university friends and another woman who barely looked up from her phone.They were nice enough, with polite smiles, brief introductions and small talk that never quite went anywhere if you were being honest. 

You nodded when appropriate, laughed when expected, sipped your drink awkwardly when silence stretched just a second too long.

“…and then we all went to Busan for spring break, it was insane–”

The plates came and went, courses replaced one after another as speeches started, applause echoing across the room in bursts. You clapped along, half-genuine half out of your depth watching Soojin from afar; her bright smile, the way she leaned into her husband without thinking, the ease of it.

Something in your chest pinched at the sight. Jealousy perhaps, or even longing. You wondered just briefly, how it would feel. To have something like this, a day of celebration with a person constant at your side. 

You prided yourself in being an independent woman in a big city like Seoul. Surviving by yourself, not needing anyone to help with most things, but then he happened. Yoongi swooped back into your life like some damn hurricane, flipping your days upside down. 

No longer did you wake up to a silent phone, but a text message telling you to come over to dinner. Sometimes you found his car parked outside after a late shift and he would drive you home, or if you stayed over he would drive you to work with a full stomach. 

It was nauseating how caring he was without realizing it, and it didn’t help that your heart and stomach fluttered at everything he did. 

By the time dessert rolled around, you were halfway through mentally planning what greasy takeout you’d order tomorrow when her familiar voice came again. 

“Y/N!” You looked up to see Soojin slipping into the empty chair beside you, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed from moving around all evening.

“Finally found you,” she said, grabbing your arm like she was afraid you’d disappear.

You smiled, setting your fork down. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I know, but everyone keeps pulling me everywhere,” she huffed, before her eyes scanned your table briefly. “Are you okay? You look a bit bored.”

“I’m not bored,” you lied easily. “Just tired, double shifts.”

“Mm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. Then, like a switch flipped, her expression brightened. “Okay, but listen. I know someone.”

You blinked. “Please no.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“He’s single, works in finance, makes good money–”

“I don’t care if he owns the bank, Soojin.”

“He’s tall!”

You gave her a flat look. “That’s your selling point?”

“It’s an important one.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not interested. But appreciate the effort.”

“Why not?” she pressed. “You can’t just be single forever.”

“Do you want to bet on that?”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I,” you said with a giggle, lifting your glass. 

“Girl, stop,” she nudged you hard enough to make you lean slightly. “You’re hot, you’re funny, and you’ve always had your life together way more than the rest of us.”

“That’s debatable.”

“It’s not,” she insisted. “And you should be dating. You deserve that.”

You softened a little at that, but still shook your head. “It’s just not… something I’m thinking about right now.”

“That’s exactly why I need to interfere.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m just saying–” she leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what about someone you already know?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “I don’t like where this is going.”

She grinned. “What about Min Yoongi?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden name drop as your heart hammered. “Why him?”

Soojin tilted her head, studying you. “Didn’t you guys date?”

“What?” you let out a short laugh, shaking your head immediately. “No. Since when?”

“That’s what everyone thought,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You were literally attached at the hip.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, glancing down at your plate, “we also didn’t speak for like ten years after.”

There was a small pause, enough for you to look up only to regret. Because her eyes were fucking sparkling like the diamonds from her engagement ring she had sent a picture of. 

“No,” you warned immediately.

“You like him.”

“Soojin–”

“You do!”

You dragged a hand over your face, groaning under your breath. “Can you not start something at your own wedding?”

“This isn’t something, this is a revelation.”

“It’s not.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I just did.”

“No, you deflected.”

“Okay, fine!” You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice despite the noise around you. “But you do realize we’re talking about one of the world’s most famous idols right now?”

“And?” she shot back instantly.

“And that should end the conversation and the possibility of anything.”

Soojin didn’t answer immediately, which was worse. She always had something to say. “No,” she shook her head lightly. “That’s your excuse.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Excuse? For what?”

“For not even trying.” 

Your jaw tightened just slightly. “That’s not–” you started, then stopped, fingers tightening around your glass. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple for me,” she said, softer now, but just as persistent. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re shutting something down before it even exists.”

You glanced away, eyes drifting back toward the head table where she had been sitting earlier, where everything looked natural. 

Because the fear of your feelings ruining this friendship again was something you didn’t want to see happen. Just the thought of it was more painful than actually being rejected. You had gone a decade without him, and now that you finally had him back in your life, you didn’t want to lose him again.

“He’s my best friend,” you said instead, the words coming out more firmly than you felt. “I’m not risking that.”

“And?” she asked after a moment.

“And,” you continued, voice lower now, “he has his life. I have mine.”

“That doesn’t mean–”

“It kind of does,” you cut in gently. “Be realistic for a second.”

Her brows furrowed. “I am being realistic.”

“No,” you shook your head, finally looking back at her. “You’re being romantic.”

“And you’re being pessimistic.”

“How?.”

“By being scared.”

You went quiet, because there wasn’t an immediate comeback for that. Soojin’s gaze softened just a little when you didn’t respond. “You still talk to him, don’t you?” she asked.

“...yeah.”

“How is it? When you do?”

You let out a small breath, looking down at your hands. “It’s normal,” you said after a second. “Like nothing changed.”

“And you don’t think that means anything?”

You gave a faint, almost tired smile. “It means we were friends for a long time.”

“Maybe that’s not all?” Soojin let out a breath, turning to fully face you sitting sideways on the chair. “You’re saying it’s not realistic because he’s an idol, and that might be true for fans, but you’re not a fan, Y/N. You’re already neck deep in his world.”

“If I cross that line,” you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, “there’s no going back.”

Soojin stayed quiet.

“So I’d rather just…” you trailed off, shrugging lightly. “Keep it like this.”

Her lips pressed together, like she didn’t quite agree but understood anyway. “And you’re okay with that?”

Your eyes flickered, almost unconsciously, back toward the front of the room. Toward her, her husband, the soft glow of something settled and certain before looking away again with a shrug. 

“I have to be.”

+

You woke up late.

Deliciously late. 

It was definitely later than intended, but not enough to make you feel guilty about it. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in dull winter light that made everything feel slower than usual. 

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, duvet pulled to your chin and trapping the comfortable warmth underneath, mind blank. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Your brain, traitor that it was, immediately started replaying yesterday.

Yoongi’s hand brushing against yours when he passed you the glass.

The way he had said, just stay over.

The way he always–

You groaned, dragging the blanket over your face. “Stop it,” you muttered. 

It didn’t mean anything, because it never did. Especially when it came from him. It’s just who he was and you’ve known that since you were ten. But still, it was your own fault not listening to the oldest rule in the friendship book, aka. falling for your own best friend. 

You dropped the blanket and stared at the ceiling again. “…annoying,” you sighed.

You stretched lazily, letting your arm fall back onto the bed as you debated getting up when your phone buzzed from the bedside table. 

Your brows furrowed slightly as you turned your head, reaching for your phone.

Jeonggukkie: are you alive?

You huffed a small laugh, already typing back.

You: barely

Three dots appeared immediately.

Jeonggukkie: dramatic did you eat

You stared at the message just as your stomach rumbled and the time finally made you realize it was actually 1PM already. 

You: Not yet

A small pause went by. 

Jeonggukkie: ok, i’m coming over

Your eyes widened slightly, fingers tapping furiously

You: why

Jeonggukkie: don’t argue 20 mins actually give me 30 

You blinked at the screen. “…This kid,” you muttered, but there was no real annoyance behind it.

You pushed yourself up with a sigh, stretching as your feet hit the floor. “Guess I have to be a functioning adult now,” you mumbled, dragging yourself toward the bathroom.

Twenty five minutes later there was a knock at your door. Jeongguk stood there, hood up, cap and mask on with two bags of food in his hands as well as takeaway coffee. You stepped aside quickly, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him like you were hiding a fugitive. “Did anyone see you?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check?”

He blinked. “Check what?”

“The street? The cameras? The neighbors?”

He just stared at you as you locked the door. “You’re stressed.”

“I am stressed,” you snapped, turning to face him. “I’m stressed for you. Why are you not stressed?”

“I’m stressed in appropriate situations” he said easily, slipping off his shoes. “Just not about this.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughed under his breath, holding up the bags. “I brought food. Rosé tteokbokki, mild flavored, and pork belly.”  

You still refused to give in, even though you were practically drooling at the smell wafting towards you now, until he held up the last bag of two coffees. 

“I also bought your favorite; vietnamese iced coffee.”

“Fine,” you gave in, pulling out a chair and dropping down opposite of him as he was already unpacking everything and grabbed two pairs of chopsticks from your drawer. 

Jeongguk shrugged off his jacket and mask, as he grinned knowingly at your weakness. 

“You always bring food when you’re committing crimes.”

“I’m not committing a crime.”

“You’re an internationally known idol sneaking into a civilian’s apartment unannounced,” you said, grabbing the first piece of meat and then tteok, humming content. “That feels illegal.”

He never stopped that grin, following you in grabbing some food and handing you the coffee after stirring it, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“You worry too much, noona.”

“I worry the exact right amount,” you shot back. “One blurry photo and your entire company will be breathing down your neck.”

“As if they dare.”

You turned to glare at him. “Confidence much?.”

“And you are way too paranoid.”

You opened your mouth – then paused. “Okay, maybe a little.”

He snorted. “A little?”

“Shut up, kid.”

Both of you ate mostly in silence, although you noticed him only taking a small bite here and then, letting you enjoy yourself while sipping on his own coffee. You were the one who had introduced the boys to the deliciousness that was Vietnamese iced coffee with condensed milk, and you would catch most of them drinking it now and then after practice, or whenever you met up with them for quick coffee catch-ups. 

Jeongguk leaned back slightly, watching you with quiet satisfaction. “You look less dead from the last time I saw you.”

“Wow. Thank you. What a way to make a woman feel better.”

“You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had already dropped. As you leaned back in your rickety little plastic chair you got on a sale on Coupang, you watched Jeongguk carefully. 

He did look wholly out of place in your little studio loft apartment that probably fit in his living room alone. But he still found it comfortable here in your space. Like an annoying little brother who had nowhere else to go, as if his six older members didn’t have large fancy homes of their own. 

He was just persistent when it came to you, and worried as if his schedule wasn’t a hundred times harder than your own minimum wage, mundane café jobs. 

Jeongguk noticed you stopped eating and stood up wordlessly to pack the remaining leftovers in a box for later, and started cleaning up everything as well as recycling, leaving you to relax and enjoy your coffee.

“I heard you went to hyung’s yesterday.”

What a smooth talker. “Hm, did Jimin snitch?”

He chuckled. “It was Taehyung hyung, actually.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing much. Just that you came by while they were eating.”

“Right…you’re being nosy.”

Jeongguk shrugged, drying his hands on the towel before sitting back down. “I have eyes. And nosy hyungs who update me on everything even when I’m not interested.”

“You and everyone else, I suppose.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, before turning serious again. “Why haven’t you told him yet?”

You flickered up a brow, pausing your sipping on the straw. “I told you that in confidence,” you said flatly. “Not to use as ammunition.”

Jeongguk ignored your dig. “You should tell him.”

You snorted immediately. “Yeah, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I enjoy my stressfree life?”

“That’s a lie.”

You leaned back. “Oh?”

“You’re miserable when you overthink, noona” he stated simply. “And you’ve been doing that a lot, so not as ‘stressfree’ as you think.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re very observant for someone who used to have a crush on me.”

“Used to,” he emphasized, as if the memory itself brought forward shudders. “And very briefly at that.”

It was fucking ironic, actually. You, sitting here discussing your current long-time crush on your best friend with one of his best friends that used to have his own crush on you. 

Jeongguk, despite his younger age, had been upfront about his feelings for you right before his military enlistment. Thankfully he hadn’t been too deep in to actually get heartbroken when you both gave it two dates before realizing friends fit you better. 

Not that anyone was aware of this. God, the chaos it would bring if they knew. 

“Mm.” The silence settled for a bit, as you forced yourself to relax before admitting. “It’s complicated.”

Jeongguk pursed his lips in thought. “Does it have to be?”

“It does with him.”

Jeongguk didn’t respond right away. “What if he likes you too?”

You let out a small laugh. “Not possible. He’s Min Yoongi. His love is his work.”

“Maybe a couple of years ago, but we’ve all matured since then.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to worry about it right now, Guk. Let’s not, okay.”

He wanted to protest, you saw it. But he respected you enough to not push so he nodded. 

“Okay, noona. Let’s just relax, how about a movie?”

You smiled thankfully. “Sounds good. You choose.”

And just as you were settled in the couch and the intro started playing, your phone buzzed with a text. 

Yoongs: What are you doing?

You typed a reply without much thought. 

You:  watching a movie with guk

You waited for a reply, but it never arrived. Not even after the movie had ended and Jeongguk had left.

+

A couple of days go by before you find yourself looking for him again. But this time it’s at HYBE. 

You always feel like a nervous wreck stepping inside the intimidating glass building, your stomach fluttering with worries that probably won’t happen. 

Like the security dragging you out on suspicions for being a stalker fan, for example. 

God, your brain went haywire sometimes. 

You follow the protocols carefully; stepping up to the reception desk as they register your already known name, printing the guest tag and band for you to wear around your neck with a polite smile. 

There were so many people walking in and out of this building on a daily, that most employees didn’t blink when you arrived. For them you could be anyone. From a visiting stylist to a dancer, or even business partner. As long as your name was in the system, it meant you had already passed all security checks and approved for visits whenever. 

This time you felt slightly more confident, tapping yourself through the gate and waiting for the lift surrounded by strangers and not fidgeting too much. Your destination was one of the higher floors; dedicated to the Big Hit creative team, and where Yoongi’s studio was located. 

You were the only one still in the lift by the time it was your turn to get off, and when you arrived at the closed door of his studio you stared at the keypad for a second longer than necessary. The code still worked a moment later, of course it did, before you pushed the door open and the familiar quiet of Yoongi’s place greeted you immediately.

It was darker than usual, but he was there. On the large, comfortable office chair in front of his desk with four screens, a microphone and more speakers than you could identify. 

Despite being half-inside the room already, you knocked lightly anyway.

“Yoongs?”

The studio smelled faintly like decaf and something warmer, perhaps tea. He had reached a stage of only decaf these last few years, which honestly hurt your coffee-loving soul more than anything. The glow of his monitors lit up his face in soft blues and purples, shadows resting under his eyes but nothing you hadn’t seen before. 

His black hair was also long again, with bangs framing his now slimmer face from when he first got out of the military. 

Yoongi didn’t turn right away, just lifted a hand briefly in acknowledgment.

You hovered for a second before lifting the bag slightly. “I brought food.”

That got his attention. He turned his chair halfway, eyes flickering down to the bag before settling on you. “What is it?”

You held it up like an offering. “Don’t act like you’re not going to eat it.”

A faint huff left him, something just short of a laugh. “Did I say that?”

“You were about to.” You walked over to the low table by the L-shaped couch against the wall, taking out the containers and drinks, already moving like you’ve done it a hundred times. Because, honestly, you had. “Or something along the lines of not being hungry.”

Standing back up with your hands on your hips, you turned to face him again with a pointed look. “You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

“Not yet,” Yoongi confirmed, never seeing the point of lying to you when you already knew him so well. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Shocking.”

You handed him a pair of chopsticks before taking the seat on the small couch tucked against the wall. He swiveled his chair slightly, accepting them without a word.

You had cooked an average pesto pasta with marinated chicken strips. Nothing fancy, and definitely easier to buy as delivery. But a part of you still remembered when Yoongi complimented your cooking during one of the rare times you had made it for him, and he said it tasted better than the ones at restaurants. 

You were annoyed how vivid that simple comment still stayed with you. 

You watched him, but not obviously. And never long enough to get caught. 

Just…small enough glances to feel satisfied. 

The way his hair fell slightly into his eyes when he leaned forward. The way his fingers moved without thinking, precise and practiced, even when he was just picking at food with the chopsticks. How fine and elegant his hands looked.  

He looked a little tired, you noted. Not surprising, with how much they were all still fine-tuning the new album. 

Something in your chest tugged at the sight. 

“Did you sleep at all?” You asked after a couple of bites. 

He hummed. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

He just shrugged and instead took a bite, knowing you weren’t one to stop him from eating. 

You leaned back into the couch, exhaling softly. “You’re going to burn out again.”

It slipped out before you could stop it. His hand paused mid-air for a fraction of a second, then continued.

“I won’t,” He assured you, sounding calm and confident and you did believe him. But a part of you was always worried. 

“You always say that.”

“And I’m still here.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I guess.”

Suddenly there was a knock against the door, and you remained seated watching as he stood up and opened the door to grab whatever the person on the other side handed to him before it closed again. 

Yoongi handed it to you, as you pulled out a large sized cup of Vietnamese iced coffee from your favorite coffee shop chain, and felt your heart swell. 

“I ordered when you said you were on the way up.”

You smiled faintly into your drink, savoring the taste. “Thanks.”

Your gaze drifted back to him. To the way he had already turned back toward his screen, attention slipped back into his work like nothing else existed.

You knew that look. You've seen it since you were kids.

Back when it was notebooks and scribbles instead of full studios and polished tracks. When you sat next to him on a rooftop, pretending you weren’t watching him as closely as you were.

And somehow nearly fifteen years later, you found yourself still watching. 

“Play it.” The words left your mouth before you could overthink them.

He didn’t turn. “Play what.”

“Whatever you’re working on.”

“It’s not finished.”

“When have I ever cared?”

You could almost hear the hesitation as he scrolled through a couple of files, almost thinking which one to choose before a sound filled the studio. 

♫Twenty-four hours in the tubTwenty-four hours of your thoughtZ-z-z, don't wake me up꿈이면 깨기 싫어, 내.”

FantasyIt's a fantasy (Ayy, you next to me)It's a fantasy (Oh)You're my fantasy (Take that) ♫

The damn irony of those lyrics, you wanted to scoff to yourself. 

“It’s good.” Your voice came out softer than intended, perhaps softer than needed for the poppiness of the song that had filled the studio. 

His eyes flickered toward you, just enough that you noticed. And for a second it felt like he was waiting for something else. Instead he huffed lightly. “That’s it?”

You smiled a little. “Do you want me to lie and say it’s bad?”

“No.”

“Then it’s good.” You pulled your legs up on the couch, tucking them underneath you. 

He didn’t respond, but you saw it. The smallest shift in his shoulders and the way his posture relaxed just slightly, as if you had confirmed something for him. You couldn’t fathom why he cared that much for your opinion. Your musical understanding was minimal at best. 

“You always say that,” he muttered. 

“Because it’s always true.”

You looked away first, distracting yourself on your phone. Because if you didn’t, you might keep staring.

And if you kept staring…You honestly didn’t want to think about that.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup instead, wanting to say more. You always did, but the words stayed where they were. Always caught somewhere frustratingly uncomfortable between your chest and your throat.

+

Fuck. He genuinely forgot how tiring concert and comeback prep used to be. 

Spending months in LA creating songs was a different mental tiredness he could handle better. But the physicality of things? At damn age when it feels like his knees would crack by the slightest bend? Someone give him a break, please. 

Luckily he wasn’t the only one who thought so. All of them were struggling more than normal, besides Seokjin and Hoseok, who had been doing their own things for a while now and gotten used to the rush again. 

Him and the others though? What a mess. 

Jimin and Taehyung would giggle every five minutes at their attempts of coordinating, while Jeongguk would be the one to try and pick a fight just for the fun of it. Namjoon tried his best, laughing along and whining whenever a member teased his dancing, which had actually improved rather than gotten worse. 

The guys had even been impressed with the muscle mass he had put on in the last couple of months since returning to Korea. With nothing to do with his time besides finishing up the album, he had decided that starting to hit the gym more seriously was a good idea. 

Still, he had managed to switch out one mental stress for another. From album concerns to his own personal life now beating the fuck out of him whenever he thought of a person. 

Yoongi was already exhausted by the time he stepped out of the practice studio for a quick pick-me-up. All he wanted was ten minutes of silence and maybe another decaf coffee he absolutely did not need, but could pretend would help him with his exhaustion. 

The placebo effect was real, he was convinced. 

But instead, he heard your very familiar laugh echoing down the hallway. A voice that shouldn’t be in this building at the moment, to his knowledge. 

His steps slowed automatically when he rounded the corner. Jeongguk was leaning against the wall beside you, phone in hand while showing you something on the screen. You stood close enough that your shoulder kept bumping his arm every time you laughed.

“No, wait—play that again,” you said through laughter.

“I’m telling you, hyung looked ridiculous.”

“Jeongguk!!”

“What?” He grinned unapologetically before replaying the video anyway.

Yoongi recognized it immediately, to his chagrin. A behind-the-scenes clip from years ago where he had nearly fallen asleep during an interview, of his eyes dropping in real-time and becoming a meme in the fandom and their groupchat. 

Traitor.

You dissolved into laughter again, instinctively grabbing Jungkook’s sleeve for balance. And something inside Yoongi twisted unpleasantly. Which was somehow worse when Jeongguk was the first one to notice him there, of course the damn kid did. 

His grin shifted instantly into something more suspicious, which Yoongi did not like.

“Yoongi-hyung.” He straightened casually. “You done already?”

Your head turned immediately, your face lighting up the second you saw him. “There you are.”

Again, that dangerous little sense of relief settled in his chest at your expression. Yoongi shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you two doing?”

“Bullying you, apparently,” you answered easily.

Jungkook snorted. “She started it.”

“You literally showed me the video!”

“And you enjoyed it.”

“I did.”

Yoongi couldn’t help watching the way Jungkook looked at you when you spoke. The stupid word of Jimin and Taehyung replaying around in his mind of his apparent crush on you. 

It was clearly comfortable and playful, perhaps even too comfortable if he could add. 

Then Jungkook casually threw an arm over your shoulders, clearly a thoughtless action that he had done several times before. But Yoongi’s jaw tightened instantly.

You, completely oblivious, kept talking like nothing happened. “…and then he got mad at me for laughing,” you continued.

“I did not get mad.”

“You glared at me for like three hours.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop laughing.”

Jungkook looked between the two of you briefly before a slow grin appeared on his face. “Wow.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” His grin widened. “You guys are seriously weird.”

If Yoongi hadn’t paid as much attention as he did, he wouldn’t have noticed the slightly sharp nudge you gave into Jeongguk's side as he flinched slightly away. 

Yoongi narrowed his eyes slightly. Jungkook only looked more entertained. “I thought you were at work?” 

“In an hour, it’s just around the corner so I’d thought to stop by and cheer you all on,” you shrugged. 

“You should come eat with us first,” the brat offered. 

Before you could answer, Yoongi spoke. “She’s busy.”

Both of you looked at him. Including Yoongi himself, internally, while Jeongguk’s eyebrows lifted slowly.

You frowned. “Am I?”

“You promised to help me with something before, remember?” The lie came easily.

“Oh yeah! I remember now.”

For a second nobody spoke. Then Jeongguk looked like he was physically restraining himself from laughing. “Right,” he said carefully. “Of course she did.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but knowingly while Yoongi avoided looking directly at either of you. You had known each other long enough for you to pick up on his excuse and play along. 

And suddenly Jungkook looked way too entertained for Yoongi’s liking.

+

The last employee finally waved goodbye before disappearing down the street, leaving you alone with the familiar task of locking up. You exhaled tiredly, turning the key as you rolled your tight shoulders before tugging lightly on the café door to make sure it was secure. 

Your shoulders ached from the long shift, feet even worse, and all you could think about was getting home and collapsing face-first into bed, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of your stomach.

The low rumble of an engine made you glance up, and a familiar black, gleaming car sat by the curb. You slowed down immediately with a sigh, but the affectionate smile was hard to hide. 

And then the driver’s window rolled down. Yoongi looked at you from behind the wheel, one arm resting lazily near the window. “You done?”

“What are you doing?”

“Picking you up, obviously.”

You gave him a pointed look. “And I told you to stop doing that.”

“You said your shift ended late.” That explained absolutely nothing. Still, warmth spread embarrassingly fast through your chest as you crossed the little space toward him.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” 

Which somehow made this entire situation worse for your stupid heart.

You slid into the passenger seat, immediately greeted by warmth and the faint scent of clean laundry mixed with his cologne. Familiar enough now that your body relaxed before your brain caught up.

“You look tired,” he said once you buckled in. 

“Yeah, feel like shit.” You had never been dishonest to him about your work. 

The car pulled smoothly back onto the mostly empty road at this time, only a handful of cars whizzing past. For a while, silence filled the space between you comfortably. The radio played quietly in the background while Seoul’s lights blurred outside the windows.

Then Yoongi glanced at you briefly. “Did you eat?”

You looked out the window immediately. “Maybe.”

“That means no.”

“I was busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, and you yell at me for it.”

“Well obviously.” You frowned slightly. “Somebody has to.”

Yoongi hummed quietly, like he found that amusing. A few minutes later, however, you realized the roads looked wrong.

You frowned. “Yoongs.”

“Hm?”

“This isn’t the way to my apartment.”

“I know.”

You turned toward him slowly. “Min Yoongi.”

“You’re eating first.”

“I can eat at home.”

“You won’t.” Annoyingly enough, he sounded completely certain.

“You’re very bossy today.”

“And you’re very stubborn.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

A small smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.

God. That stupid smile really needed to stop affecting you. And he needed to stop being so easy to love. 

“You can sit down,” he called. “I’ll make you something to eat, it won’t take long.”

“I know where your couch is, Yoongi.”

“Just making sure you don’t collapse halfway there.”

“You’re hilarious.”

He smirked. “Go take a shower, you know where the clothes are.”

You sank into the couch with a quiet groan, letting your head fall back briefly before muttering. “I need to wait for a bit. Can’t be bothered to move right now.”

You heard cupboards opening before Yoongi reappeared carrying two bowls, setting one in front of you on the coffee table. Ramyeon with extra green onions and two eggs, exactly how you liked it.

Your chest squeezed slightly, and he must have noticed your expression. 

Yoongi looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You complain when people make it wrong.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.” 

“Fine.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him as he sat beside you, knees touching yours as you both ate. For a while, the only sounds were the television playing softly in the background and the clinking of chopsticks against bowls before you sighed dramatically. 

“What.”

“You know, I never told you Soojin’s wedding exhausted me emotionally.”

Yoongi glanced over. “How so?”

You slumped further into the couch. “Do you know how terrifying married people are?”

“That sounds judgmental.”

“They become obsessed with everyone else dating.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “Ah.”

“She tried setting me up with like three different men.”

Yoongi’s chopsticks paused briefly before continuing. “And?”

“And what?”

“Did you want her to?”

You blinked at him. “Not particularly.”

“Why not, I thought you said having someone would be nice.”

You shrugged lightly, staring down into your empty bowl. “I don’t know. I’m busy with life. I’m still paying down on my student debt, my monthly rent is going up in a bit and job applications are going nowhere.”

“You could if you wanted to.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m just asking.” Something about his tone felt strange to you, almost like an interrogation rather than his usual amused interest. 

“Yeah apparently so. She kept insisting I’m ‘too pretty to be single,’” you muttered with a grimace.

Yoongi looked at you then, and your stomach tightened slightly under the weight of it. “Well, she’s right.”

You were fucking certain you were blushing like a damn tomato, but the dim lighting in the room hid most of it. You hoped so at least. 

Were your hands clammy? They certainly felt like it. 

You stared at him for half a second too long before forcing out an awkward laugh. “Wow. Look at you being nice.”

“I’m serious, though.”

His voice stayed frustratingly steady, and suddenly the air between you felt different again. He was still looking at you, dark eyes looking more intense than you had seen him besides when working on music or on the stage in front of fans. 

Your heartbeat started climbing for absolutely no reason. So naturally, your brain panicked. “You know, one of them owned like…three cats.”

Tangie meowed just then from the top of one his cat towers in the room, as if knowing. Yoongi blinked once, clearly caught off guard by the abrupt subject change. “What?”

“At least that’s what Soojin said. Honestly that should’ve been her opening line.”

A quiet laugh escaped him then. And God, you loved that sound more than you should.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured almost knowingly. 

Your eyes lifted toward his automatically, and this time neither of you looked away. The moment should’ve lasted a second like it always did. The two of you making eyecontact was nothing strange. But it didn’t.

he television kept talking softly in the background. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe clicked faintly with the heat, Tangie’s claw were gently scraping against his post. 

And Yoongi’s gaze dropped, just slightly. But enough to send your heart stuttering.

It was small. Barely there. So quick you almost convinced yourself you imagined it

Your throat went dry. “What?” you asked, quieter than before.

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand through his hair like he was physically resetting himself. “Nothing.”

What a fucking lie, you both knew it. 

Still, you nodded slowly, because that was easier than acknowledging what your body was suddenly doing. How aware you were of his knee still touching yours, of how close he actually was, of the fact that you could smell him even over the food.

Besides the entirely strange moment that just happened between you, you knew something was bothering him otherwise. And if you didn’t ask him, you doubted any of the others would. 

Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap. “Yoongs, what’s been bothering you?” you said carefully, like saying his name wrong might break something.

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh—but there was no humor in it. “Please don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

He shook his head once, like he was annoyed at himself more than you. “Forget it.”

He started to stand, hands ready to take the bowls towards the kitchen. And that should’ve been the end of it, but your hand moved before your brain caught up as you caught his sleeve.

Yoongi froze. His gaze flicked down briefly to where your hand still held his sleeve and you let go immediately. However, that didn’t stop you from following him stiff form into the kitchen. 

“Why won’t you answer?” Your voice followed him before your feet fully caught up.

Yoongi stopped near the sink and didn't turn around immediately. The bowls were still in his hands, but he didn’t set them down either. 

For a second, all you could hear was the faint running of the refrigerator and the distant hum of the city outside the window. “Because you’re not going to like it.”

That made you pause as you scoffed, leaning back against the counter behind you and crossing your arms. “Try me, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi finally set the bowls down with more care than necessary and when he turned, it was slower than before. His eyes found yours instantly and stayed there as you swallowed. 

“You always do this,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Push.”

Your brows knitted slightly, annoyance crawling underneath your skin. “I’m asking a question, Yoongi.”

“I know.” His voice softened, but carefully. Like he was holding something at the edge of slipping.

“Then answer it.”

Silence stretched again; long enough that your chest started tightening in a way you didn’t like. What was he keeping from you? Had something happened? About the album or upcoming tour? Something more internal, perhaps. 

A…girlfriend?

Fuck, just the thought of it made something in you want to break but you kept it all together. 

Then Yoongi exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had changed. Resignation, you realized. He was done holding back whatever had been bothering him. 

“You don’t notice it,” he said, and you held back from replying. His gaze flickered briefly down, then back up. “Never mind.”

Your frustration sharpened. “Don’t do that. Start saying things and then stop halfway.”

That made something in his expression shift. “You really want me to finish it?” he asked.

Your heart stuttered, but you nodded anyway. “Of course I fucking do, Yoongi. When have I never listened to you?”

A long silence, then Yoongi finally stepped closer. Just enough that now there was no pretending this was casual anymore.

“I don’t like watching you with other people.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t interrupt. Because something in you already knew that wasn’t the full sentence.

His voice dropped lower. “And I don’t like how easily you laugh with them, and how I notice it.”

The room went still as your stomach twisted. Your voice came out smaller than you meant. “…Yoongi.”

He didn’t look away and barely moved. Just stayed there, like he’d already crossed a line he couldn’t step back from. 

“I don’t know how to stop noticing you, Y/N.”

It was like your brain went dry, and very, very quiet. Your heartbeat hammering in your ears, the only thing you saw was him. Your hands were trembling too, gripping your clothes as you simply tried to take it all in. 

Every time he picked you up when you didn’t ask. Every time he asked if you ate like it mattered more than it should. Every time his eyes lingered just a second too long when you laughed at someone else. Every time he went quiet after Jungkook put an arm around you like it physically cost him something not to say anything.

It all snapped into place at once, the dumb realization of it. And how your own worries had been nothing at this point. You had worried for nothing. 

And you felt so incredibly dumb. 

Your chest tightened, like something inside you had been holding its breath for too long and finally let go.

In the turmoil of it all, Yoongi was still watching you carefully. As if he was waiting for rejection. “…say something,” he said quietly.

That almost made you smile as you stepped closer. His eyes flickered down to you the moment the space between you changed, but he didn’t move and chose to let you control the pacing. 

Your hand came up first, gripping the front of his shirt as Yoongi’s breath caught slightly at the contact. That was a new reaction you only just noticed. 

You’d never seen him react like that before; like he was the one who might lose control. You loved it. 

Your voice came out softer, but surprisingly steady for everything happening inside. “Unbelieveable.”

That was the moment everything inside you shifted from shock into certainty.Because Min Yoongi, calm, composed, unreadable Yoongi, was standing in front of you right now like you were the only thing he couldn’t control.

And you had never wanted anything more.

His brows pulled faintly together. “What is?”

You didn’t even bother to answer, just pulled him down to your height. 

Yoongi froze for half a heartbeat before he gave in. 

The kiss wasn’t near anything soft and careful. His hand found your waist immediately, steadying you like instinct finally caught up with intention. The tension he’d been holding all night snapped, something long overdue.

Your fingers slid up into his shirt as if you needed something real to hold onto while your brain caught up with the fact that this was happening—this was him—this was the thing you’d been orbiting without naming for years.

His mouth was relentless on yours, moving gently but urgently at the same time as you hummed into the kiss, his tongue caressing yours as you stumbled back into the counter behind you. 

Yoongi groaned softly against your mouth, hands coming up to cup your face, fingers curling into your hair deliciously as you sighed. 

When you finally broke it, it was only because you had to breathe. Yoongi stayed close, refusing to move as his forehead rested against yours, breathing heavier than before, like he didn’t trust air to behave normally anymore.

The second kiss lingered longer than the first. Your heart was still catching up, beating unevenly in a way you were very aware of.

“So,” you said eventually, voice softer than you meant it to be, “this is happening.”

A faint breath left him, almost a laugh again, but warmer now. “Yeah,” he said simply.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look at him properly, unguarded and sparkling. “And what now?” you asked.

His thumb moved once against your back—slow, grounding, like he was thinking with his body more than his words. “I certainly hope this meant you’re willing to become my girlfriend.”

You bit down on your lip, containing the grin wanting to stretch and he noticed it with a shy smile, ducking down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Stop it.”

“I thought you’d never ask, Min Yoongi.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Yes,” you giggled before tightening your hold around his waist, chin resting against his collarbones as your face tilted up. “But you love it.”

His gaze softened visibly, tucking a loose strand behind your ear as his thumb brushed against your cheek. “I do.”

+