VivPurple7 Hiatus/SLOW

You pause. Not many clinics in your small town offer home visits, and even fewer do it on short notice. For your clinic, it’s usually about an old dog being put to rest at home—incredibly sad, but not an emergency. 

“Is it urgent?”

“Not on the minute, but needs done today.”

You glance at the patient chart on the table in front of you. “I think this’ll be quick. I’ll go after this one.”

“You sure?” Namjoon asks. “Technically, it’s my turn.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You should see Oakley when he comes; he’s not very fond of me.”

Oakley, a returning patient with chronic stomach issues, has managed to spray paint you a yellowy brown on three different occasions. From both ends. It’s like he aims.

Namjoon snorts. He hasn’t been hit once.

Checking your watch again, you push the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing it while you grab the chart. Namjoon is already on his way to greet another patient and their owner, and you take a second to swallow and wipe any crumbs off your scrubs before you follow his lead, heading into the waiting area.

“Millie?” you call, smiling when a young woman rises from a chair, her red dachshund's nose practically glued to the clinic floor.

It’s two-thirty when you pull out of the clinic parking lot, the clinic’s old station wagon rattling faintly as you steer onto the main road. The address in the confirmation email is farther out than you expected but still technically within the town limits, and you watch the short apartment buildings give way to larger, more spaced-out houses as you drive.

You don’t often find yourself in this part of town these days, although you’re very familiar with at least one house here. Many Halloweens were spent here back in the day, kids dressed up as various creatures daring each other to fight through the overgrown lawn and peek inside the dark windows. Countless stories were told about the abandoned house, each one slightly more insane than the last. Of course, you were like… eight, and a large, seemingly empty white house with a big, black gable was doomed to be haunted.

Still, you’re very surprised when you stop at the red pin on your phone’s screen, and it’s outside that very house. Momo, who works the reception, must’ve forgotten to fill out the pet owner’s name on the confirmation form she sent you, so all you have is this address and a brief line of patient info.

Even though the sky is gray—fittingly enough threatening September rain—it’s not as scary as you remember. Probably because it’s not a dark Halloween night, and you’re not a kid anymore. It also doesn’t actually seem to be abandoned. To be fair, it was never really run-down aside from the lawn, but now there’s a big black SUV parked outside. 

Getting out of the car, you grab the rectangular veterinary kit bag, accidentally shutting the trunk a little too hard. The sound echoes down the quiet street, letting anyone who wasn’t already aware know of your arrival. A chilly breeze has you pulling your softshell jacket tighter over your light blue scrubs as you lock the car. When you turn back to the house, you pause to take it in once more. It’s a pretty house—two-story, painted white probably a long time ago but still holding up surprisingly well. Black shutters frame the dark windows, and the tall, black gabled roof reaches impressively toward the gray sky. The lawn has either been trimmed within the last few years, or your childhood imagination really exaggerated it because you can clearly recall it looking more like a thicket with tall grass than just… an overgrown lawn. You distinctly remember more... shrubs.

Climbing the shallow steps, you stop in front of the black-painted door and raise your hand to knock. As you wait, you tilt your head back, once again letting your gaze linger on the house. Who exactly are you here to meet? Maybe it’s some introverted old woman who rarely leaves her house? Or a grumpy old man? But then again, the SUV looked awfully modern. Maybe the ancient resident has a grandchild visiting?

A short moment later, the door opens with a slight creak.

It’s not an old lady; it’s a young man. A tall young man—probably the most attractive one you’ve ever seen—looking down at you. He’s broad-shouldered and lean, visibly fit even despite the thick, black hoodie and baggy jeans he wears. You try not to stare at the shadow created in the fabric between his pecs, or the way the oversized hoodie still somehow manages to cling to the top of his bicep as he keeps one hand on the door handle. His black, relatively straight hair doesn’t look styled, just like it naturally falls into its part, the sides of it a little shorter than the top. Everything about him screams effortless, like he just wakes up looking like that.

One thing’s for sure: he wasn’t who you expected to open the door.

“Uh, hi,” you introduce yourself, telling him your name, “Did you… call for a vet?”

For some reason, he looks almost as surprised as you. “Hey. I did, yeah. I’m Jeongguk.”

Though he smiles politely, he doesn’t offer his hand for you to shake. It’s not something you dwell on. Quite a few of the pet owners you meet prefer not to shake hands.

“Come in.”

You nod and step inside, having to almost squeeze past him in the narrow hallway as he shuts the door behind you. Like always when you enter a strange man’s home alone, you say a little prayer in your head. If it came to it, you’ve got a bunch of pointy things in your bag, but you’d still prefer it if he wasn’t crazy to begin with.

As you move past him, you’re almost surprised that you don’t… smell him. Men—at least in this town—are very fond of their colognes and sprays, but you don’t catch even the slightest whiff of him. You wouldn’t say that you particularly enjoy the strong… scents, but the total lack of one from a hunk like this is almost disappointing.

When you go to slip your shoes off, he stops you. 

“Keep them on,” he says, voice kept low due to the distance. Or rather, the lack thereof. “It’s… not very clean.” 

There’s something in the casual smile he gives you besides an attractiveness you’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s a tad of… sheepishness? It doesn’t matter; your skin still heats under his gaze

“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and professional while waiting for him to take the lead. Luckily, you don’t think he notices.

Even with the heads-up, you’re not sure what surprises you more as you follow him into the house—the layers and layers of dust, or the Edwardian, neoclassical interior design. The faded, beige walls are paneled, and as he leads you toward a staircase, you catch a glimpse of what appears to be the living room through an open archway. In it, you spot a pale green velvet sofa and two upholstered armchairs, fitting right in. There’s also a rectangular fireplace, a gold-framed mirror above it, and what catches your interest the most: a chandelier. Its size is impressive, and so is the fact that it looks like it was made for real, live candles. The same goes for the brass wall sconces placed on either side of the fireplace. You’ve only ever seen those in movies.

“They’re up here,” he says, and you nod, reaching for the wooden railing as you follow him up the stairs.

The steps creak loudly beneath your weight—another reminder of just how old this house probably is. At the landing, he turns, leading you to a bedroom. It’s surprisingly small for a house this size, but it’s cozy and warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You guess the clouds outside have eased up a little because the smallest ray of sunlight filters through the practically sheer beige curtains and highlights the dust particles floating in the air.

The four-poster bed is made from dark wood, its canopy rails bare and the headboard curled softly. Like most things, the white sheets appear pretty much untouched, and the only real signs of life are the footsteps disturbing the dust on the floor. You've followed a path all the way from the door, and when you look closer, you see paw prints venturing outside it.

Noticing your lingering gaze, Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.

“I haven’t been here in a while.”

You figured. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since… the late 1800s. Although it’s certainly a stylistic choice—and one you wouldn’t have expected from someone so young and otherwise modern-looking—it has its charm. Even if you’re not sure there’s even electricity or running water.

“I arrived earlier today and found them here,” Jeongguk continues, approaching a standalone wooden wardrobe placed against the wall. One door is already slightly ajar, but when he carefully opens it wider, you see them. The cat with kittens. “I read that you’re not supposed to move them.”

The mother cat, who looks to be all black, has made a little nest on top of a crisp white shirt that’s fallen from its hanger above.

“Oh,” you breathe, crouching slowly to get a better look. “They’re brand new.”

“Yeah. And I think one is smaller than the others.”

Your eyes travel over the small beings, each with varying patches of white to go with the black. None of them, from what you can tell, have even opened their eyes yet. The mother cat stops licking one of the kittens to give you a warning hiss. You listen, rising to your feet and turning away, a plan already in mind.

“Okay, I brought some food that might help lure her out,” you say, setting the bag down on the floor and crouching to reach into it. “This stuff’s usually pretty irresistible…”

But when you look back at the man—a jar gripped in your hand—he’s already holding the mother cat. Just straight around her middle, as if he’s never held a cat before. She doesn’t seem to mind very much, just hangs there, looking around.

Jeongguk looks at you, a little surprised too.

“Oh, okay. She seems to like you better,” you smile. You can’t help but think that he looks… sweet. A big, clearly very muscular and attractive man who’s liked by animals? It’s definitely both a green flag and a personal weakness for you.

The food goes back into the bag, and you reach for the equipment you’ll need instead. With a stethoscope around your neck, a small kitchen scale, and a thermometer, you kneel in front of the wardrobe. In the meantime, Jeongguk sits down on the bed, the cat perched on his lap. He keeps his large hands around her, gently keeping her in place in case she changes her mind.

Very gently, you reach for the smallest kitten first. It squirms in your hands, mouth open and paws sticking out in a silent protest. 

“Sex is notoriously tricky to tell on kittens, especially this small, so I’m not even gonna try,” you say with a smile, giving the kitten a general once-over before focusing on its face. It’s a sweet little thing, crying a little as you inspect it. This one is mostly black but with two white front paws.

“Well, I’d definitely say they’re only a day or two old. This one has a suckle reflex but hasn’t opened its eyes yet. That usually happens between day five and fourteen. The umbilical stump is still attached too, and that usually falls off around day two to four.”

“So that’s… good?” Jeongguk asks, and when you look at him, the mother cat is bumping her head against his abdomen. He peers down at her on his lap, extending his veiny hand in a wordless offer. She accepts it, rubbing her head against his palm and letting him pet her.

“Yeah. That’s normal.”

You return your focus to the little being in your hands, carefully looking into its mouth again to check its gums and palate. 

“Pink gums and no cleft. That’s good, too.”

With one hand, you grab the stethoscope from your neck, putting the earpieces in place. Getting a clear heart or lung reading on kittens this tiny isn’t easy. Their heart rate is fast, making it easy to miss abnormalities, and their small, wriggling bodies make it hard to even position the chestpiece properly in the first place.

Focusing, you hold the kitten still, placing the stethoscope on the left side of its chest just behind the elbow. Then you listen closely, trying to ignore the soft purring from the adult cat.

It sounds… good. Alright, at least. Shifting the stethoscope slightly, you first listen to one lung and then the other. You don’t notice anything abnormal there, either.

“Heart and lungs sound okay,” you declare, slipping the stethoscope back around your neck.

“What’s next?”

“Temperature,” you answer, reaching for the digital thermometer.

“What should their temperature be?”

“Somewhere between thirty-six and thirty-six point five degrees Celsius.”

“Isn’t that a little low? I mean, compared to a human?”

“Adult cats are more similar to humans, but kittens generally run a little colder,” you explain, focusing on getting the reading right. “They don’t have the ability to regulate their body temperature properly for the first couple of weeks.”

The thermometer beeps.

“Thirty-six point two,” you mumble. “So that’s within the range. A little low, but not necessarily dangerous.”

With one hand, you reach for the kitchen scale, setting it on the floor in front of you. It powers on, and once it’s ready, you place the kitten on it, keeping your hand floating above in case the little animal tries to wiggle off the tray.

The number settles, and you read it out loud. “Eighty-one grams.”

“Too small?” Jeongguk wonders.

“On the lower side, but not dangerously so. At least not yet.”

You take the kitten and carefully place it back in the makeshift nest for the moment. Before reaching for another kitten to examine in the same way, you grab a small notebook in your bag, quickly jotting down the numbers so you don’t forget them.

Jeongguk looks on as you inspect the rest of the four kittens, occasionally asking another question. It’s not unusual for pet owners to ask questions, but considering these aren’t even his cats—and from what you gathered, he only found them today—it makes your chest warm. Not everyone would go to such lengths for stray cats. It also doesn’t help your growing soft spot that you get to talk about animals and their anatomy to someone who seems to want to listen. After all, you’re a bit of a nerd, and this is your number one fascination.

One by one, the kittens get their clean bill of health and are placed back on the shirt, and then you shift your focus to their mother. She’s standing on Jeongguk’s lap, still headbutting his chest. While she’s preoccupied, you quietly reach into your bag for the microchip scanner, but the moment you try to get close, she notices and hisses. 

“Give it a try, please?” You hold the scanner out to Jeongguk, keeping as much distance as you can. “Press this button and move the scanner over her, focusing on her neck and back.”

Jeongguk takes the scanner from your outreached hand, doing as you instructed and pressing the button. It beeps, and he begins to move it over her.

“Like this?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed almost angrily as he focuses.

You nod encouragingly. “Yeah.”

“Is it to see if she has an owner?”

“Yes. But sometimes, even if they are microchipped, there's not a registered owner. But we can hope.”

He continues to search for a chip, but when nothing happens, he looks at you with those dark eyes, silently asking what to do.

“Try her belly and even her legs. Sometimes, they migrate.”

Adjusting his grip on the scanner, he moves it lower.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says a moment later, handing the scanner back to you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking it to put it back in the bag. Although disappointed, you’re not surprised. “Would you mind helping me check her out? She seems to really like you. A whole lot better than she likes me, at least.”

He matches the soft smile you give him. “Sure.”

“Okay, well, she seems to be in okay condition, but I need to rule out any birth-related injuries. 

“What do I do?” he asks, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, the cat still happy to receive his attention. 

“Just… hold her like that… Yes, exactly. And with your other hand, move her tail away for me?”

A little awkwardly, he follows your instructions again, and while you don’t think the cat particularly enjoys it, she doesn’t fight it. You move closer, trying to get a better look while doing your best not to stare at his veiny hands instead. In any other setting, they’d be way too much of a distraction, but knowing that this cat depends on you to evaluate her health, you divert your gaze.

“Alright… I don’t see anything... unusual, no swelling, no blood, no discharge. If she were injured, you’d usually spot it, but she’s not thrilled with me, so I won’t push it,” you chuckle, leaning back.

Having animals dislike you is unfortunately part of the job. Sometimes, it hurts your heart a little, but when you remember that it’s easy for an animal to associate the scrubs or equipment with something unpleasant and maybe even painful, it makes more sense. Briefly, you wonder if this cat has ever been to a vet or if her dislike for you stems from something else. It’s definitely normal for new mothers to have a bit of an attitude, but you’d think that would include every human in the room. Or maybe she doesn’t dislike you in particular; maybe she just really likes Jeongguk. Which... you know, fair.

Almost as if sensing that the examination is over, the black cat jumps down from Jeongguk’s lap, leaping past you to get to her babies. 

“Alright,” you say, wiping your hands on your pants before you stand up. “It’s important not to disturb them too much, but they’ll still need some supervision—especially the small one—just to make sure they continue to eat and grow. And they’ll need a better place to nest, somewhere a little warmer, softer, and less… dusty. No offense.”

Jeongguk chuckles, standing up as well and brushing some cat hairs from his hoodie. “None taken.”

“So, if you want me to, I can take them with me. We have a foster program and a few great volunteers.”

Jeongguk looks down at you, his brows furrowed in confusion this time. “I thought they were too small to be moved?”

“Yeah,” you nod, bending down to quickly gather the rest of the used equipment and put it back in the bag. “Ideally, they wouldn’t need to be. But I understand if you can’t or don't want to look after a stray cat and her kittens.”

“No, it’s… uh… It’s fine,” he says, appearing to land in a decision and sticking by it, his eyes traveling to the little bodies nestled into the white shirt. “It’s not that hard, right? Just keep an eye on them? If you think I can do it, of course. I already have a litter box.”

You blink, a little surprised. “You just happened to have a litter box?”

“No, I asked some neighbors after I called you. I figured you'd have some tips about the other stuff. Like food and such.”

Your smile grows as you watch him. He is… oddly endearing. “Yeah. Of course,” you say, your voice softening. The fewer cats and kitten taking up the very limited space at the volunteers', the better. “Okay.”

You begin drafting an email to send to him. It includes everything you've talked about plus cat food recommendations for the mother cat and a link to a cat bed that’s cheap but comfortable enough for a nursing litter. While you write, you talk him through everything again, like what to watch for, when to weigh them, and what to do if anything seems off.

He asks a few questions, making it very clear—if it wasn’t already—that he doesn’t really have any experience with animals. While he’s never appeared scared or nervous during your visit, you can tell that he’s not quite sure what to do. He moves slowly, almost a little awkwardly around the cats, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to scare them.

“You really like animals,” he points out, watching you tuck your notebook back into the bag.

You glance up at him. His tone isn’t mocking but more... curious. Still, you nod, a little self-conscious of how nerdy you can be.

“Yeah, animals are incredible. Not only because they’re such good companions—some of them at least—but, they’re so fascinating? How they function and how they’ve evolved.”

But there’s something else in his curious gaze that you finally pick up on, and it dawns on you.

“You think I’m a freak too, don’t you?” you say with a smile, pulling the stethoscope you’d forgotten to pack from around your neck and tucking it into the bag as well.

“No, no,” he shakes his head.

You lift an eyebrow. “But you know about it? My paper?”

His eyes are so dark. “Yeah…”

You look away, trying not to let it affect your professionalism. Speaking about it brings up memories you’d rather not be reminded of. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here in forever?”

It’s weird, right? If he doesn’t live here and hasn’t been around in a long time, how would he know the gossip?

“Town called a few years ago. About the electrical wiring needing to be upgraded. So I came here to fix it.”

Oh. That makes sense, you guess. A few years ago was when it first happened. That’s probably also why the yard looked different from what you remembered.

“And you heard about it?”

He smiles apologetically. “Yeah. It’s a small town, I guess.”

“It’s not like I think Ariel is real. Or that dragons roam the sky or that Dracula lives in a dark castle somewhere, wearing a black cape over a white, frilly shirt,” you defend, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “I just wrote about how much we don’t actually know about the living organisms around us and how some of the 'supernatural' traits aren't really that crazy, anatomically speaking.”

“No, I get that,” he assures, sounding like he genuinely didn’t mean to upset you. “I found it very interesting.”

“So is that why you looked so surprised to see me? Because you recognized me?”

“No. Or… well, yeah. I spoke to the receptionist, and she told me a man’s name—Namjoon, I think—would come.”

“Oh.”

“But I did also vaguely recognize you, I think. From the image.”

Lifting your wrist, you glance at the watch. “I should start to head back. Lock the clinic up.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jeongguk says, and when you meet his dark eyes again, he looks genuine. “I don’t think you’re a freak, I promise.”

“It’s alright,” you say, offering him a quick smile. “I’m not supposed to be out this long anyway. I have to get back and finish up the bill. I’ll email it to you along with the advice, is that okay?”

He nods, clearly accepting that he did in fact upset you to some degree. “Okay. Thank you for the help.”

You smile again, relaxing your shoulders and taking a deep breath. Maybe you should cut him some slack. Technically, he wasn’t even the one to bring your paper up; that was all you. And besides very, very handsome, you haven’t once thought of him as anything other than sweet.

"No problem."

The drive back to the clinic is quiet. You don’t even turn the prehistoric radio on. It doesn’t matter because your thoughts are loud enough anyway, circling back to one thing. One thing and one person.

The paper you wrote in vet school was a mistake. Not that it was bad per se—it was a perfectly science-based paper, focused on the more unusual biological traits found in the animal kingdom. 

Unfortunately, you made the grave mistake of connecting some of those traits to various mythical creatures and their ‘unbelievable’ biology. Some of your peers—predominantly men—found it absolutely ridiculous and teased you for it. The more you tried to defend yourself, the funnier they thought it was.

You’d think it at least would’ve stayed within whatever small circle vet med is, but when your small town happens to be known specifically for the vet med program, a surprisingly large chunk of the population has some connection to it. You’re lucky that not many wish to stay in town after graduating, or you would’ve been last on the list to get a job. You still remember your current boss’s inspecting eyes as she interviewed you, trying to make sure you weren’t actually batshit crazy. That was maybe five or so years ago, and you haven’t really had to think about the paper in probably at least a year. 

Until today. Again, it wasn’t Jeongguk’s fault, you don’t think he even meant for it to be brought up. It still caught you off guard, though, because even if you don’t know him, he didn’t give off the same vibe as the people who laughed at you. And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his build, and how the oversized clothes hung off his strong, muscular body. Or his large, veiny hands as he gently pet the mother cat. His dark eyes, sharp jaw, and strong eyebrows. Even his nose—with its straight bridge and softly rounded tip, creating such a striking, masculine profile—had a way of completely mesmerizing you.

Not only is he probably the most attractive man you’ve seen in a long time—maybe ever, but he seemed… warm. You wouldn’t expect a man like him to care for a stray cat and her newborn kittens, much less call a vet out to help, but he did.

Back at the clinic, you take a seat in front of the desktop computer, typing your notes into the chart and updating the bill. Besides the obviously tragic parts of dealing with sick and injured animals, the worst part is probably billing the owners. You need money to live just like everyone else, but you’ll always feel wrong charging worried owners to care for their family members. Even now, as you’re adding the services to… Jeon Jeongguk’s bill, you think about how the cats don’t even belong to him.

The cursor hovers over his name. Who is he? How did he come to be the owner of that house, and why own it if he’s not living there or at least visiting regularly? Why bother even fixing the electrical wiring if it’s just gonna stay empty? And just how long had it been empty?

The questions whirl in your head. Though it’s not really any of your business why he returned, maybe you could’ve at least asked him where he’s from? It would’ve been acceptable small talk, right? Could you also have asked why he felt the need to take care of the cats, even when you offered to take them off his hands, or would that have been rude? 

Realizing that you’re not getting anywhere, you bill him for a standard home visit of half an hour—even though you stayed closer to one—and for the gas just so you don’t lose money on the visit. You don’t add the same day fee or charge him for the used materials.

<previous | next>

It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family. 

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. 

They 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. 

So you do.

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 shyt. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous.

They’ve tried 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.

-

A/N: Hope y'all are hyped???

-

Permanent Taglist: 

@tea4sykes @glossdebut @angellekookie @rottingbedpost @kiki-zb 

@agustblog @wonh0oe @woozuzu @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld 

@kimsaerom @kam9404 @00-sleepdontweep-00 @mggv97 @marnz1990 

@tarahardcore @minjenna @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @vesperbells 

@lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup @futuristicenemychaos @jadestonex7

@granataepfelchen @annyeongbitch7 @chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts

@kpophosblog @tinyelfperson @yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 

@diame93 @withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm- @lilmeowzsworld @minbon 

@sanarin @jimingirl95 @serenadeonacanoe @kittycat1dsn @hanaohreally 

@libbieminie @pastelmin @goldietigers294 @hoemeprazole @michaela0901

you refuse.

“i’m fine,” you say, even though neither megan nor jimin asked. megan gives you a look that says you are absolutely not fine and she will be billing you for the therapy session later.

your ex whispers something into the girl’s ear and she laughs louder than the music, fingers tightening in his shirt like she’s staking claim. something sharp settles in your chest– not heartbreak, not even sadness, just pride refusing to be stepped on in a house full of people who would love a front row seat to your humiliation.

you set your drink down carefully. too carefully. jimin notices. “whatever you’re thinking,” he says calmly, “think smaller.”

but you’re already scanning the room, and that’s when you see him.

jeon jungkook is leaning against the kitchen counter like he’s mildly inconvenienced by existing here. black tee, rings catching the light when he adjusts his grip on his cup, expression bored in a way that still somehow draws attention. people orbit him without him trying. and right next to him, almost comically close, is his ex, hand resting on his arm, laughing at something he clearly did not say to be funny. he looks uninterested.

interesting.

megan follows your gaze and immediately tightens her hold on you. “no,” she says. jimin exhales slowly. “if you do what i think you’re about to do, i need legal immunity.”

you gently pry your arm from megan’s grip. “hold my dignity,” you tell her.

“you don’t have any left,” she hisses.

too late.

you’re already walking.

the crowd parts subtly as you move through it, conversations dipping just slightly as people clock your trajectory. jungkook notices you when you’re a few steps away. his brows lift, not confused, just curious. his ex goes quiet mid-sentence as you stop in front of him.

“hi,” you say, like this is normal. like you approach him all the time.

he studies you for a second– slow, assessing, before answering, “hi.”

up close, he smells clean. warm. distracting. you don’t let yourself hesitate. you reach for his hand and lace your fingers with his. his movement stills, just for a second, surprise flickering across his face before something sharper replaces it.

“play along,” you murmur quietly.

his eyes flick past you, following the invisible line you’ve drawn. your ex is staring now, no subtlety left. jungkook’s ex is staring too, her hand slowly slipping from his arm. jungkook looks back at you, and then he smiles. not confused. not resistant. entertained.

“oh,” he says softly, like he’s just figured out the game. “i see.”

before your nerve can betray you, you step closer and let your free hand rest lightly against his chest, just intimate enough to look real. his hand comes to your waist automatically. not hesitant. not unsure. firm and steady, like it belongs there.

“you sure?” he murmurs, leaning down slightly so the question feels private.

“very.”

you kiss him.

not quick. not cautious. deliberate. you commit to it fully because there’s no halfway option here. for half a second he’s still– processing, maybe surprised by the audacity, and then his hand tightens at your waist and his other hand slides up, thumb brushing your jaw as he tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss. not obscene. not desperate. controlled. convincing.

it’s not affection. it’s a fucking headline.

when he pulls back, it’s slow, like he’s not in any rush to detach. your foreheads nearly touch. your pulse is loud in your ears.

“wow,” megan whispers somewhere behind you, equal parts horrified and impressed. jimin sounds almost proud when he mutters, “that’s commitment.”

jungkook’s thumb traces lazily against your hip as he glances past you again. your ex isn’t smiling anymore. his ex looks personally offended.

“so,” jungkook murmurs quietly, eyes settling back on yours, “who are we making uncomfortable?”

“both of them,” you answer without breaking eye contact.

his jaw tightens– subtle, but there. something unreadable flickers across his expression before he shifts, turning you so your back brushes lightly against his chest, his arm settling around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. it feels… easy. easier than it should.

“how convincing do you want this to be?” he asks softly, close enough that the question feels like it belongs only to you.

you don’t hesitate. “very.”

he hums, low, almost amused, and then he says, “babe, you want something to drink?”

babe.

your heart does something inconvenient, but you tilt your head up at him like you’ve heard it a hundred times before. “surprise me.”

his smirk deepens. the room is still watching. your ex is still staring. and for the first time since you walked in, you’re not the one on display– you’re the one controlling it.

the party shifts after that. it’s subtle at first– conversations picking back up, music swelling again, but the energy around you is different. people look at you openly now. not with pity. with curiosity. jungkook doesn’t drop his arm from around you once. not when he grabs you a drink. not when someone from his friend group raises their brows at him in silent question. not when your ex very obviously tries not to look like he’s looking.

“so this is new,” one of jungkook’s friends says, eyeing you both.

“is it?” jungkook replies easily, taking a sip from his cup. his hand rests low on your waist, thumb moving absently like he’s unaware he’s doing it. you’re painfully aware.

you tilt your head slightly. “we’ve just been private.”

the lie rolls off your tongue too smoothly.

his friend looks between you, clearly unconvinced but entertained. “right.”

across the room, your ex stands up. that’s how you know it worked. he says something short to the girl, jaw tight, and heads toward the kitchen like he needs air. he doesn’t look at you as he passes. that’s worse.

jungkook notices. of course he does.

“he looks thrilled,” he murmurs near the shell of your ear.

“good,” you reply, though your pulse is still running high from the adrenaline of what you just did.

his ex approaches then, expression tight. “since when?” she asks, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.

jungkook doesn’t hesitate. “since we wanted to.” her eyes flick to his hand on your waist. “you move fast.” he smiles slightly. “i don’t like wasting time.”

you almost choke on your drink. she leaves not long after that, just stiff and irritated, watching over her shoulder.

“okay,” megan appears at your side, eyes wide. “what did i just witness?” “strategic brilliance,” jimin answers before you can. jungkook glances at them and then back at you. “are they always like this?”

“unfortunately,” you say. “good,” he replies. “i respect supportive chaos.”

the night continues with you tucked against him like it’s routine. every time someone looks, he leans closer. every time your ex drifts into your peripheral vision, jungkook’s fingers press slightly firmer into your waist. it should feel awkward and force, but somehow, it feels disturbingly natural.

by the time the party thins out, the rumor has already started spreading. you can hear it in fragments as you pass people near the door. “did you know?” “since when?” “i thought he didn’t date seriously.”

outside, the air is cooler. quieter. the house noise muffled behind you. jungkook finally lets a little space exist between you, though his hand doesn’t fully drop until you both reach the sidewalk.

there’s a pause.

“so,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets, studying you in a way that feels far less– fake, now. “impulse decision?”

you fold your arms loosely. “maybe.”

“effective,” he admits.

“your ex didn’t look thrilled either.”

his jaw shifts slightly. “yeah.”

there it is. the mutual understanding. this wasn’t charity. this wasn’t random. this was convenient.

you look at him carefully. “we could keep it up.”

he tilts his head. “you want to?”

“it worked, didn’t it?”

he considers that. glances back at the house, where silhouettes move past the windows. “if we’re doing this,” he says slowly, stepping a little closer again, “we don’t half-do it.”

“meaning?”

“meaning no awkward energy in public. no looking like we’re forcing it. if we’re dating, we’re dating.”

the word lands heavier than it should.

“it wouldn’t be real,” you clarify.

“obviously.”

a beat.

“mutual benefit,” he continues. “your ex sees you’re fine. my ex stops hovering. campus gets something to talk about.”

“and we end it when?”

“when it stops being useful.”

that feels safe enough. calculated. contained.

“rules,” you say.

his mouth curves slightly. “i was hoping you’d say that.”

you both start walking without discussing where you’re going. just away from the house. away from the noise.

“no mixed signals outside the act,” you begin.

“define mixed.”

“no flirting when no one’s watching.”

he hums. “so only performative flirting?”

“exactly.”

“fine.”

“no jealousy.”

he glances at you sideways. “that one’s unrealistic.”

“it’s fake,” you remind him.

“right.”

“and if one of us wants out,” you continue, “we say it. no ghosting. no public embarrassment.”

“agreed.”

you stop walking and hold your hand out between you like you’re closing a business deal. he looks down at your hand, then back at you. something unreadable passes through his expression before he takes it. his grip is warm. firm.

“no feelings,” he echoes.

he doesn’t let go immediately.

neither do you.

and somewhere in the back of your mind, beneath the adrenaline and the satisfaction and the petty victory, there’s a small voice whispering that this is either going to be brilliant– or catastrophic.

megan finds you in the campus cafe the next morning looking like you’ve just committed a felony. not the cool kind either. the embarrassing kind. you’re hunched over an iced coffee you haven’t touched, staring at your phone like it personally betrayed you. jimin is already there, dramatically slurping his drink and watching you with the kind of curiosity usually reserved for reality tv finales.

“so,” megan says, sliding into the seat across from you, “how fake are we talking on a scale from disney channel to hbo?”

you look up slowly. “shut up.”

jimin gasps, hand to chest. “it’s hbo.”

you drop your head to the table. “it’s not hbo.”

“did you kiss?” megan asks immediately.

“define kiss,” you mumble into the wood.

there’s a beat of silence. jimin leans forward. “oh my god. it’s hbo.”

you shoot upright. “it was part of the plan.”

“was it?” megan narrows her eyes. “because i distinctly remember the plan being ‘light touching, subtle flexing, make the ex uncomfortable.’ i don’t remember ‘full cinematic moment under string lights.’”

you press your lips together. that kiss stupid, strategic, necessary, absolutely not lingering for an extra second because jungkook’s hand had slid from your waist to the small of your back and stayed there.

“it looked convincing,” you defend weakly.

jimin snorts. “convincing? babe. half the party thought you two were about to disappear into a bedroom.”

you blink. “we did not–”

“not the point,” megan cuts in, smirking. “the point is it worked. your ex looked like he was chewing glass.”

that makes you sit up straighter. “he did?”

“oh, he did,” jimin confirms, delighted. “i thought he was going to pull jungkook outside. which, by the way, would have been incredible for ratings.”

you try not to smile. you fail. “okay. good. that’s good. that’s literally the goal.”

megan studies you. “then why do you look like you’re spiraling?”

because jungkook texted you at 1:17 a.m. because it wasn’t a joke. because the message is still sitting there on your screen.

jungkook: you good?

you: yeah. you?

jungkook: yeah. you were convincing.

you stared at that word convincing for a solid five minutes like it was coded.

“show us the texts,” jimin demands suddenly, as if he can smell tension.

“no.”

“show. us.” megan reaches for your phone.

you yank it back. “there’s nothing to see.”

jimin squints at you. “if there was nothing to see, you’d hand it over.”

you hesitate. that’s all the confirmation they need. megan lunges. you shriek. iced coffee sloshes dangerously. jimin grabs your wrist. it turns into a full, humiliating tug-of-war in the middle of the café until someone coughs loudly nearby and you all freeze.

you smooth your hair like nothing happened.

megan leans back, victorious, phone in hand. “oh my god,” she whispers, scanning. “he texted you first.”

you cross your arms. “so?”

jimin leans over her shoulder. “you were convincing.” he looks up slowly. “that’s not neutral.”

“it is neutral,” you argue. “it’s feedback.”

megan gives you a look. “feedback would be ‘good job.’ convincing implies effort. detail. commitment.”

you hate that she’s right. you hate that your stomach flips a little.

jimin taps the screen. “and you answered in three minutes.”

you glare. “i was awake.”

“at 1:17?” he deadpans.

you refuse to answer.

megan hands your phone back with a smirk. “be careful.”

“it’s fake,” you insist. “it’s literally fake dating.”

jimin hums. “yeah. until someone forgets that.”

you scoff, but your brain replays last night anyway– jungkook’s hand at your waist guiding you through the crowd, the way he leaned down to murmur “relax” against your ear when your ex walked in, the subtle flex of his jaw when people stared. none of that felt like a joke. and you hate that you noticed.

your phone buzzes again. all three of you look down at once.

jungkook: lunch today? need to keep the story straight.

jimin lets out a dramatic scream. “oh he’s good.”

megan grins. “he’s very good.”

you stare at the message, heart doing something deeply unstrategic. lunch today could be public. visible. effective. it could also mean sitting across from him in daylight and pretending your pulse doesn’t spike when he looks at you like that.

you type back before you can overthink it.

you: sure. 12?

jungkook: i’ll pick you up.

pick you up.

jimin falls back in his chair like he’s been shot. “pick you up? he’s escalating.”

megan fans herself. “campus star behavior.”

you shove your phone into your bag, standing abruptly. “it’s branding.”

jimin cackles. “you’re in danger.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s heat in your cheeks you can’t quite explain. this is just phase two. public consistency. controlled exposure. mutual revenge. nothing more.

except you can already feel it shifting.

the plan was to make your ex jealous. the plan was to make his ex uncomfortable. the plan was never to look forward to the next time jungkook touches you like it isn’t pretend.

11:59.

your phone buzzes against the café table and all three of you freeze like it’s a life-altering notification instead of exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

jungkook: outside.

megan inhales dramatically. “oh he’s insane.”

“it’s one word,” you mutter, but you’re already fixing your hair in your camera reflection.

jimin climbs halfway onto his chair to peek out the window. “i regret to inform you he’s leaning.”

“what does that even mean?”

“against the car. sleeves rolled up. sunglasses on. like he owns tuition.”

you refuse to look. you will not be predictable. you will not be eager. you will not–

you look.

and immediately understand the problem.

he’s parked right by the main walkway, prime foot-traffic hours, like he specifically chose maximum visibility. one shoulder against the car, hands in his pockets, looking entirely unbothered. two girls walking past visibly slow down. one nearly trips.

your stomach drops in a way that is deeply unhelpful.

“remember,” megan whispers, gripping your arm, “this is revenge. not romance.”

“i know.”

“don’t fall.”

“i’m not.”

jimin squints at you. “she’s already wobbling.”

you shove them both away and step outside before they can narrate your emotional downfall in real time.

the second jungkook sees you, he pushes off the car. sunglasses come off. his eyes drag over you once– not exaggerated, not obvious, just slow enough to make you aware of it.

“hey,” he says casually.

“hi.”

you hate that your voice comes out softer than planned.

“ready?”

“for the media rollout?”

a faint smirk. “exactly.”

he reaches for your hand without hesitation. no buildup. no joke about it. his fingers slide between yours and lace there like it’s something he’s done a hundred times.

it’s firm, steady, and oh so warm–

you remind yourself this is strategy. people are watching. your ex is somewhere on campus. this is consistency. this is what believable looks like.

still, your pulse jumps.

he opens the passenger door for you.

you blink. “you don’t have to–”

“i know.”

his hand lands at your lower back as you slide into the seat. it stays there just long enough to feel deliberate.

you pretend not to notice.

of course he chooses the cafe by the main lawn. outdoor seating. glass walls. zero privacy. you almost admire the commitment.

the second you step out of the car, his hand shifts from yours to your waist. not loose. not hovering. planted.

“subtle,” you murmur.

“you said jealous.”

“i said jealous, not trending.”

he huffs a quiet laugh and guides you inside.

heads turn. you feel it instantly, the low hum of attention, the whispers that aren’t subtle at all.

and then you see him.

your ex. two tables over. with her.

she’s mid-sentence when he spots you. his expression changes first. then hers follows when she notices jungkook’s arm around you.

jungkook notices too.

his hand tightens at your waist, almost instinctively.

“window seat?” he asks calmly.

“sure.”

you sit across from him at first. safe distance. controlled. you talk about classes. about how ridiculous last night was. about nothing important. it feels normal. almost too normal.

then his foot brushes yours under the table.

you glance down. he doesn’t move it.

“accident?” you ask.

“no.”

you kick him lightly. he just smirks.

halfway through your drink, he stands. you assume he’s grabbing napkins. instead, he walks around the table and slides into your side of the booth.

close.

your thigh presses against his. your shoulder brushes his chest. there’s barely any space between you now.

“what are you doing?”

“looks more convincing.”

your heart does something embarrassing.

his arm stretches along the back of the booth behind you, fingers occasionally grazing your shoulder like it’s absentminded. it’s not absentminded. you can feel the intention in every small touch.

you say something sarcastic and he laughs — properly — head tilting slightly back. without thinking, you reach up and fix the collar of his shirt.

it’s automatic. casual.

he goes quiet.

his eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before lifting back up.

his hand slides from the seat to your waist. not exaggerated. not playful. just resting there.

your breath stutters.

you glance over at your ex. he looks irritated. his girlfriend looks worse.

mission accomplished.

but your attention isn’t on them anymore. it’s on the warmth of jungkook’s hand against your side. the way he leans in closer when you talk. the way he doesn’t seem distracted by anyone else in the room.

this was supposed to feel petty. funny. strategic.

instead it feels… easy.

and that’s dangerous.

when you stand to leave, he doesn’t create distance. he stays close enough that your arms brush as you walk. outside, students move across the lawn in both directions. maximum visibility.

“i think we’ve made the point,” you say quietly.

“have we?”

before you can answer, his hands settle at your hips from behind, pulling you back against him just slightly while you wait for a gap to cross. not dramatic. not exaggerated. just close.

your back presses to his chest.

your heart is unwell.

“you’re overdoing it,” you whisper.

“you’re smiling,” he replies softly.

you immediately try to fix your face. it’s too late.

across the lawn, your ex is staring. jaw tight. arms crossed.

jungkook doesn’t look at him.

he’s looking down at you.

and there’s something different in his expression now. less teasing. less amused. more focused. like he’s paying attention to how you react instead of who’s watching.

his fingers flex lightly at your hips. testing.

you don’t pull away.

and that’s when it hits you.

this isn’t funny anymore. it’s not just a bit you’re committing to. you’re aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with your ex or the people staring. the warmth at your back feels solid, grounding, and you don’t move away from it. that’s what unsettles you most– how natural it is to stay right where you are.

it sneaks up on you, this shift. not dramatic. not obvious. just a quiet realization that you’re a little too comfortable, a little too aware of the way his hands rest on your hips.

you don’t notice the way his expression hardens when your ex keeps looking. you don’t notice how his fingers press in slightly, not for show, but like he’s claiming space without thinking about it. you don’t notice how he waits until you’re both back inside the car before letting go, or how he goes quiet on the drive, eyes forward, jaw tight like something’s clicked into place.

you just know that somewhere along the way, this stopped being strategy.

and whatever this is turning into, it’s not going to stay simple.

“come over.”

you’re halfway through unbuckling your seatbelt outside your dorm when he says it, casual, like he’s asking if you want coffee.

you turn your head slowly. “right now?”

“yeah.”

there’s a very real moment where you could laugh it off. tell him you have things to do. keep this clean. keep it public. keep it strategic. instead, you hear yourself say, “okay.”

the drive to his apartment is quiet again, but this time it feels different. not tense exactly. just aware. every small movement feels amplified, when his hand shifts on the steering wheel, when your knee brushes the center console, when he glances at you for half a second too long at a red light.

his apartment is off-campus. top floor. of course it is.

when he unlocks the door and steps inside, you hesitate for half a second before following. it smells clean. faint coffee. laundry detergent. it’s neat in a way that feels intentional, not staged.

he drops his keys on the counter. you stand near the couch like you’re not entirely sure what the rules are here.

there’s no one watching.

no ex. no girlfriend. no crowd.

just you and him.

“you can sit,” he says, noticing the way you’re hovering.

“i know how apartments work.”

a small smile. “do you?”

you glare at him and move further in, sitting on the edge of the couch like you’re not aware of how this looks.

he leans back against the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely. watching you.

“so,” you say, aiming for casual, “what was so urgent?”

he doesn’t answer immediately.

“you leaned into me,” he says finally.

your stomach flips. “we already talked about that.”

“did we?”

“yes. on the lawn. jealous ex? optics?”

he pushes off the counter and walks toward you, slow and unhurried.

“that wasn’t for them,” he says.

you swallow. “you’re overthinking.”

“am i?” he stops in front of you. close enough that you have to tilt your chin up slightly to keep eye contact. “no one was looking when you did it,” he adds quietly. your pulse jumps. “you don’t know that.”

“i do.”

his hand comes up, settling at your waist. not pulling you in. not dramatic. just there. warm. steady. you could step back. however you don’t.

“you’re enjoying this too much,” you murmur. his thumb presses lightly against your side. “you came over.”

you don’t have a good comeback for that.

the air feels heavier in here. quieter.

“you’re good at pretending,” he says again, softer now. “and you’re not?”

his jaw tightens slightly.

“not about this.”

your heart stumbles. this was supposed to be mutual revenge, simple and controlled, but it doesn’t feel controlled. his hand shifts just slightly, sliding more securely around your waist. not trapping you in. testing the waters.

“you still want it to stay fake?” he asks. 

you should say yes.

but you don’t.

instead, your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, as he inhales slowly. and judging by the way his grip tightens just a little, it looks like he’s been holding back all day. his arms rest on your shoulders. 

slowly, he pulls you in for a desperate needy kiss, the kiss is gentle. brief. careful in the way that says he’s been wanting this longer than he’ll ever admit. his hand comes up to your cheek without thinking, thumb blazing hot against your cool skin, like it’s always known where it belongs. you smile into it, softly, and he exhales like something in him finally snaps.

when he pulls back, it’s reluctant, almost like he doesn’t want to leave his pretty assault on your lips, as a string of saliva connects you. his forehead rests against yours for a second while you both catch your breath. a smirk rests pretty on his plump lips and you can't help but bite down on your own when one of his hands pushes your shirt up, he continues leaving small, wet open mouth kisses down your stomach stopping just at the hem of your skirt, eyes searching for consent, which you happily give.

“needy, aren’t we?” he mumbles as he pulls your skirt and panties in one swift motion, “you're so pretty, angel.” he husks against your skin, the air blown out of his lips causes goosebumps on your skin, and a shiver to follow down your spine.

his head dips down to run his tongue flat against your sensitive bundle of nerve. he slowly flicks at it with the tip of his tongue, only to lap up everything that's seeping out of your entrance, making you desperately ache for more contact–

"so fucking sweet." he groans into you, the vibration of his words adding onto the pleasure your receiving.

he buries his tongue further and further inside of your cunt, licking rough fat stripes up to your clit faster, harder. and then add on to the pleasure he slips in three of his fat digits, fucking them into you at a harsh pace. 

"s-shit– shit, im gonna cum" you say between breaths, barely even able to form coherent sentences, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his fingers and tongue bringing you to a trance like state. stars, that's what you swore you saw as your orgasm approached.

the lewd sounds of his fingers fucking into you, and your soft moans filled the room, however all you could hear was how fucked your breathing was, and his deep velvety voice, “already?” he asks– slightly chuckling, “gonna cum for me huh? make a fuckin’ mess on my fingers baby?” he says as his tongue viciously attacks your clit, you pathetically nod in response, lips resting ajar letting moans slip through.

“koo– i-i can’t– shit slow down,” you say as you climax, back arching, hands clawing at his lower stomach, leaving angry, red marks. his fingers continue to fuck into you helping you ride out of your high– making sure to mutter “good girl” while pressing soft, tender kisses to your inner thigh. “did so, so good baby.” he coos, as he withdraws his fingers from your heat, getting up to unbuckle his trousers and slide of his calvin klein boxers.

his cock stands red and proud, and undoubtedly huge– bigger than anything you’ve taken before. slowly, he spreads your thighs as he holds his rock solid dick by the base and runs it between your folds, mutters something about how good you feel, before slowly sinking in, inch by inch. a sharp whine leaves your pretty lips, your gummy walls clenching around his thick length– “so–so full koo,” you whimper out, a small whine escapes your throat once he hits that sweet spot as he starts to move. “faster.” you mewl out. "shit baby," he husks against the nape of your neck, his pace increasing, hips slamming up against your ass. the lewd, sinful sound of your skin spanking against each other echoing into the room. "so desperate for my cock, huh? desperate and needy slut, taking me so well." he grunts, hips slightly faltering as his high approaches.

it hasn’t even been 10 minutes since your last orgasm and here you are, “koo– m’gonna..” you whine unable to finish your sentence as pleasure fills the bane of your existence. “i know baby– m’close too.” he coos, as his hand dips down to toy with your pussy. rubbing fast circles against your clit.  

his pace slows a little. head falls into the crook of your neck. teeth; digging biting. leaving marks. your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, you swore you saw the gates of heaven open, stars and all y’know? blinding white.

jungkook groans, feeling your gummy walls constrict his cock.  “i’m close,” he grunts out. he lets out a pornographic moan as he cums, bites down on his bottom lip. chest heaving, the muscles in his stomach beginning to tense in the way they always do. painting your plush walls white.

“you were s’good f’me baby.” he coos, dropping down to lay next to you. he studies you for a second, thumb brushing lazily against your cheek. “i love you,” he says, and together you both drift off to dreamland. 

morning light pushes through the gap in his curtains, too bright and way too unforgiving for how late you fell asleep. you wake up first, slow and heavy, and for a second you don’t move. you’re on your side, sheets tangled around your legs, his arm draped securely over your waist like it settled there sometime in the night and decided to stay. his breathing is steady against the back of your neck, warm and even. you very intentionally do not replay last night in detail. instead, you reach carefully for your phone on the nightstand, trying not to disturb him.

8:42 a.m.

you squint at the screen and immediately open the group chat.

you: i have made some… decisions

megan: why does that sound criminal

jimin: what did you do

you glance over your shoulder. he’s still asleep. hair messy. face relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. one leg hooked loosely over yours like even unconscious he’s making sure you’re still there. something in your chest softens before you can stop it.

you: i’m not in my dorm

megan: ???

jimin: oh my god

megan: where are you

you bite your lip to keep from smiling.

you: top floor. off campus.

the typing bubble appears instantly.

megan: NO

jimin: YOU DID NOT

megan: DID YOU—

you: don’t finish that sentence

jimin: she did

you press your face into the pillow to muffle a laugh and that’s when the arm around your waist tightens slightly. you freeze.

“why are you giggling,” his voice is rough with sleep, low and right behind your ear.

you slowly roll onto your back. he blinks at you, still half asleep, hair completely ruined, eyes barely open.

“i’m not,” you whisper.

he squints. “you are.”

you lock your phone and drop it onto your chest like that makes you less obvious. “it’s nothing.”

instead of letting go, he shifts closer, pulling you into him until your back is against his chest again. his chin brushes your shoulder, his voice quieter now. “is it about me.”

you scoff softly, heat climbing up your neck. “you’re so full of yourself.”

a faint laugh rumbles against your skin. “you’re still here.”

that shuts you up.

your phone buzzes again between you.

megan: is he awake

jimin: tell him i said hi

you can’t stop the smile this time. he notices.

“they know,” he murmurs.

“obviously they know.”

“and?”

“and they’re being dramatic.”

he hums like he doesn’t believe that’s the full story. his fingers trace a lazy line along your side, absentminded but grounding. “about what.”

you hesitate just long enough for him to notice.

“about me being here,” you admit.

“do you regret it.”

it’s not teasing. not smug. just quiet.

you look at him properly then. sunlight catches across his face, softening the sharp lines you’re used to seeing in public. he looks different like this. less guarded.

you should feel embarrassed. or panicked. or at least slightly overwhelmed.

you don’t.

“no,” you say honestly.

something in his expression shifts at that. subtle. satisfied, maybe.

your phone buzzes again and this time he reaches over you, takes it gently from your hand, and sets it face down on the nightstand.

“they can wait,” he says, voice still thick with sleep.

you laugh under your breath. “megan is going to combust.”

“she’ll survive.”

you’re still smiling and he notices immediately.

“there it is,” he murmurs.

“what.”

“that look.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re laughing now, the sound quiet and light in the morning stillness. he watches you like he’s memorizing it, like this is somehow better than any reaction you gave him yesterday in front of half the campus.

outside his window, the world is already moving.

the first photo is a mirror selfie at a gym. he’s shirtless, phone held low in one hand, the other resting behind his neck like he wasn’t even trying. sweat darkens his hair at the temples. his shoulders are broader than you remember. defined arms. sharp lines down his stomach. there’s a smear of chalk on his palm like he just finished lifting.

you blink.

okay.

you swipe to the next picture.

he’s wearing a black compression shirt this time, sleeves pushed up, boxing gloves hanging around his neck. there’s a bruise blooming faintly along his cheekbone. he’s smiling, crooked and cocky, like he knows exactly how he looks. you roll your eyes even though there’s no one there to see it.

“of course,” you mutter to yourself.

third photo. casual. sitting on what looks like a balcony railing, city lights behind him. jeans, hoodie, messy hair. he looks older. not in a bad way. just more settled into himself. more solid.

your chest does something weird. you scroll down to the bio.

“probably stronger than you.

i talk a lot of shit but i’m nice, promise.

if you can outdrink me i’ll buy the next round.”

you let out a short laugh.

that is so him.

familiar.

a memory flashes before you can stop it. high school gymnasium. the sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor. him across the court, grinning after scoring like he’d just personally offended you.

you shove the thought away. this is ridiculous. you have not seen him in years. you barely thought about him after graduation. there is no reason your stomach should feel tight right now.

you should swipe left.

obviously.

instead your thumb hovers over the screen. you tilt your head slightly, studying the first photo again. the confidence. the expression. the fact that he clearly put that shirtless picture first on purpose.

god, he’s so full of himself.

you swipe right.

immediately regret it.

“what am i doing,” you mumble, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you. it buzzes not even two seconds later. you stare at it.

no way.

you pick it up slowly.

it’s a match.

your stomach drops. for a full five seconds you just sit there, staring at the screen like it might change if you wait long enough. then another notification pops up.

jungkook:

well this is unexpected.

your mouth falls open.

he messaged first.

you type back before you can overthink it.

you:

unfortunately.

three dots appear almost instantly.

jungkook:

still mean.

you snort.

you:

still annoying?

jungkook:

still obsessed with me?

you actually laugh out loud at that.

some things really never change.

the conversation slides into place without effort. like stepping back into a rhythm you didn’t realize you remembered. the teasing comes naturally. the sarcasm. the little jabs.

he asks what you’ve been doing since school. you give a vague answer. you ask about him.

jungkook:

trainer now. boxing too.

you glance back at his profile photos.

yeah. that checks out.

you:

so you get paid to stare at yourself in mirrors?

jungkook:

only when you’re not around to do it for me.

you roll your eyes but your face feels warm.

why does this feel so easy?

you haven’t talked to him in years. back then half your interactions were arguments. competing over grades. sniping at each other during group projects. trying to prove who was better at whatever random thing came up.

you were both stubborn. neither of you ever backed down. it should feel awkward now. it doesn’t.

if anything, it feels… familiar. comfortable in a weird, slightly dangerous way.

your phone buzzes again.

jungkook:

you still get that wrinkle when you’re annoyed?

you pause.

you:

what wrinkle?

jungkook:

between your eyebrows

your chest tightens.

he remembers that?

you stare at the message longer than you mean to.

you:

you’re imagining things.

jungkook:

am i?

another pause.

then:

jungkook:

we should get a drink.

your heart does an immediate, traitorous jump.

you stare at the words.

you should say no.

that would be the logical response. safe. normal. mature.

instead you type:

you:

why? so you can brag about how strong you are in person?

jungkook:

obviously.

you bite your lip, thinking.

jungkook:

what’s wrong? scared?

there it is.

that stupid competitive trigger he always knew how to hit.

you shake your head, already typing.

you:

not even a little.

jungkook:

then come out.

you hesitate for maybe three seconds.

then:

you:

fine.

his reply comes almost immediately.

jungkook:

tomorrow?

the next evening you tell yourself you’re only going because you’re curious. closure, maybe. that’s what you call it in your head while you’re getting ready. just seeing how he turned out. catching up. proving to yourself you don’t care anymore.

you definitely don’t spend too long deciding what to wear. you definitely don’t check your reflection twice before leaving.

by the time you get to the bar your nerves are buzzing under your skin, though you refuse to label it as nervousness. you pick a stool near the middle. order a drink. check your phone even though you know he hasn’t arrived yet. your knee bounces lightly.

you take a sip. the alcohol burns just enough to settle you a little. the door opens behind you and cold air brushes your shoulders. you don’t turn right away. there’s this strange awareness prickling along your spine. then you look.

and there he is.

he’s wearing a black jacket over a dark shirt, jeans, boots. casual. effortless. taller than you remember. broader too. his hair falls slightly into his eyes as he scans the room.

when he spots you, his expression shifts. recognition. then that familiar half smile. your stomach flips.

he walks over like he’s completely sure of himself. like there was never a chance you wouldn’t be here. he stops in front of you.

for a second neither of you speaks.

up close, he looks even more different. older. sharper. his presence fills the space in a way it never did when you were teenagers.

“you look different,” he says.

“good different or bad different?”

“good,” he says immediately. then, quieter, “grown.”

your stomach flips in a way you do not like.

you deflect. “you look exactly the same. ego included.”

he laughs under his breath. “yeah?”

“yeah. cocky bio, shirtless gym pictures. subtle.”

“it worked,” he says. “you matched with me.”

you scoff. “i matched because i was curious.”

one eyebrow lifts. “is that a compliment?”

“don’t push it.”

he laughs softly and slides onto the stool beside you. close enough that your arms almost touch. and just like that, the past and present blur together. same teasing. same energy. except now there’s something else underneath it.

something you definitely did not plan for. and you have a feeling this night is not going to stay simple for very long. there is a pause, heavier this time.

“you really hated me back then?” he asks suddenly. the question catches you off guard. you frown. “you were competition. you acted like everything was a game.”

“it was a game,” he says. “with you.”

“that doesn’t make it better.”

“i know.” you blink again. that was not defensive. not teasing. just honest. you look down at your drink. “you were always trying to one-up me.”

“because you were the only person who could keep up.”

you glance back at him. his expression is different now. softer around the edges. “you know,” he continues, “i thought you hated me for real.”

“i didn’t hate you,” you say quietly.

he raises an eyebrow. “no?”

“you just… got under my skin.”

“still do?”

your breath catches. you should say no. instead you shrug. “maybe.”

he watches you for a long second, like he is trying to read something deeper. “i missed this,” he says.

“arguing?”

“you.”

your heart stutters. you laugh to cover it. “that’s dramatic.”

“i’m serious.”

he turns his body more toward you now. closer. your knees touch again and this time neither of you moves. “do you know how many times i almost messaged you first?” he says.

you blink. “what?”

“before we matched,” he clarifies.

“you didn’t.”

“because i figured you’d ignore me.”

you stare at him. “i almost unmatched you.”

he grins. “see? i was right.”

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “you’re unbelievable.”

“but you’re here.”

his voice is quieter again.

there is something building between you. not sudden. not explosive. just steady pressure, like a door being pushed open inch by inch. “why did you come?” he asks.

you hesitate. honesty feels dangerous.

“…closure,” you say finally.

he studies you. “and are you getting it?”

you swallow. “i don’t know yet.”

he nods slowly. then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches over and tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. the touch is brief. your whole body reacts anyway. “you’re tense,” he murmurs.

“i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

you exhale sharply. “you make me nervous.” his eyebrows lift slightly. “me?”

“yes, you. you’ve always had this… energy.”

“what kind of energy?”

you hesitate, then admit it. “like you’re about to do something reckless.”

he smiles, slow and knowing. “maybe i am.”

your pulse jumps. “what?” you ask. instead of answering, he finishes his drink, sets the glass down, and stands. “come on,” he says.

“where?”

“outside. it’s loud in here.”

you hesitate for half a second. then you slide off the stool and follow him. the night air is cool against your skin when you step out of the bar. the noise fades behind the door. streetlights cast everything in warm yellow. you turn toward him. he is already looking at you.

closer now. much closer.

“so,” he says quietly, “closure.”

“yeah.”

“do you feel it?”

you shake your head before you can stop yourself. “no,” you admit.

his jaw tightens slightly, like he is holding something back. “me neither,” he says. the space between you feels charged. your hands are inches apart.

“jungkook,” you start.

he moves first. one step forward, hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in like the decision was already made hours ago.

the kiss hits fast. not tentative. not polite. familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. you grab his shirt without thinking. he exhales against your mouth like he has been waiting years. when you finally pull back, both of you are breathing harder.

his forehead rests against yours.

“closure,” he murmurs.

you laugh softly, dizzy. “yeah. definitely closure.”

but neither of you lets go.

the kiss leaves both of you a little disoriented.

you are still standing outside the bar, his hand warm against your waist, your fingers curled in the front of his shirt like you forgot how to let go. the city noise hums around you, cars passing, muffled music leaking through the door behind you, but it all feels far away.

he pulls back first, just enough to look at you.his eyes are darker now. less teasing. more focused. “you live far?” he asks quietly.

you shake your head. “ten minutes. walking.”

he nods once. “okay.” neither of you says the obvious question. you just start walking. for the first minute, your hands brush accidentally. then again. then he finally just takes yours, like he is done pretending it is coincidence.

“you’re quiet,” he says.

“i’m thinking.”

“dangerous.”

you bump his shoulder lightly. “shut up.” he laughs under his breath. there is something different about him now. the cockiness is still there, but softer around the edges. like he is paying attention in a way he did not before.

“you always walked this fast?” he asks after a moment.

“i’m not walking fast.”

“you are. you’re nervous.”

you glance at him. “i’m not nervous.”

he squeezes your hand slightly. “you kissed me like you were.”

your face heats. “you kissed me too.”

“yeah,” he admits. “i did.”

silence settles again, but it is not awkward. just heavy. full. “do you regret it?” he asks. the question hits deeper than you expect.

“…no,” you say.

he nods slowly. you can see his shoulders loosen a little, like he was bracing for the opposite answer. “good,” he murmurs.

you reach your building sooner than you want to. you stop at the entrance, turning toward him, suddenly aware of everything again. the height difference. how close he is standing. the way your hands are still linked. this is the moment where people usually say goodnight. you both know that. neither of you moves. “so,” you say, a little breathless, “this is me.”

he looks up at the building, then back at you. “nice,” he says. you huff a small laugh. “you haven’t even seen inside.”

“wasn’t talking about the apartment.”

your heart skips.

“jungkook…”

he studies your face, searching.

“tell me to go,” he says quietly.

your throat goes dry. you could. you probably should. instead you hear yourself say, “do you want to come up?”

his answer is immediate. “yeah.”

the elevator ride feels shorter than it is. you can feel the heat coming off him in the small space, your shoulders almost touching, the tension climbing with every floor. when the doors open, you both step out a little too quickly.

your hands shake slightly when you unlock your door. he notices.

“hey,” he says softly.

you look up. his expression is gentler than you have ever seen it.

“we can just hang out,” he adds. “no pressure.”

that somehow makes it worse. because now you want him more.

you open the door and step inside. he follows, glancing around your apartment with quiet curiosity. “this feels like you,” he says.

“what does that mean?”

“organized. but not boring.”

you snort. “wow. glowing review.”

he smiles, then his eyes land back on you. the air shifts again. you are standing close. closer than you realized.

“come here,” he murmurs.

you do.

this kiss is slower than the one outside the bar. deeper. less shock, more intention. his hand slides to your waist again, thumb brushing your side through your clothes, and your breath catches into his mouth.

years of tension sits right under the surface. when you pull back, you are both breathing harder. “still want closure?” he asks, voice rougher now.

you shake your head slightly. “no,” you admit.

his forehead rests against yours for a second.

“good,” he says quietly. and this time, when he kisses you again, neither of you is pretending anymore.

he doesn’t give you a chance to think. his hands slide from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. your knees nearly buckle, and you cling to him for balance. his mouth is demanding, tracing yours with a kind of familiarity that makes your chest burn.

you gasp softly when he tilts your head, deepening the kiss. one hand threads into your hair, tilting your face just right. you press against him, and he hums, low and satisfied, his body warm and hard against yours.

“you’re… still impossible,” you murmur between kisses, breathless.

“yeah?” he replies, voice rough. “still like it?”

your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer. your hearts are racing in sync, breaths short, heat building between you. he leans back slightly, scanning your face as if memorizing every detail, before crashing back in.

the room shrinks until it’s just the two of you, pressing, moving, all teasing and tension. you stumble back toward the couch, him right behind you, hands never leaving, lips never leaving.

your clothes brush against each other in ways that make your stomach flutter with a mix of anticipation and shock at how fast this is escalating. every touch, every press of his body against yours sends sparks you weren’t expecting, and you realize that all the teasing and rivalry has funneled into this one moment.

he whispers against your lips "i don't remember you being this needy?" that makes your knees go weak, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, heart hammering.

he lets out a low chuckle, hot and teasing, and presses you further back, hands sliding lower, his touch more urgent.

he tasted like whiskey and mint, his mouth devouring yours as if he'd been starving for this. you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a groan from him, and he retaliated by grinding his hips forward, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

his hands roamed, sliding under your blouse to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked under his touch. you arched into him, hating how good it felt.

he pushed you down onto the couch, following you until he was straddling your thighs, his weight pinning you in place. the tension coiled tighter, every touch laced with the edge of your old competition--who would break first?

his fingers worked your blouse open, exposing your lace bra, and he didn't hesitate, shoving it up to latch his mouth onto one nipple.

he sucked hard, tongue flicking relentlessly, while his hand pinched the other, rolling it between his fingers.

your legs parted instinctively as he settled between them, his clothed cock now rubbing directly against your core through your skirt. the fabric barrier was maddening; you rocked up against him, chasing the pressure, the heat building low in your belly.

he lifted his head, eyes dark and hooded. "you want this as bad as i do. admit it."

his voice was rough, challenging, and it ignited that fire in you. instead of answering, you flipped him over--or tried to, but he was stronger, laughing as he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand. the other dipped under your skirt, fingers brushing the edge of your panties.

"jungkook," you breathed, the plea slipping out despite yourself. he smirked, that infuriating look, and hooked his fingers into the fabric, yanking them down your thighs. cool air hit your exposed pussy, already slick with arousal, and he groaned at the sight.

his free hand traced your inner thigh, teasing closer but not quite touching where you needed him. the tension was unbearable, your body thrumming with anticipation, every nerve on edge from the push-pull of your history.

"touch me," you demanded, voice edged with frustration.

"say please." he leaned down, breath ghosting over your clit, and you bucked up involuntarily.

"please," you muttered, hating the word but craving his mouth.

satisfied, jungkook released your wrists and dove in, his tongue flattening against your pussy in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit. you cried out, hands fisting the couch cushions as he lapped at you like a man possessed. his lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, the pressure building that coil inside you.

he ate you out with focused intensity, tongue circling your clit before dipping lower to thrust inside you, tasting your wetness. "fuck, you taste good," he growled against your folds, the vibration making you shudder.

his hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as you writhed, the rivalry forgotten in the haze of pleasure. but not entirely--every flick of his tongue felt like a challenge, pushing you toward the edge only to pull back, keeping you teetering.

"jungkook, don't stop," you panted, hips grinding against his face. he hummed in response, one finger sliding into your pussy, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

he pumped it slowly, then added a second, stretching you as his mouth worked your clit relentlessly.

you were close, so close, when he pulled away abruptly, leaving you whining and empty.

he was already shedding his shirt, revealing the toned muscles you'd only glimpsed in high school. his jeans followed, cock springing free, thick and hard, pre-cum beading at the tip.

"condoms?" he asked, voice strained as he stroked himself once, eyes on your glistening pussy. you shook your head, the reality crashing in--no protection, just raw want. "shit, i don't have any." the words hung between you, tension spiking anew. part of you wanted to stop, but the pull was too strong.

jungkook's gaze darkened. "then ride me. i want to feel you bare." his words were a command wrapped in desire, and before you could overthink, you were straddling him, knees bracketing his hips on the couch.

you sank down slowly, inch by inch, gasping at the stretch. no barrier, just skin on skin, his thickness filling you completely.

"fuck," he groaned, hands clamping onto your ass, guiding you deeper. you bottomed out, pussy clenching around him, the sensation overwhelming--full, exposed, vulnerable in the best way. the tension hummed, your bodies locked in this intimate battle, who could hold out longer?

you started moving, rolling your hips in a slow grind, feeling every ridge of his cock drag against your walls. jungkook thrust up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing, his grip bruising as he urged you faster. he panted, eyes locked on where you joined, watching your pussy swallow him whole.

you leaned forward, nails digging into his shoulders, using the leverage to bounce on him, each drop sending jolts of pleasure through you.

his hands roamed up your back, then down to squeeze your breasts, pinching your nipples as you rode him relentlessly. the pace built, tension coiling like a spring--sweat slicked your skin, breaths mingling in harsh gasps.

"you feel so fucking tight," he growled, one hand slipping between you to rub your clit in tight circles. the dual stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. your hips stuttered, thighs quivering as you ground down harder, feeling his cock throb inside you, pre-cum mixing with your arousal. it pushed you higher, your movements turning frantic, chasing that peak.

"come for me, show me you can't resist."

his words tipped you over, orgasm crashing through you like a wave, pussy spasming around his cock as you cried out his name.

he followed seconds later, thrusting deep and spilling inside you, hot cum flooding your core.

you collapsed against his chest, both of you heaving, his arms wrapping around you in a possessive hold. the aftershocks rippled through your joined bodies, his cock still twitching inside your sensitive pussy.

the tension finally breaking into sated exhaustion.

you felt the spark reignite--the tension far from resolved.

you rest your head on his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him--sweat, soap, something uniquely him--and for a moment, the teasing, the rivalry, the tension all dissolve. he shifts slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “you okay?” he murmurs. his voice is softer now, almost vulnerable.

“yeah,” you say, voice low. “you?”

“never better,” he admits, but you catch the faint edge of uncertainty beneath it. the cocky facade hasn’t fully returned. just a man who’s spent years missing this closeness and maybe too stubborn to admit it.

you laugh softly, a little breathless. “so… we’re really doing this?”

“doing what?” he teases, nudging you gently.

“this,” you whisper, gesturing vaguely between you, the quiet aftermath, the lingering warmth.he smirks, but it’s tender.

“guess we are.” for a while, neither of you talks. you lie there, limbs tangled, just feeling the other’s presence, hearts slowing, breaths aligning. he drifts slightly against you, light snores mixing with your own soft exhales.

after a lazy stretch and a quiet breakfast of leftovers from last night, your phone buzzes on the table. you glance at it and freeze.

jungkook:

so… about last night.

you stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. your chest tightens, a little flutter of nerves that hadn’t been there since he walked into the bar.

you:

what about it?

jungkook:

thinking. maybe we should make a habit of this.

your eyebrows shoot up. “habit?”

you:

oh? so now we’re scheduling hookups?

jungkook:

no. not just that.

you:

what do you mean?

jungkook:

we should see each other… again. like properly. not just random nights.

your heart skips. the teasing is gone from the message, replaced by something quieter. serious. maybe even a little vulnerable.

you:

you’re… serious?

jungkook:

yeah. i’m serious.

you in?

you stare at the phone for a long second. the sun hits your hand as you scroll through the messages again, and you realize this isn’t just the same cocky guy from high school. he’s still competitive, still teasing--but he’s also… thoughtful.

you:

i’m in.

he replies almost immediately.

jungkook:

good. didn’t want to push you…

but i had to ask.

You laugh to yourself. Does this mean you made it, too? It kinda does, doesn’t it? 15 years doing makeup, five years with Seventeen. Specifically: Seungcheol’s unruly brows, Mingyu’s overzealous sweat glands, and Wonwoo’s refusal to exfoliate. You weren’t just part of the team—you were theirs. The noona they teased mercilessly, trusted absolutely, and sometimes trauma-bonded backstage while waiting for hair dryers to cool.

Now you’re here. Reassigned. Promoted, actually. You’re now the lead makeup artist of Bangtan Sonyeondan, with eight makeup artists and hair stylists in your team. The mission? Make BTS the prettiest fuckin’ boys in all of history. Maybe even prettier than Seventeen? Fat chance. You’re too biased with Sebong.

At the end of the hallway, you spot the door marked:   BTS.   Authorized Personnel Only.   No Cameras. 

And for you, there’s No Turning Back.

You take a breath. Pull your kit and push forward.

No one notices you at first. That’s fine. That’s how you like it. You don’t want to feel like the new kid, all awkward smiles and intros.

You set your kit down by the makeup mirrors and start laying out your brushes. Foundation. Concealer. Lip tints. Focus. Routine.

“Y/N-noona?”

Seokjin. The only one you’ve met before. He had a style consultation for his MV and you were basically asked to lead it as a sort of audition to this new role that you were considered for.

You spent hours scouring the internet for reference pics. But for you his visual was very straightforward. Matinee idol. Heart-achingly handsome, but still kinda attainable, if that even made sense. Full lips–you’re going to be playing this up as the focal point. Maybe dried fig or muted berry for pigment, just the lightest touch. He’s got thick, fluffy natural hair that you’ll need to tame with some lightweight products to push it back to a clean, slick leading man vibe.

“I don’t need botox anymore,” was what he famously said after an hour under your skillful hands. And the rest is history.

“Hello, Seokjin,” you nod.

“Have you met the rest of the members?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“It’s fine, they’re not important.”

“Yah!” Jimin shouts without looking, obviously eavesdropping. “Don’t talk shit about us, hyung. Hi, Y/N-noona.”

Jungkook glances up and strolls over, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Noona, I’m Jungkook. Wait—ohhhh. You’re Seventeen’s makeup noona?”

“You make it sound like I’m their property, but… yeah. Now yours, though.”

He giggles, bunny teeth on full display. “Mingyu’s like, in love with you.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. Probably. Maybe. You don’t know.

“I should text him,” Jungkook adds, already reaching for his phone, laughing.

Your cheeks go warm immediately. Good thing you already wore blush—at least it hides some of the embarrassment burning through you.

Before you can figure out how to respond, one of the senior hair stylists calls your name from the next room.

Saved by the bell.

You mutter a quick excuse and step away, heart doing something it definitely shouldn’t be doing around these fine men you didn’t expect to affect you this much.

You pull up the sleeves of your black blazer, checking your makeup station one last time. You just finished your pre-production meeting  with your team, going through today’s run of show and the shoot concept one last time before it begins.

The pegs are taped up on one of the walls, one for each member. You’re confident you can pull this off–you cannot not. It’s your first damn day and you sure as hell want to prove your worth.

Thankfully, your team is not all new. Half of them have been with BTS for years, while the other half are just like you, reassigned, when a few of the long-standing makeup noonas stepped away—schedule conflicts, burnout, one just had a baby. So naturally, BTS’s glam rotation shifted. Jungkook, Jimin, and Yoongi needed new regular artists.

Your right hand woman and the most senior from the tenured makeup girls, Hyein suggested you take him. “He’s not high maintenance. Just likes it quick and consistent.” And since working on him might be quicker than the rest, you will always have time to do quick checks with your junior members.

That’s how you ended up with Yoongi.

And truthfully? You are kind of glad.

You’ve always thought his face was interesting. Not just in a “he photographs well” way. Because most of them do. But there’s something in his bone structure that keeps your eyes coming back. Sharp where you don’t expect. Soft in places that should be angular.

You spend some time studying his features through online references, as you have done with Jin, and as you always do with new artists you handle.

His eyes are slightly mismatched. One double lid, one monolid. Not obvious. It gives him this quiet asymmetry and you already plan to adjust his liner differently every time, because you want to work with it, not against it.

His skin is bright, borderline unfair. “Brighter than your future” as one Tiktok said. He has a few scattered freckles that only show up in certain light. 

Two scars on his forehead near his left brow and one just north of it, then there’s another tucked under his right eye. You don’t intend to cover them up unless he tells you to. If anything, you think this makes him look a little badass. Seems like that’s the persona he’s going for anyway.

His lips are a soft kind of full—not pouty, but plush. Tinted naturally pink like he’s always just bitten them. Shame how in older photos, his top lip shape seems to be blurred with concealer. None of that now that you’re in charge.

And then there’s his hair. Always changing. Sometimes blonde, once ginger, sometimes brown red, once, briefly, a mint shade that made him look like a faerie. Now it’s coal black, natural. Undercut.

The first time you meet Yoongi, he bows and says exactly four words. “Welcome to the team.”

Not the warmest of welcomes, but it’s fine. You think he doesn’t say them unkindly. Maybe he’s just one of those brooding, mysterious idols. Still waters run deep or whatever.

You nod back, introduce yourself.

He eases back into his chair and closes his eyes. For the entire time.

His skin is warm under your fingers. Breath even. Doesn’t flinch when you brush under his eyes, around his cherry nose. When you’re finished, you say so. He glances at his reflection once in the mirror, moves his face left then right, then at you.

“Thank you. I like it,” he says, then walks out.

Cool.

The second time, he beats you to the glam room. He’s in the chair already, in a fuzzy yellow cardigan, hair ruffled from outside. There’s a faint sheen of sweat still drying on his temple. He gives you a tiny nod when you enter.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Four words. Same as last time.

“I’m well,” you respond as you unzip your brush case and start setting up. 

Once you’re done, you pull out a portable bluetooth speaker from the bottom of your trunk. 

“Do you mind music?” you ask Yoongi, who’s busy with his phone.

He shakes his head. “Play what you want.”

You power up your speaker, scroll through your playlist, and hit shuffle to an old 2000s playlist–the music of your youth.

Midway through, you hear a faint sound. And as you push the silicone applicator to his lips, you feel the gentle vibration as he hums along to the second verse of “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls.

You don’t comment, but for some reason, this realization makes you happy. The chorus swells.

The next time you meet, he asks to pick the music. You don’t mind. In fact you’re curious what some acclaimed musical genius like him would listen to.

“Want my speaker?”

He shrugs.

You hand it over.

He scrolls for less than ten seconds before music clicks on.

Is that Ring Ding Ding?

You both pause. Look at each other. Then laugh.

“Respect,” you murmur, hiding your smile. 

“It’s a classic,” he says, solemn as a priest.

After that, you start talking. Just… little things. Safe things.

Mostly about music.

You find out he’s got strong opinions about snare sounds in 90s R&B. He then shifts the playlist to that.

He tells you about working with Tablo and and you don’t know how bright you’re lighting up until he teases you, “want me to get you an autograph or something?” You admit you’ve had a crush on him for years. “Like what do you mean he’s ivy league smart and hella goofy, too?”

Then, you tell him about your teenage boy band phase (it’s not just Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC, you were even into the more obscure ones from the UK). You also admit you mourned for Aaliyah and Left Eye.

He confesses he went through an intense BoA obsession and that he may still be in love with her—even tried to copy her hair for one of his concerts.

Things escalate when you both try to rap the second verse of “Nice & Slow.” You fumble spelling U-S-H-E-R five seconds in, and it all goes downhill from there.

“It’s the H!” he hoots. “He says it differently.” You realize he is right. Koreans have that extra syllable.

Somehow, between blending pigments and sharing playlists, something opens up between you.

It’s not fast. It’s not grand. But it’s happening.

One morning, your playlist shuffles itself into an old ache:  “Don’t Wanna Cry” by Seventeen. You freeze only for a second, at Wonwoo’s ulgo ship ji ana, but Yoongi notices.

You try to focus on the foundation you’re patting onto his cheek, but something twists in your chest.

“Missing your old team?” Yoongi asks.

“They’re my boys,” you say, kind of offhand. Kind of not.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you feel his eyes on you through the mirror. He doesn't look annoyed or anything. Just still. Like he’s filing the words somewhere he’ll come back to later and you’re not sure why that makes your throat feel tight.

He’s good at silence, Yoongi. Knows when not to push. But the space he leaves is always heavy. You don’t know what to do with it.

But Jungkook does.

The maknae is sitting in the next chair over, scrolling on his phone, waiting for his makeup artist. At the mention of Seventeen, he perks up instantly, like a dog hearing a treat bag.

“Tell me something Mingyu can do better than me,” he challenges.

You blink at him. “Excuse me?”

“Noona.” He throws in a dramatic sigh. “Be honest.”

You have no idea why Jungkook wants to make this a 1 v 1 showdown between him and Gyu, but you’ll play along. It’s cute.

You glance at Yoongi again. He’s looking down now, pretending he’s not listening as he scrolls his phone, but the corner of his mouth is doing that twitchy thing that says otherwise.

You smirk. “I mean… I liked both your Calvin Klein campaigns.”

Jungkook puts his phone down slowly, like he’s processing emotions. “He only got that gig after I enlisted.”

“He still looked good though,” you sing-song.

“I—wow.” He shakes his head. “You really gonna do me like this in front of hyung?”

You hold up a hand. “Didn’t say he was better.”

“But you implied it,” Jungkook fires back, boba eyes bulging out of its sockets. “What else?”

“I mean, Mingyu is pretty good in the kitchen.”

That does it.

“No way,” Jungkook says, leaning forward like he’s about to attack. “Now I have to invite you over. I’m making dinner. Full spread. Five courses. Hyung can come, too.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “Don’t drag me into your ego crisis.”

“I’m including you out of respect,” Jungkook grumbles. “And as the primary witness to this… whatever shit this is.”

You shrug. “A free meal’s a free meal.”

“I’m gonna blow your mind, noona.” He sinks back in his chair with a groan. “Fuckin’ Mingyu…”

You laugh, then glance at Yoongi again. He’s finally looking at you, quiet but engaged. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something just a little tighter around his eyes.

So, you’ve assimilated with the team well enough. Jin greets you with food. Tae compliments your hair quite frequently, offered to braid it once. Jimin tries to read your texts over your shoulder.

You laugh with them. You start to care for them. But you’ve become especially fond of Yoongi.

Maybe it’s the way he watches without crowding. Maybe it’s how he listens so carefully when you talk about songs you love. Maybe it’s the way he only speaks when he has something real to say.

Unlike the maknaes, you won’t see him bouncing off the walls. He doesn’t demand attention. But he holds it anyway.

And lately, you’ve started wondering what it would feel like to hold his.

You were about to grab coffee when some delivery guy arrives with a monstrous amount of packages. Laura Mercier. MAC. Make Up For Ever. Jung Saem Mool.

It’s a ridiculous haul—glass bottles clinking, compacts stacked like poker chips, a forest of lip tints and pencils all jammed into branded boxes. The Beauty Boondocks. Guess this is part of your life now and you’re loving it.

Working with the biggest group in the world means this. A constant courtship by brands desperate for one sliver of the BTS glow. One backstage photo of Taehyung swiping lip balm on, or Jungkook half-blurred with a concealer palette in the background, and that’s a million views and sold-out SKUs easy.

You’re on the floor of the glam room, crouched between piles of cardboard, trying to sort products by category and fighting the growing sense that you’ve just been buried alive by luxury capitalism.

Suddenly, Yoongi walks in, he pauses just beside the door.

“Wow,” he says. “This is what Jungkookie’s house looks like the day after he gets a free night.”

You look up, a brow arching. “Online shopping problem?”

“Massive,” he replies dryly, stepping over a few boxes. “Once he ordered five different bed mattresses.”

You’re a bit stunned. Partly because you did not expect anyone to show up, much less Yoongi. Secondly, Jungkook’s house must be huuuge?

“He does not have 5 bedrooms if that’s what you’re thinking. There was one in his living room for a while…”

Yoongi crouches beside one of the larger boxes, tilting his head to read the logo printed on the side.

“So what’s all this?”

“Makeup, hair products, tools, etcetera…” You gesture vaguely, hands full of crinkle paper and unopened mascara tubes. “Brand offerings. Welcome to the chaos. No thanks to you guys.”

He glances around, taking it in. “Why are you doing this alone?”

“Sera called in sick. Hyein’s sorting more stuff in another room. The rest are on a day off or are in Hobi’s LV shoot. Though honestly, nobody told me about this shipment.”

You expect him to leave it at that. But instead, he lowers himself to the floor, his long legs under him, and grabs a box cutter from a nearby table.

Wordlessly, he drags a new box closer, slices through the tape with smooth precision.

You blink. “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t look up. “Trying to be useful to my noona.”

Wait.

My noona. My noona?!

It’s playful. Casual. Probably harmless. But something about the way he says it—low and almost offhand, like it comes naturally—snags in your chest. You’re crazy for thinking that it actually means anything else, but you can’t help consider it.

You don’t answer right away. You just stare at him like he’s an illusion: pale hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows, veins flexing against cardboard, hair fluffy and soft, devoid of any product.

He glances at you sideways. Sees the look on your face. Smirks. “What?”

“I’m just not used to idols volunteering to help unpack foundation samples,” you say, lips twitching, as you hold up a few NARS bottles and place them on the table.

“That’s because your boys aren’t me.”

Woah. Shots fired at Seventeen and you’re too stunned to speak. Plus, the way his eyes flick back to yours as he says it—yeah, he knows exactly what he’s implying.

Your heart thuds once in response and it’s deafening.

You return to your pile, doing your best to focus. “Well. If you’re going to help, I hope you’re not colorblind.”

“Am I getting judged?”

“Harshly.”

He chuckles.

Not a minute later he is already complaining why there are 30 different shades of pink. 

It’s late.

Rehearsals ran over, and most of the team’s already scattered. The greenroom is dim, half the lights shut off, stage outfits draped over chairs. Someone left a half-eaten protein bar on the counter. (It was Jimin.) You’re too tired to throw it out.

Yoongi’s the last one to be touched up before a promo shoot he’s doing solo. Naturally, you’re also the last one still working. You let the rest of your team pack up after their member completes their segments.

Yoongi sits in the chair wordlessly. You flick on the ring light and squint at him.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing a warm palm across his cheek to feel the texture.

He shrugs. “You look worse.”

Wha—?

“Gee. Thanks.” You crack a smile. “Asshole.” You say with no real bite.

You work in silence for a minute. You spray a serum over his face, get it to calm and cool. His skin is a bit warm, a little flushed from movement. 

Looking away, you stifle a yawn, lift your glasses and rub at your eye with your knuckle.

“You sleep at all these days?” he asks suddenly.

Your fingers start massaging the serum near his cheek and decide to tease him a bit. “Don’t talk to me. You said I look like shit.”

He smirks, but his tone is soft. “That’s not what I said.”

“I get some in,” you say lightly. “Here and there.”

He hums. Doesn’t press. But something about his tone makes you keep going.

“I wake up a lot,” you admit. “Not always bad dreams. Just… waking. Like something kicks me from inside.”

“Been happening long?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. 

“A while,” you say. “Started around the time…” you pause, study him. His eyes are so kind, the kind you’ll want to spill all your secrets to. “My previous relationship ended.”

He looks at you in the mirror. You glance down, blending gently near the corner of his eye.

“It’s stupid,” you murmur. “It’s not like I miss him. I just… guess my body hasn’t caught up yet.”

Yoongi stays quiet for a few breaths. “It’s not stupid.”

Your throat pulls tight, but you smile like it doesn’t matter. “Anyway. It’ll pass.”

You expect him to nod. To change the subject. You don’t expect what he says next.

“Call me.”

Your hand stills from dipping the brush on the powder pot. “What?”

He tilts his face up just enough to meet your eyes.

“When it happens,” he says. “When you wake up and it’s three or four in the morning just… call.”

You blink. Why did this feel so intimate all of a sudden?

“I’m always up anyway,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, and you remember to breathe.

You search his face, looking for a joke, a smirk, anything sleazy, even. There’s really none. Just sincerity. Like he knows what you’re going through and wants to share your load.

“Okay,” you say quietly, willing your heart to stop pounding so loud.

He holds his palm out. You’re dumbstruck for a second before he tsks and says, “phone.”

Days after, you find a curious box in your kit. Quietly tucked between your brushes.

It says: Tae Pyeong Hwan and when you input it on Naver, it’s apparently a viral anti-anxiety drink.

There wasn’t any note. No name. But you know it’s him. And you don’t know what to feel.

You take a sachet and gulp. Willing it to work before you see him again and your heart does that flip flop thing it keeps doing when he’s around.

The first time you entertain the idea that Yoongi might be interested in you, you actually laughed. It’s not even because he’s an idol, or a billionaire, or a god among men. 

You know you’re a solid 8, maybe even an 8.5 on a good hair day. You’re established enough to have your own house and car. You’ve got enough industry connections and some seed money if you decide to start your own thing. You got it goin’ awn, okay?

You’re a catch for any man, BTS member or not.

But a younger man? Really, Y/N?!

It’s not like you're breaking the law. He’s literally 32. He’s grown. (And shit, you know he’s grown after being in a backstage quick-change with him.)

Unfortunately, try as you might, the attraction has already rooted itself in your brain. 

Are you going to do anything about it? Jury’s still out. HYBE contracts have made it clear that there’ll be no inter-office dating, but does anybody really follow that shit?

Jeon Jungkook’s apartment is ridiculously nice. Like stylish-in-a-way-that-costs-a-fuckton-of-money nice. You barely have one shoe off when he’s already tugging you in with a giant bunny grin, sliding along his hardwood floors with his silly toe-socks.

“Place looks great,” you say.

“You should see the noraebang room.”

“The what now?”

There’s a woman sitting on the couch, sipping wine with her feet tucked under her. She looks up with a soft smile, and Jungkook lights up all over again.

He gestures proudly. “This is Haeun, my girlfriend.”

“Hello, unnie.” She stands to greet you, and you immediately like her. She’s model-pretty, but not in an intimidating way. Choreographer, he tells you, for a rookie girl group. You’ve never seen her around the office, then again it’s a huge building. Interesting, a case of inter-office dating under Bang Si-Hyuk’s nose.

You’re halfway through complimenting her earrings when the door bell sounds.

Yoongi walks in and you swear the temperature in the room changes.

He’s wearing a soft cashmere cardigan in a warm, oat beige. It’s a deeper neckline than what you’ve seen him wear before and, uh, it’s gotten really warm right now.

You feel blood rushing on your cheeks as you take the expanse of creamy skin on his chest. The rest of the look: Brown slacks, clean sneakers, hair barely styled but he looks stupidly good anyway. His lips, a soft sheen to it, looks like a freshly swiped balm.

You know Jungkook prepped food but this is the kind of full-course meal you like… 

Yoongi pushes his shoes to the side, handing the host a bottle of wine. “Sorry, traffic.”

Jungkook claps him on the back. “Nah you’re good, hyung. You made it just in time. Noona’s here.” 

Yoongi stumbles forward with a tight-lipped grin to Jungkook’s shit-eating one. Did Jungkook just push Yoongi towards you? 

“Heeyyy,” you nod, smiling tightly.

Yoongi scratches the back of his neck, sits across you. “What time did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago.”

You glance to your side, and Haeun has vanished. You clear your throat, feeling 50 shades of awkward now that the object of your newest crush has arrived. You feel yourself blush as Yoongi unwittingly manspreads in front of you.

As you calculate ways you can potentially survive this night, Jungkook thankfully hollers from the other room, inviting the guests to settle in.

You sit at the dining table, Haeun beside Jungkook, Yoongi beside you. And it feels… a little like a double date. Is it? You don’t know. And you’re too afraid to ask. 

Yoongi pours you a glass of wine. 

The one he brought. 

The one you had mentioned once was your favorite.

Jungkook, dramatic as always, starts announcing each course like he’s hosting a cooking show.

Course one is an apple and walnut salad with this spicy-sweet sesame dressing. You take a bite and your eyes widen. “Okay, wait. This is actually good.”

Jungkook looks offended. “Rude?”

Course two is a creamy chestnut soup with bits of crispy pancetta. Haeun says she helped him chop things. You raise your glass to her.

Course three is grilled scallops with a yuzu butter glaze. Jungkook explains how long it took to get the sear right. You make appreciative noises, cos wow this shit’s actually fire. Yoongi hums in agreement.

When Jungkook and Haeun head to the kitchen to bring out the next course, Yoongi quietly plops another scallop on your plate.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

He starts drizzling it with sauce like a damn chef. 

“Serving you,” he says simply. “You seemed to like this one.”

“I did,” you say. “Shouldn’t I be doing that, though? I’m older.”

He looks at you then. Direct, but soft. Like he’s not even sure why you’re bringing up age right now, because it doesn’t matter. “I’m being a gentleman. Let me.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Where to look. How to sit still. All you can think is yeah, you’ll let him do anything to you at this point. And you’ll always say,

“Thank you.”

Course four is bulgogi tenderloin with a sweet garlicky glaze. Jungkook says the marinade was 30 hours minimum. Haeun nods like she’s heard that fact 20 times minimum. Okay, you kinda believe him because it was delectable.

Course five is a tangerine panna cotta. It wobbles beautifully. You groan after the first spoonful, and Yoongi actually reaches forward to pat his younger brother on the shoulder. It is that good.

“Okay. Fine,” you say, leaning back. “This wins.”

Jungkook beams. “Better than Mingyu?”

“Fuck Mingyu,” you lift your glass.  

“YES!!! Hear that, babe?” Jungkook yells in victory and actually picks Haeun up bridal style and spins her in a circle around the living room. She shrieks, laughing the whole time. 

You and Yoongi watch from the table, slightly tipsy and amused.

“They’re cute,” you murmur.

Yoongi smiles, eyes on them. “Yeah.”

“Seems that no one really follows that no dating rule in HYBE, no?”

“I do,” Yoongi notes with a shrug, and the high from the scrumptious dinner unceremoniously crashes. You’re suddenly uneasy, acidic.

“Ah,” you nod, picking up your wine glass and downing the last of it in one big gulp to push the lump in your throat. 

Play it cool. You’re a grown ass woman. Shit.

You excuse yourself, powder your nose, apply your jelly tint, and simultaneously, well, spiral. 

So Min Yoongi doesn’t shit where he eats. Okay. He apparently follows rules? Huh… Make it make sense, though? 

Why should you be so disappointed? Plenty of fish in the sea. Except when you’re pushing forty and you’re too damn tired to cast a net out.

You get back in the living room and have another round of drinks, except Yoongi who says he is driving. 

You guess it’s time to head home when you see Haeun stifle a yawn, but Jungkook convinces you to stay for a bit more, just enough for him to video call Mingyu and gloat. Between the boyish bickering and another glass of wine, you’re thankfully feeling a little floatier again.

Later, when you’re putting your shoes back on in the entryway, you glance over at Yoongi. He’s scrolling on his phone, one hand in his pocket.

Your phone pings. Kakao T. Your ride’s on the way.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you say to Jungkook. 

He nods, placing an arm around Haeun. “Anytime, noona.”

Yoongi looks up. “You booked a ride?”

“Yeah. Should be here soon.”

He slips his phone into his jacket.

“Cancel it. I’ll drive you home.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s late. Let me take you,” he says, tone slightly commanding.

You want to say ‘yes, sir’ out loud. But you keep it together. Barely. And then of course, you cancel the ride.

Yoongi leads you to the parking garage. At some point you think you feel his hand ghosting your lower back.

The drive is quiet. He picks a playlist you both have listened to before. It’s a vibe. Music playing low. City lights reflecting off the dashboard. Yoongi’s hand rests on the wheel, rings catching in the glow. 

He smells good. The veins in his hands are flexing.

You try not to stare. Or breathe weird. 

When he pulls up to your place, he shifts into park but doesn’t unbuckle yet. You unclick your seatbelt slowly.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

Your breath catches. Full stop.

You turn to say something—thank you, or you too, or kiss me now—but words get stuck in your throat He just smiles softly.

“Good night,” he says.

“Good night,” you parrot before you step out.

The air hits you different. Your hands feel weird. You feel like a teenager after a first date she’s not sure was a date, but definitely made her feel some type of way.

That night, when you dream, it’s his eyes. And when you wake up? You’re not sure if you want to see him again or never see him again just to keep the dream intact.

The studio is chaos in the best way. BooSeokSoon are doing what they do best: being loud, dramatic, and infectious.

You’re standing off to the side watching Yoongi line up with them, the camera propped up and ready, his face unreadable as always, but there’s a looseness to his shoulders that tells you he’s in the mood to play. (And that he took a shot of something before he went in.)

You pull a balm from your pouch and swipe it gently onto his lips before he steps into frame.

“Cherry again?” he asks.

You nod. “Your fanbase will thank me.”

He smirks. “Noted.”

And then they start.

BSS hits every beat like their entire career depends on this one Tiktok challenge. And Yoongi? He’s keeping up. Relaxed, slightly silly, effortlessly cute.

You still don’t get Tiktok honestly.

When the music cuts, you clap before you even realize it.

They check playback, talking over each other. You wipe the sweat that has formed in Yoongi’s temple with a dab of tissue. But, as everyone focuses on the phone, Yoongi looks over at you.

“Which take was better?”

Caught off guard, you stammer, “the uh-i think the second.”

He hums, then he tells the girl he likes the second clip. BSS agrees.

You look at the boys as they chorus agreement, but when you glance back at Yoongi, he nods once, slow and soft. That grin of his (the real one, not the camera one) edges onto his face. It says, Go ahead. I know you miss them.

And you do. 

Before you know it, Seungkwan is already crashing into your side.

“Noonaaaa,” he sings, throwing his arm around you. “Still pretty..”

Seokmin grins, pulling you into a side-hug. “We were just talking about you yesterday.”

“Don’t do it again. I had an awful coughing fit yesterday. Should have known it was you morons.”

“You’re still superstitious.” Soonyoung shakes his head.

The exchange is quick, familiar, a little chaotic. Just like always. But it feels good, like slipping into a jacket you forgot used to fit perfectly. A few more jokes, a photo, and they’re off. There’s someone yelling about dinner, someone else remembering they have a shoot in twenty minutes. 

The social media crew also left, as well as the hair stylist who has another thing in ten. You stay behind, gathering your things. 

Yoongi’s still here, too. He’s at the far end, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a towel. He grabs his water bottle, takes a long drink, then walks to the wall. You follow suit since everybody has filed out.

Click. He cut the lights.

The room drops into soft shadows, lit only by a few glow strips along the floor.

He’s by the door, tilts his head as he waits for you.

You stop just in front of him. 

“Didn’t say goodbye to your boys,” he says with a slight tease at the end.

You shrug, “They know I’ll see them again.”

He hums. “You look happy.”

“I am.”

You think that’s the end of it. Because why would you be having a whole conversation with the lights out?

He shifts his weight forward, closing the distance between you by a step. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat drying along his temple. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough that if you breathed just a little deeper, you'd catch his scent.

Then he leans in. And before you know it, you taste the cherry balm you swiped on his lips minutes before.

The kiss is so soft, so sweet. Just as quickly as it started though, he pulls away. You feel his breathy sigh caress your cheek as he whispers your name and mumbles, “Let’s go out.” 

But before you can form any response, he opens the door.

And, in fact, goes out.

WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?

Part Two >

A/N: Scream with meeeee! Idk. Isn’t it yoongi core to kiss, confess and yeet? I recently saw a video of when he met an american artist, he shook his hand, said i like you then looked awkwardly away. LMAO. 

Hope you had fun reading part 1! I’d appreciate feedback, like tell me any favorite scenes or what you wanna see more of.

Leave a note if you wanna be tagged on the next part :)

As always, thanks for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

Permanent Taglist: (1 of 1)

@wonh0oe @woozuzu @glossdebut @kiki-zb

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm- @angellekookie

While humming one of the lullabies she used to sing to you as a child, your mother finishes tying the pink ribbon in your hair. She reaches for the brush on the dresser and runs it through your hair one last time. She gazes at you, more like your reflection in the mirror, before placing her brush-clad hand on your shoulder. As you stare at her, your brows are furrowed, and your lips are pursed.

Your mother makes eye contact and adds, "You dread me now, but trust me, you’ll thank me later." "How can you treat your own daughter like this?" you ask her, grief heavy in your voice. Yet, for some reason, you've given up fighting. You’ve made the choice not to yell or cry about your mother's heartless decision.

Being the only daughter of the King of Mir Konvo, you truly have no other choice. Yesterday, you learned that you are being "offered" to Jeon Jungkook, the head of the Forest Tribe, who is more powerful than your father's entire empire and known as the most formidable man alive.

The Lav Forest completely encloses your kingdom of Mir Konvo. While Jeon Jungkook rules the entire Lav Forest, your father reigns over Mir Konvo, which is also known as the "heart of Lav" since it's nestled right in the middle of the forest. For hundreds of years, your kingdom and Jeon’s forest were tied by a pact—an agreement that allowed your people to use the forest trail to conduct trade with other kingdoms, with no involvement from the Jeon tribe. In exchange, the Jeon tribe requested only grains and gold as payment. This arrangement has held for years, but Jeon Jungkook, the current head of the tribe, has shattered it. He now demands your hand in marriage. If you refuse, he will seal all pathways leading to Mir Konvo, seize control of your kingdom, and assassinate your father.

The entire country is aware of the Lav Forest's goddess blessing on the Jeon tribe. Centuries ago, when an enemy tribe destroyed Lav, the Devti goddess blessed the last surviving members of the Jeon tribe, declaring that no man would ever be able to defeat or oppose them. Naturally, your father signed the treaty and began the "preparations" for your marriage out of fear.

Now, back to your question: Your mother sighs and stands before you. She holds your shoulders and whispers quietly, "Listen to me, and listen very carefully. No man can resist a woman in this world. There is a reason someone as powerful as him would want to marry you. Take advantage of this, dominate him, break him, and make it impossible for him to live without you." The venom in her words is palpable. Her jaw is clenched, and her hands are digging into your shoulders. You understand exactly what she means. You pay close attention to her words, thinking about them over and over. Looking at your frightened expression, your mother asks, "Do you understand?" You take a cautious breath and nod hesitantly in agreement.

————————————————————————

The entire palace is adorned with white flowers. The orchestra plays a light tune—the atmosphere is serene, yet tense. Everyone displays their fake contentment, but in reality, everyone is scared—even you. Your father stands near the window, looking outside. His crown is absent, and his royal mantle no longer hangs on his shoulders. From his disheveled hair to the dark circles under his eyes, it’s clear he is distressed. You walk over and stand by his side.

"What’s on your mind, Father?" you ask.

Your father sighs deeply and looks at you. "He is an evil man. Your mother is not seeing this—"

His words are abruptly cut off by your mother's voice. "I’m doing this for the safety of the kingdom! No man can defeat him. You’ll die if you stand against him!" she shouts at your father. "You’re not seeing this through my eyes. Nothing will happen to Y/N," your mother adds, maintaining eye contact with him. You stand there, confused, watching the encounter unfold between them. Your father drops his head and nods at your mother. He doesn’t speak but looks at you.

The moment is interrupted when a soldier runs in to inform your father that it’s time to leave. Another condition Jungkook proposed was that the marriage would take place in the forest lav, with only three people allowed to attend—your father, your mother, and you.

That's how you find yourself in a carriage with your parents. Your mother is impeccably dressed, while your father dresses modestly. The commute to the Lav Forest isn’t long, and within three hours, your carriage reaches the entrance gate of Lav village. You step out, and your mother quickly helps you adjust your skirts and dresses.

There’s no man in sight to receive your family. Your father scans the area, searching for any members of the Jeon tribe, but he sees no one. The atmosphere is unnervingly quiet and serene. The leaves rustle, and the wind lightly breezes through the air.

"The carriage stays here. Come," a sudden voice calls from behind you. You turn to see a man, no older than 25, dressed in leather and furs, with a spear in his left hand and long hair reaching his back. He is incredibly handsome—you can’t deny it. He looks at you, then motions for your father to follow him. You and your parents follow him into the village. The path is smooth and clear, as if it were purposefully prepared for your comfort.

After ten minutes of walking, huts and houses begin to appear. You can see people peeking at your family through their windows—some whispering, others cryptically smiling in your direction. In the distance, you see a platform surrounded by a crowd. The stage-like platform is only a few feet higher than the ground and has two chairs at its center. Some people stand on it, engaged in serious conversations, while others laugh.

You and your parents stand a few feet away, waiting for instructions. You intertwine your hand with your father’s and squeeze it.

Suddenly, the voices of people laughing and talking around you halt- everyone around you kneels, including your parents. Thats when you see the leader, your future husband, jungkook walking towards you. Out of instinct and fear, you bend your knees to bow as well. But then, someone grabs both your shoulders, forcing you to stand upright. You look up in confusion and meet his eyes. The anger is gone, replaced by something softer—love and affection. Without warning, Jungkook drops to his knees in front of you and bows. The entire village was bowing to him while he remains on his knees for you.

your just about to speak when Jungkook speaks up: "The first time I saw you, I was entranced. Seeing you made me lose sleep, and I chanted your name like a prayer. You are educated, beautiful, and I knew your father would never marry you to someone like me, i did not have any other choice, don’t hate me for this, I’m just a man in love."

Your breath hitches because you don’t know what to do. Having a powerful man like Jungkook on his knees in front of you, confessing his love, is overwhelming. Your hands shake as you reach for his shoulders, gently guiding him to his feet. Jungkook rises to his full height, towering over you.

He cradles your jaw affectionately in both hands and kisses your forehead. You’re confused and scared—confused because he isn’t as terrifying as he’s made out to be, and scared because he’s too close. You avoid his gaze and look around. Everyone is still kneeling, and you feel uncomfortable. You glance at him, then at the others still bowing. Surprisingly, he understands.

"Everyone, stand up!" he commands, and the crowd quickly rises to their feet.

He turns to you and your parents, smiling. "Shall we begin the rituals?"

————————————————————————

NEXT: chapter 2

————————————————————————

I never used to think about what came next. Why would I? It felt pointless, like trying to guess the ending of a book while you were still tangled in the messy, middle chapters. Life just kept happening—fast, breathless, one page after another. And sometimes, if you were lucky, you got close to something that felt like a dream. So close you could almost taste it. But right when you reached for it? That’s when life reminded you—books close, lights go out, and suddenly, you’re right back where you started.

Normal? I wouldn’t know normal if it walked up and smacked me in the face. Normal was for people who wore stiff blazers and drank bad office coffee. My mornings started in the dark—lacing up my skates, the air so cold it bit at my skin. Stretch until it hurt. Practice until the moves weren’t moves anymore, just instinct. The rink smelled like sweat and frost and that sharp, unmistakable scent of wanting something too much. It clung to me.

That was my life. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t even remember learning how to skate. I just always had. The ice was the one place that made sense, the only place where my body and my brain felt like they belonged to the same person. My mom, Emily, saw it first. That spark in me. And once she saw it, she never let go. She didn’t just support me—she pushed. Hard. Like a storm rolling in, relentless and all-consuming. Maybe to her, that’s what love looked like.

People whispered about her. Said she was chasing her own lost dreams through me. Maybe she was. But I never resented her for it. Her ambition was like a fire—sometimes too hot, sometimes too much. But it kept me warm. Even when it burned.

She’d been a skater once, too. Until life happened. Until she got pregnant with me, married my dad, Jim, and let go of whatever dreams she had left. Some people move on. She never did. She carried that regret around like a weight, year after year, until all she had left was me. And the ice. I was her second chance.

She met Jim when she was still young and restless, and he was passing through town for police training. They fell in love, or at least, something close enough to it. Then I came along. A courthouse wedding, a move, a slow unraveling. Eventually, Emily and I left for Colorado—chasing the ice, chasing the dream. Jim stayed in Olympia, sinking into his routine until it swallowed him whole. I became the thing in between, stretched between my dad’s steady, distant world and my mom’s all-or-nothing drive.

Michigan wasn’t home anymore. Hadn’t been for years. But here I was.

The intercom crackled to life, yanking me out of my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re beginning our descent into Detroit, where it’s currently five-eighteen p.m. and a frigid fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Please secure your belongings.”

Fifteen degrees. Typical Michigan.

I stared out the window, my knee aching, a bitter little reminder. I was supposed to meet Dr. Jeon on Monday. People swore he was the best. But I already knew it didn’t matter. The moment my skate caught that rough patch of ice, when my body twisted and my world turned upside down—I knew.

It was over.

I could still see it, clear as a photograph: the rink bathed in pale afternoon light, Swan Lake drifting through the air. I wasn’t even competing, just skating for the sake of skating. My mom and my coach sat in the stands, talking about my next routine. I picked up speed, heading into a fan spiral—when it happened. My blade caught. My leg gave out. I went down hard.

The plane’s landing gear hit the tarmac with a screech, shaking the memory loose. My heart pounded. I gripped the armrest, swallowing against the lump in my throat.

Passengers stood, jostling for overhead bags, but I stayed put. No point in rushing. My crutches were cold in my hands, awkward, unfamiliar. A few months ago, I could glide across the ice like I belonged there. And now? Now I could barely walk through an airport without feeling like I might tip over.

At baggage claim, I stared at the conveyor belt, watching suitcases circle like they had all the time in the world. My hands were full. My leg was useless.

"You need a hand?"

The voice came out of nowhere. I flinched, turning too fast, and there he was—tall, brown-eyed, and looking at me like he could see straight through all my carefully constructed defenses. Before I could respond, someone bumped into me, and my crutch slipped from my grip, clattering against the floor.

I wobbled, reaching out for something—anything—to steady myself. But he was faster. His hands caught my arms, firm but gentle, like he’d done this before. Like he knew exactly how to keep someone from falling.

For a second, the world around us—the airport, the noise, the blur of people—just stopped.

"You okay?" His voice was warm, steady, like it belonged to someone who never panicked.

I nodded quickly, my face heating. "Yeah. Fine." A lie, probably. But what else was I supposed to say? No, actually, I’m currently living my worst nightmare, thanks for asking?

He let go slowly, like he was making sure I wouldn’t tip over again, and bent down to grab my crutch. When he handed it back, his eyes lingered—not with pity, but something else. Something softer.

"Thanks," I muttered, gripping the crutch tighter than necessary.

He smiled—easy, unbothered. "No problem." But there was something behind it, like maybe he had more to say.

The airport rushed back to life around us. People zigzagging past, voices bouncing off the high ceilings, the endless hum of somewhere-to-be energy. But for just a moment, it still felt like we were in a separate, quieter place.

He glanced at the mess of luggage by my feet. "Need help with your bags?"

My pride answered before logic could. "I’ve got it."

Which was a bold thing to say, considering I clearly did not have it. My knee throbbed, like it was rolling its metaphorical eyes at me.

But he didn’t argue. Just shrugged, like it was all the same to him. "Alright. But it’s no trouble if you change your mind."

I shifted my weight, felt the sharp twinge, and sighed. "Okay, yeah. I could use some help."

The words tasted weird in my mouth. He didn’t seem to notice. He just grabbed my suitcase like it weighed nothing, balancing my smaller bag on top.

"Someone picking you up?" he asked as we made our way toward the sliding glass doors, where the cold Michigan air lurked like a villain in a horror movie.

"Nope. Just grabbing a cab," I said, weaving through the crowd. But I was aware of him next to me, solid and steady, like an anchor I hadn’t realized I needed.

"I’ve got my car in the overnight lot," he said, so casually it almost sounded like a throwaway offer. "I could give you a ride."

I hesitated. Too fast. "No, it’s okay," I said, maybe a little too quick, a little too sharp.

Something flickered across his face—disappointment? Or was I just imagining it?

We stepped outside, and the cold hit. Hard. I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers instantly regretting every life choice that led to me not bringing gloves.

He noticed. His mouth twitched into a knowing smile. "Forgot what Michigan feels like in January?"

"Yeah," I muttered, hugging my coat closer. "Something like that."

I should be used to it. I grew up on ice, for God’s sake. But this cold felt different. It wasn’t just outside—it was creeping in, settling deep, gnawing at something raw.

"So, where were you before this?" he asked, breath curling into the air like smoke.

"Nevada. Before that, Colorado. We moved around a lot." I didn’t even know why I was telling him this. I didn’t even know him.

"We?" He raised an eyebrow, like he already knew the answer but wanted me to say it anyway.

"Me and my mom," I said, my voice quieter now. "She’s not really the ‘stay in one place’ type."

He nodded, like that made perfect sense. "A modern-day nomad. Sounds... exhausting."

I let out a small laugh, more reflex than anything. "Yeah. It can be."

And maybe it was just the exhaustion, or the cold, or the fact that he felt easy to talk to, but this whole conversation was starting to feel less strange. Less like a fleeting airport moment and more like something solid.

"You staying here for a while?" he asked, his dark eyes locking with mine, the cold suddenly not as noticeable.

"For the foreseeable future," I said, surprising myself with how easily it came out.

"Good to know." His voice softened, like it was some kind of inside joke I didn’t know we were sharing yet. And that crooked smile? Yeah. Dangerous.

My pulse did something stupid.

What was I even doing? Standing here, flirting with a stranger in the dead of winter? This wasn’t real life—this was the kind of thing that only happened in bad rom-coms and half-formed daydreams. But with him, it felt real. Too real.

"Maybe I’ll see you around," he said, running a hand through his hair, which—of course—fell back into place in that perfectly messy, I-don’t-care-but-I-do way.

"Yeah, maybe," I said, even though I wasn’t sure I believed it.

"You live nearby?"

I should already be in a cab. I should be out of this cold, heading toward whatever was left of my life. But instead, I was still standing here, asking questions I had no business asking.

"Detroit," he said, his breath hanging in the air like something unfinished.

"Me too," I blurted out. "Just moved there, actually."

"Downtown?" He asked it like my answer mattered more than it should.

"Royal Oak," I said. "The old houses there... they’re beautiful."

"They are," he agreed, and there was something in the way he said it, like he was noticing things about me I didn’t even realize I was showing. His gaze flicked from my eyes to my lips, and for a second, the space between us felt smaller, thinner, like something was about to snap.

Then the wind did it for us, slicing between us like a blade.

"Welcome to Michigan," he said, laughing, his voice warm against the cold.

And then, before I could react, before I could process anything, he reached down and took my bare hands in his.

His hands were warm. Too warm. Like touching them had flipped some hidden switch inside me.

I felt it. Everywhere.

For a second, I swore the ground shifted.

"We should get you a cab," he said, glancing down at my frozen fingers, his expression softer now. "You’re not exactly dressed for this weather."

"Yeah, I probably should’ve planned better," I admitted with a laugh, but I was barely paying attention to the cold anymore. Just the heat from his hands, the way they made everything else feel less cold.

He waved down a cab like he’d done it a hundred times before, easy and effortless. I stood there, watching as he loaded my bags into the trunk, every movement feeling like a countdown. And then, when he pulled open the door for me, I just... stood there.

At the edge of the moment. Caught between stepping forward and holding still. Between leaving and staying.

“Thanks for the help,” I said, looking up at him, my heart knocking against my ribs.

“Jungkook,” he said, soft, like he was handing me something delicate. His smile was still there, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. “I’m Jungkook.”

“Y/N,” I replied, my own name slipping out so easily, like it had been waiting to be said here, in this exact moment, in this freezing air between us.

He repeated it—slowly, like he was trying it on. Like it was something worth holding in his mouth for a second longer. “Y/N,” he said again, quieter this time. And then he leaned in, just a little, like he was about to tell me a secret.

And suddenly, everything else—the cold, the noise, the rush of people around us—blurred out. It was just him, standing too close, that crooked grin making me wonder if maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end of whatever this was.

“Yeah, Jungkook?” I asked, my breath hitching, anticipation curling in my stomach.

“My friends and I... we go to this bar on Grand most Tuesdays. Bronx?” He said it like a casual suggestion, but it wasn’t casual. It was a bridge. A next step. “Maybe I’ll see you there sometime?”

A thrill shot through me—quick and unexpected. He wanted to see me again.

“Yeah,” I stammered, trying to sound normal, trying to sound like my pulse wasn’t suddenly in my throat. “I could swing by. Once I’m settled in.”

“Great.” His whole face lit up, and it was like watching a door crack open, just enough to glimpse something softer behind it. "I’ll see you around then, Y/N."

And just like that, he stepped back, shut the door behind me, and the moment ended.

The cab pulled away, and I turned, craning for one last look. He was still standing there, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, watching me go. When he caught my gaze, he waved, easy and casual, like this whole thing hadn’t just knocked the wind out of me. I lifted my hand in return, but my chest was still tight, my heart still racing.

I slumped back against the seat, pressing my forehead to the cold window, hoping the chill would slow my thoughts down. Because now that I was alone, the doubts started creeping in. The what-ifs.

Would I actually show up at Bronx? Or would I do what I always did—let the moment fade, tell myself it wasn’t real, convince myself it was just a weird, fleeting connection that didn’t actually mean anything?

But then I thought about him. About that lopsided smile. The way he said my name like it was something worth remembering. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder...

What if?

It was a little past seven when the cab finally rolled to a stop in front of my new apartment building. The sky had darkened into that deep, bruised purple, the kind that makes the world feel just a little heavier. The cold hit me full force as I climbed out, my crutches clattering against the pavement.

I was so tired. That kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones, heavy and unshakable.

The doorman noticed immediately—a grizzled guy with kind eyes and the weary patience of someone who had seen a lot of people start over. He moved toward me with the kind of practiced ease that made it clear he had done this before. Watched people show up with too many bags and too many hopes. Watched them leave, sometimes with less of both.

Without a word, he took my luggage, leading me toward the elevator like it was second nature.

Apartment 311 smelled like fresh paint and nothing else. The kind of emptiness that didn’t just sit in the air—it echoed. My footsteps bounced off the bare walls, and for a second, it felt like I was in a storage unit, not a home. No couch. No bed. Just a hollow space waiting to be filled with something real.

I let out a long breath. The cold inside the apartment was different from the cold outside—sharper, lonelier. Like even the air hadn’t settled in yet.

I pulled out my phone and ordered a pizza. Pepperoni and mushrooms, with a side of breadsticks. It felt like a stupidly normal thing to do, like maybe if I just ordered dinner, it would trick my brain into thinking everything was fine. That this wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t standing in the middle of an empty apartment with nothing but a suitcase and a sinking feeling in my stomach.

By the time I hung up, the ache in my chest had settled in for the night. This was real. No backing out now.

I called Emily.

Her voice was a mix of relief and tension, like she wanted to be happy I’d made it but also wanted to remind me that I had things to do. That I had to get back to training. That I couldn’t just pause. But I was pausing. I was standing in an apartment with no furniture, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. And I just... couldn’t deal with it right now.

After a few strained minutes, I made an excuse and hung up. The silence rushed back in, filling the space like water, drowning out everything else.

I wandered through the empty rooms, my fingers grazing the white walls. The place felt sterile, like a waiting room for a life I hadn’t started living yet. Outside, the city buzzed—car horns, laughter, people moving through their lives like they knew exactly where they were going. I pressed my forehead to the window, watching them pass. Families. Students. Dog walkers. Everyone seemed to belong to something. To someone.

And me? I felt like a glitch in the system. Like I’d been dropped into the wrong life by accident.

Jungkook’s face flashed in my mind. The way he’d said my name, like it meant something. Like maybe I wasn’t as lost as I felt. I let myself picture it—walking into Bronx on a Tuesday night, catching sight of that crooked grin. It was just a thought, a little flicker of something warm. But I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.

The apartment was still too empty, but at least tomorrow there’d be furniture. A couch. Shelves. A coffee table, maybe. The kind of things that made a place feel real.

But the real gem of the apartment wasn’t the kitchen or the big windows. It was the alcove by the entrance—a tiny nook with a built-in window seat, framed by bookshelves. A little space that felt hidden from the rest of the world. I could already imagine curling up there on winter nights, listening to the snow tap against the glass. And for the first time since I got here, I could almost picture it—this place turning into something more than just four walls and an address.

A knock at the door snapped me out of it.

I hobbled over, stomach growling. Pizza. Finally.

But when I pulled open the door, it wasn’t the delivery guy.

It was a girl. Petite, but somehow larger than life, dressed in a black knit sweater dress and a sequined mini that shimmered in the dim hallway light. Her hair was buzzed short, dark and soft-looking, and she had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. But it was her eyes that stopped me—deep brown, warm, familiar.

They reminded me of him.

“Hey!” she chirped, like we were old friends. “I’m Mina. I live in 312. The pizza guy accidentally brought your order to us, so I figured I’d bring it over and say hi.”

I blinked at her. Processing.

“Thanks,” I said finally, shifting on my crutches. “Would you mind setting it in the kitchen? I’m a little... restricted.”

“Of course!” Mina breezed past me like she’d lived here her whole life, her boots clicking against the hardwood. She set the pizza down and turned back, eyes bright with curiosity. “So... what happened?” She gestured at the crutches.

“Sports injury,” I said, keeping it vague. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just not the whole truth.

Mina nodded like that was good enough. “Well, I hope you’re healing okay. Must be rough, moving in while dealing with all that.”

“Yeah,” I said, relieved when she didn’t press. “Thanks again for bringing the pizza.”

“No problem! Consider it a ‘Welcome to the Building’ gift.” She grinned, then suddenly froze, her eyes going wide.

“Wait... you don’t have any furniture, do you?”

I sighed. “I’ll figure something out. It’s just one night.”

Mina looked personally offended by this information. Then, before I could stop her, she scooped up the pizza box and waltzed right back out the door.

I just stood there. Staring. Processing.

Did she really just take my dinner?

With a groan, I grabbed my bag and pulled out fleece pants, a tank top, and my track jacket. Changed. Gathered up my toothbrush, phone, and keys. Then, still half-stunned, I hobbled down the hall to apartment 312.

I knocked, my heart pounding for no good reason.

The door creaked open, but it wasn’t Mina standing there.

It was a tall blonde woman—striking in that effortless kind of way, like she had never tripped over a curb in her life. She had long, golden hair that fell like silk, sharp dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes that were almost black. Where Mina crackled with chaotic energy, this woman felt like still water. Collected. Unshakable. The kind of person who didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

“Hey, come on in,” she said, her voice low and a little raspy. “Mina said you’d be staying with us tonight.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, stepping inside, feeling weirdly self-conscious. “I don’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense,” she said, waving a hand like my words were actual garbage. “Once Mina decides something, there’s no point arguing. You might as well accept your fate.”

Before I could respond, Mina barreled into the room, now in yoga pants and a t-shirt that looked like it had been washed a thousand times.

“I knew you’d come!” she declared, triumphant.

“Well, you didn’t give me much of a choice,” I said, trying for casual, even though my chest still felt tight. “You did steal my dinner.”

“See? It worked!” Mina grinned, entirely unrepentant. “Trust me, this is way better than eating alone in an empty apartment. You’re smart for coming over.” She paused, eyes widening like she had just remembered something vital. “Oh my God, I didn’t even ask your name. I get so carried away sometimes.”

“Y/N,” I said. “Y/L/N.”

“Welcome, Y/N,” the blonde said, leading me toward the kitchen. “I’m Leera, but you can call me Lucy if you want. And don’t worry—you’ll get used to Mina’s... enthusiasm.”

The apartment was warm and lived-in, a contrast to my own echoing space. I caught sight of the pizza box Mina had stolen—but there were three more stacked on the counter, the air thick with the smell of melted cheese and garlic.

“What’s with all the pizza?” I asked, glancing between them.

“We ordered some too,” Mina said, flipping open a box like a game show host revealing a grand prize. “They just happened to show up at the same time. Fate, obviously.”

Lucy pulled my bottle of Diet Coke out of the fridge and held it up. “Want some ice?” she asked, like she already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” I said. And just like that, I felt some of the tension in my shoulders ease.

It didn’t take long to figure out that Mina and Lucy were more than just roommates. Mina was an event planner—weddings, galas, parties—which made so much sense. Her whole vibe was confetti and last-minute ideas and carrying three coffees at once. Her family was originally from Wisconsin, though her great-grandparents had immigrated from Korea. Lucy, on the other hand, was her exact opposite. She worked in classic car restoration, which honestly stunned me. She had the kind of delicate, elegant energy that made me assume she spent her time doing something refined, like designing couture dresses or sipping espresso in a minimalist art studio. But no, she rebuilt engines. She smelled like vanilla and motor oil.

“Most people don’t believe me when I tell them,” she said, smirking as she popped open a can of sparkling water. “But I love it. It’s in my blood.”

Mina and Lucy weren’t just best friends—they were family, their lives so tightly woven together it was hard to tell where one story ended and the other began. Mina was engaged to Lucy’s brother, and Lucy was dating one of Mina’s. It was the kind of connection that felt inevitable, like the universe had put them in the same orbit on purpose. Every time Mina mentioned her fiancé, Jimin, or Lucy talked about her boyfriend, Taehyung, their expressions softened, like even thinking about them made the world a little warmer.

And somehow, I was here too. Sitting at their kitchen island, laughing, eating stolen pizza like I belonged.

By the time I glanced at the clock, it was past eleven.

Somehow, what was supposed to be a couple of awkward hours had turned into something else entirely—something easy. Something that felt suspiciously like belonging.

“Get used to late nights,” Lucy teased, nudging me with her elbow. “Being our friend means you have to be a night owl.”

Friends?

I wasn’t sure the last time I’d used it to describe myself. Maybe never.

Growing up, there wasn’t space for friends. Emily and my coaches made sure of that. My life had been structured and scheduled within an inch of its existence—early mornings, late nights, a constant push toward something bigger, something better. And at some point, I had started pulling away from people before they had the chance to do it first.

But Mina and Lucy? They weren’t waiting for me to prove anything. They weren’t measuring my worth by what I’d achieved.

They just saw me.

And that was almost scarier than being alone.

“So, Y/N,” Mina said, shattering the comfortable silence. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Big day,” I admitted, exhaustion creeping in. “My furniture’s arriving, plus all my stuff from Nevada. I need to grab groceries. Thought about picking out paint colors, but that might be too ambitious.”

Mina’s face lit up like I’d just invited her to an amusement park. “Need help? I’m free tomorrow. And I’m ridiculously efficient. We’ll knock it all out in no time.” She gestured toward my crutches with a cheeky grin. “Especially since you’re a little limited.”

I hesitated. I wasn’t used to accepting help. But Mina had this way of making it seem like it would be more work to say no.

“That would be great,” I admitted. “Thanks.”

Lucy shot me a knowing look from where she stood by the sink. “Just don’t let her bulldoze you. Once she gets going, she’s unstoppable. Your place will look like a West Elm catalog before you even blink.”

Mina gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’m just trying to help her create a cozy space. Is that so wrong?”

“I’m just giving her fair warning,” Lucy said, eyes glinting. “You’re in for the full Mina experience.”

I yawned before I could stop myself. Mina noticed immediately.

“Go freshen up,” she said, waving me toward the bathroom. “I’ll set up the couch for you.”

I shuffled off, grateful for the moment alone. As I brushed my teeth and splashed cool water on my face, I felt the weight of the night settle in. When I returned, the couch had been transformed into a nest of blankets and pillows—so much cozier than the cold, empty apartment I’d left behind.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, sinking into my makeshift bed. “This is way better than crashing on a pile of sweatshirts.”

Lucy grinned as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “I’ll swing by around four tomorrow, just in time to rescue you from Mina’s overzealous decorating spree.”

“I’ll need it,” I said, throwing Mina a smirk.

Mina gasped, deeply offended. “You’ll love every second of it. Actually, I’ll call the guys and see if they can help with the heavy lifting this weekend. They’ve got a game in Anaheim on Friday, but they should be free after that.”

“Game?” I asked, frowning.

Mina blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Jimin, Taehyung, and my other brother—they play for the Michigan Red Wings.”

The name rang a bell, but faintly. Like a half-remembered dream.

“Should I know what that means?”

Lucy smirked. “NHL, Y/N. They’re professional hockey players.”

“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it. Hockey wasn’t really on my radar. The only time I even thought about it was when Emily complained about hockey players hogging ice time.

“We’ll have to take you to a game,” Mina said, already vibrating with excitement. “They’re mid-season, and the team’s so good right now.”

“Mina, you say that every year,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes.

Mina grinned. “Because every year, it’s true! Even if they weren’t good, it’s still fun. The speed, the energy…” She trailed off, lost in her own little hockey world.

I laughed, but something about all of this—this easy, effortless warmth—felt almost too good to be real. Like I’d borrowed someone else’s life for the night.

“Mina,” I said, nudging her. “You do realize two of those players are your brothers, right?”

She made a face. “Obviously, Y/N. I’m not checking them out. But let’s be real—they’re objectively attractive. And if you happen to take an interest, there’s plenty of other man candy on the team.”

Lucy chuckled. “She’s not wrong. Her brothers are hot. Not that I’m looking—Taehyung is more than enough—but Jungkook? Yeah, he’s got the looks.”

Jungkook.

The name hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Could it be my Jungkook? 

My brain raced back to the airport. The luggage, the easy smile, the way he had helped me like it was nothing. That Jungkook had just been… a random act of kindness. A nice stranger.

…Right?

I felt ridiculous for even thinking it. For even considering the possibility.

My Jungkook?

We’d spoken for maybe fifteen minutes, and I was already putting a claim on him. Maybe I was going crazy.

“He hasn’t dated anyone since he and Sky broke up last year,” Leera said casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “Kind of a waste. A guy like that shouldn’t stay single for long.”

Mina nodded, but there was something a little sharper in the set of her jaw. “Jungkook’s not the type to jump from girl to girl. He’s waiting for the right one, and when he finds her, he’ll know.”

Leera smirked. “Well, that’s not stopping half of Detroit. Pretty sure every girl in the city knows he’s single.”

Mina groaned, flopping back against the couch cushions. “Don’t even get me started on the rink rats. If I have to witness one more girl trying to sneak into the locker room, I might actually lose my mind.”

I laughed, sinking deeper into my pile of pillows. “Noted. I’ll make sure to stay on your good side.”

Mina pointed at me, all faux-seriousness. “Good call.” Then, with a sigh, she added, “I just hate it. Those girls don’t care about hockey—they don’t even like hockey. They just want the bragging rights.”

I nodded, watching the way her protectiveness settled over her like armor. She wasn’t just defending Jungkook. She was looking out for all of them. Her brothers, her family.

“Well,” I said, meaning it, “they’re lucky to have you watching their backs.”

Mina’s lips quirked up like she wanted to argue, but instead, she just said, “Goodnight, Y/N.” She was already halfway down the hall when she called over her shoulder, “Yell if you need anything.”

Leera lingered, watching me for a beat longer. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling, feeling the weight of the day settle over me in the best way. “Thanks again. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

“Don’t mention it.” Leera’s voice was soft, knowing. “I’m up early for work, so sorry if I wake you.”

I waved her off. “I’m used to early mornings.” Too many years of predawn practices had made sure of that.

Leera just nodded, still smiling, before disappearing down the hall.

I sank deeper into the blankets, warmth curling around me like a secret. My body felt heavy, like it had finally gotten permission to stop holding itself together. My eyes fluttered shut, and I didn’t even hear Leera’s door close.

That night, I dreamt of chocolate-brown eyes and tousled black hair.

I woke up the same way I had for the past eight weeks—with my knee throbbing like it had a personal vendetta against me.

I didn’t even have to open my eyes to know today was going to suck. The dull ache had settled in overnight, but now, thanks to yesterday’s cramped plane ride, it had sharpened into something meaner. I pulled my leg toward my chest, stretching carefully, trying to loosen the stiffness. Moving boxes and setting up furniture? Yeah, that was going to be so much fun. Looked like the painkillers would have to make an appearance.

After a few more stretches, the ache dulled to something that felt less like a knife and more like a bruise, and I finally cracked my eyes open. The room was still wrapped in that early-morning darkness, the kind that sits heavy over Michigan in the winter, refusing to budge. I reached for my phone. 5:48 A.M. The apartment was silent except for the soft hum of the radiator trying—and failing—to make the place feel less like an icebox.

I wasn’t going back to sleep, but I also didn’t feel like getting up yet. So I stayed where I was, curled up on Mina’s obnoxiously comfortable couch, staring at the ceiling.

Yesterday came back in pieces. Mina and Leera. The unexpected invitation. And, of course, Jungkook.

Just thinking about him sent an embarrassing little jolt through me, which was so stupid. It wasn’t like I’d never seen an attractive guy before. But Jungkook wasn’t just attractive. He was the kind of good-looking that made you blink twice. The kind that made your brain short-circuit for a second while you tried to process if someone could actually look like that.

Okay. Fine. So he was hot. That didn’t mean anything. I’d talked to him for maybe fifteen minutes. That wasn’t life-changing. That wasn’t even significant.

Except… my body had noticed him in a way it never really noticed anyone. Heart pounding. Skin tingling. That stupid, unsteady feeling like I’d just stepped onto a rink without my skates tied properly. That was significant.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. It didn’t matter. Even if, by some ridiculous stretch of the imagination, Jungkook was interested, what would I even do about it? Relationships, dating, flirting—those were all foreign languages to me. My parents had been a masterclass in what not to do. My dad stayed, but only in the financial sense. And Emily? Her version of love came with conditions. Perform well, and you got a rare “good job.” Fail, and… well.

I didn’t know how to do affection. It had always felt awkward, like a sweater that didn’t quite fit. Hugs? Hand-holding? Kissing? Yeah, no. Just thinking about it made my pulse do something weird.

I needed to stop. My life wasn’t some tragic sob story. So my childhood had more training schedules than sleepovers—big deal. I had what I needed. Time to move on.

With a groan, I pushed myself upright, my knee protesting the movement. Enough self-pity. Caffeine. I needed caffeine.

The apartment was still dark and silent as I shuffled into the kitchen. I hesitated before opening any cabinets—rummaging through someone else’s stuff before sunrise felt like a weird level of intrusive—so I settled for finishing off the last of my soda from last night. The cold fizz helped a little, at least enough to push through the haze of sleep deprivation.

The microwave clock blinked 6:04 A.M. Mina didn’t seem like the early riser type. No point in waiting around. I could head back to my place, shower, stretch like the doctor said to, and get my life somewhat together.

By 8:30, I felt almost human again. The stretches had helped, the painkillers had kicked in, and I’d even managed to scribble out a to-do list. Groceries. Figuring out where my limited furniture should go. Maybe pretending I had any idea how to decorate an apartment.

Mina knocked just as I was finishing up, looking far too awake for this hour and shoving a cup of coffee into my hands like a peace offering. “Morning! Ready for some fun?”

I took the coffee, eyeing her suspiciously. “You’re a morning person, aren’t you?”

She grinned. “I’m an all-the-time person. You’ll get used to it. So, what’s the plan?”

“The furniture’s supposed to be here at nine.” I handed her my list. “After that, I figured we could set things up, then go grab the essentials.”

Mina scanned the list and nodded. “Super Target it is. We’ll knock this out fast.”

While we waited, she plopped onto the floor with a notebook and started sketching out a floor plan—like, a legitimate floor plan—complete with little boxes for furniture and arrows for “optimal flow.” She rattled on about color schemes and accent pieces like we were designing a magazine spread.

I just nodded along, knowing I was going to have to veto at least half of it. The eight matching throw pillows? Absolutely not.

When the movers showed up, Mina shifted into full drill-sergeant mode, directing the poor guys with a terrifying level of efficiency. The second they left, another truck pulled up with my boxes from Nevada.

For once, something in my life was actually going smoothly.

Mina eyed my stack of boxes like she was waiting for the rest of them to show up.

“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yep. I travel light.”

She frowned, like the concept physically pained her. “Y/N, half of these are labeled Books. How do you not have more stuff?”

I shrugged. “Less stuff, less hassle.”

Mina let out the kind of sigh that people reserved for lost causes. “Minimalist doesn’t even begin to cover it. Taehyung’s old dorm room had more personality than this place.”

I smirked. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. But let’s focus on getting toilet paper first before we start worrying about ‘spicing up’ my apartment.”

“Fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “But we will revisit this. I’m not letting you live in a place that looks like a bachelor pad.”

“You’ve known me for fifteen hours,” I pointed out.

“And just imagine what it’ll be like in a couple of weeks,” she grinned wickedly. “I won’t hold back then.”

“This is you holding back?” I teased. “You’re kind of terrifying.”

“In the best way,” she said, completely unfazed. “Now, ready to hit the store?”

“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing my list. “But I don’t have my car yet—it’s still at the dealership.”

“Good thing I’m your chauffeur for the day!” she declared, already heading for the door with the kind of enthusiasm that made me feel like I was being drafted into something. I sighed, but I couldn’t help smiling as I followed her. Life with Mina, I was quickly learning, was never going to be boring.

“No worries,” she added, whipping out her phone with the speed of someone who always had a plan. “I’ll call Jimin and see if we can borrow his truck.”

A quick call later, we were off—Mina behind the wheel of her bright yellow Porsche, driving like she had a personal vendetta against speed limits. The engine roared as she weaved in and out of traffic with terrifying precision. I gripped the door handle, silently promising to live a better life if we made it out of this drive alive.

By the time we pulled up to Jimin’s place—miraculously in one piece—I had officially retired from being a passenger in Mina’s car. We swapped vehicles, and before I knew it, we were barrelling down the road in Jimin’s truck, off to tackle what would soon become the longest shopping trip of my life.

Two hours later, I had come to two conclusions:

One—I would never, under any circumstances, voluntarily shop with Mina again.

Two—I actually liked her. A lot.

She was everything I wasn’t—loud where I was quiet, confident where I hesitated, effortlessly stylish while I stuck to jeans and sneakers. And yet, somehow, she just clicked with me. Maybe it was her relentless energy, or maybe it was because she bulldozed past the walls I hadn’t even realized I’d built.

As we wheeled our overloaded carts to the truck, I glanced at my phone. Just past noon, and I was already exhausted.

“I’m telling you, Y/N,” Mina said, tossing bags into the truck bed like she was throwing confetti, “those shirts were a necessity. When you find one that looks that good, you have to buy it in every color.”

I smirked, shaking my head. Somewhere between arguing over which brand of dish soap smelled less like a hospital and Mina sneakily adding things to the cart, I had realized something horrifying.

Mina could talk me into just about anything.

And there it was—three identical Converse button-ups in different colors. Cute? Yes. Necessary? Not even a little.

“I’m not sure how you did it,” I said, giving her a sideways look, “but somehow, you got me to buy three of the same shirt. You’re dangerous.”

Mina grinned, completely unapologetic. “You’ll thank me later when you’re rocking those shirts.”

I sighed, shaking my head in mock defeat. “Fine. The shirts are cute. But can we find food now? The gimp needs to recharge.”

Mina laughed, slamming the tailgate shut. “How do you feel about Korean? There’s a great place on the way back.”

“Perfect,” I said, already dreaming about a meal that didn’t involve protein bars or sad, airport vending machine snacks.

On the drive back, Mina launched into a full-on campaign about how we needed to recruit Jimin to help paint my apartment. She was convinced the walls needed a fresh coat before anything else could happen.

I argued. She countered. I pouted.

She finally caved. Victory.

For now.

Once we got back, we hauled everything inside, dumping the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter in a completely unorganized mess. We shoved the cold stuff into the fridge in a way that would probably horrify any reasonable adult, then collapsed onto the couch with greasy containers of food.

As I hobbled over with my takeout, my crutches snagged on the coffee table, making me stumble.

Not once.

Not twice.

Three times.

Each time, Mina gave me a look that was somewhere between amused and mildly concerned.

“You okay there, Y/N?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I sighed dramatically. “I am so ready to be done with these crutches.”

Navigating life on two feet was hard enough. With crutches? It was like trying to cross a balance beam in roller skates. The countdown to my next doctor’s appointment was on.

After lunch, Mina got lost in a wedding magazine she’d picked up from the mail, which left me with a rare moment of peace. I stretched out on the couch, my mind finally allowed to wander.

And, of course, it wandered right back to him.

Jungkook.

I didn’t know much about him—barely more than his first name—and yet here I was, thinking about him like a teenager with a crush. Which was ridiculous. But also undeniable.

He was absurdly good-looking. The kind of guy you noticed in a room. And for some reason, I couldn’t shake him.

Bronx. Tuesday nights. Five days from now.

Could I actually work up the nerve to go?

Part of me wanted to. Just to see him again. To feel that weird, electric thing that had sparked between us at the airport.

But another part of me—the part that had spent years keeping people at a safe distance—was already coming up with excuses.

Maybe he was just being nice.

Maybe Bronx was just a casual recommendation, not an invitation.

But then why mention Tuesday?

The uncertainty gnawed at me.

I sighed, half-wishing life was as simple as those old country songs—Do you like me? Check yes or no.

But it wasn’t that easy, was it?

Before I could spiral any further into my overthinking, Mina’s phone went off—a series of high-pitched squeals that could only mean one thing: bridal emergency.

She groaned, already getting to her feet, phone pressed to her ear before she was even fully upright. “Promise me you won’t touch anything while I’m gone,” she said, pointing at me like I was the kind of person who might start unpacking just to be difficult. “Lucy and I will help you sort everything later.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and disappeared out the door, already deep in crisis management mode.

For once, I didn’t fight it. I wasn’t about to wrestle with the mountain of bags and boxes on my own. Instead, I let myself sink deeper into the couch, the cushions swallowing me whole. I popped in my earbuds and let my iPod shuffle through songs, the familiar hum of music settling over me like a blanket.

And before I knew it, I was out.

I managed to avoid Mina for two whole days, using jet lag and my aching knee as perfect excuses to dodge any heavy lifting. But, of course, Saturday morning came, and so did she—armed with coffee, muffins, and an all-important battle plan. Today, she declared, was Divine Design Day, and reinforcements were on their way. Jimin and Taehyung were due to arrive at 10:00 AM sharp to help paint and set up the loft. I groaned inwardly at the thought of another long day of projects, but I couldn’t help but feel a little curious about the guys Mina and Lucy had been raving about.

Apparently, Mina had tried to recruit her brother Jungkook too, but he was busy spending the day with the team doctor after taking a nasty hit during last night’s game. I’d heard Mina and Lucy screaming from across the hall—wild cheers when the game went well, furious shouts when the refs blew a call. They’d invited me to watch, but I’d opted for a quiet evening with a book instead. After hearing their passionate recap, though, I made a mental note to join them next time. It sounded like it was quite the spectacle.

“Let’s move it, Y/N,” Mina clapped her hands, already pushing me toward the door. “We need to hit Home Depot for paint before the guys crawl out of bed.”

I dragged myself along, grumbling as I grabbed my coat, purse, and crutches. “Isn’t Lucy coming with us?”

“She threatened to spike my coffee if I woke her before nine,” Mina laughed. “She’ll catch up when we get back.”

“Just don’t go overboard, okay? I don’t need my apartment looking like it belongs on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens.”

“You’re no fun,” Mina pouted, but then a mischievous grin spread across her face. “Okay, fine, how about this: you get veto power, but I promise you won’t need it.”

“Deal,” I sighed, knowing full well this was as good as it was going to get.

We took Lucy’s BMW since it had more trunk space than Mina’s Porsche—which, considering how much Mina shopped, made me wonder why she even owned a sports car in the first place. As I buckled in, I was reminded that I still hadn’t picked up my own car from the dealership.

“You know, I really should get my car sometime,” I muttered as I adjusted my seatbelt.

“Not a chance,” Mina scoffed. “You’re not driving anywhere with those crutches.”

“Well, I’m hoping to be rid of them after my appointment on Monday. I’ve got a new doctor, Dr. Jeon.”

Mina’s eyes lit up. “Dr. Jeon? That’s my dad! I can’t believe I didn’t mention my last name was Jeon.”

“Small world,” I muttered, still processing. “So, your dad’s my new doctor?”

“Yep! And trust me, you’re in the best hands. He’s patched up half the hockey players in Michigan.”

Home Depot was its usual chaos, but Mina, ever the drill sergeant of design, had the entire trip organized to perfection. Armed with measurements, color swatches, and detailed diagrams, she had us in and out in under an hour. The fact that she could pull that off while also looking like she belonged in a magazine made me half-wonder if she secretly had superpowers.

For the first time that morning, I felt a spark of excitement—seeing my empty, bare-walled loft finally coming to life didn’t seem so bad after all.

When we pulled up to the building, Jimin’s truck and a rugged-looking Jeep were already parked out front.

“Right on time,” Mina said, grabbing her phone. “I’ll call the guys and have them unload everything. And don’t even think about protesting, Y/N.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said, raising my hands in mock surrender.

“No, but I know you hate asking for help,” Mina added sweetly, though there was no arguing with her tone. “Too bad. You’re not lifting a finger today.”

“Mina, your dad’s my doctor, not you,” I teased, but she just stuck her tongue out at me while dialing.

“We’re outside—come unload,” she barked into the phone, then slipped it back into her purse with a satisfied grin.

Within minutes, Lucy appeared with two guys in tow. One of them was immediately tackled by Mina, who launched herself at him like a human cannonball. He caught her with ease, laughing as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

The other guy—who I assumed was Taehyung—had his arm casually draped around Lucy’s shoulders and looked like he could bench-press a truck. He was huge, his broad chest stretching the fabric of his jacket, but there was this boyish grin that somehow made him less intimidating. His dark hair was cut close, and his deep brown eyes twinkled with a playful, mischievous glint.

Lucy led him over to me, and Taehyung sized me up with a cheeky smirk. “So, you’re the fresh meat, huh?”

“That’s me,” I replied with a laugh. “Straight off the butcher block.”

“I like this one,” he said to Lucy, ruffling her hair. “She’s got sass. Can we keep her?”

“You’re such an idiot,” Lucy shot back, shoving him playfully.

Taehyung glanced at my crutches. “What’s with the wingmen?”

“Huh?”

“The crutches,” he clarified, grinning. “Your wingmen.”

“Oh, right. Sports injury.”

“A player, huh?” His grin widened, teasing me.

“Not exactly,” I said, laughing.

“I dunno, Lou,” he said to Lucy, “I don’t think she’ll keep up with us.”

“Keep it up, Tae,” Lucy teased, nudging him, “or I might dump you for her.”

“Eh, Jimin can do the heavy lifting. I’ll just carry the cripple,” Taehyung said with a wicked grin, and before I could protest, he scooped me up like I was weightless. A startled yelp escaped me as my crutches clattered to the sidewalk. And just like that, I was cradled in his arms like a rag doll.

“Taehyung!” Mina shouted, pulling herself away from Jimin to storm over. “She’s injured! You can’t just throw her around like that.”

“She’s tiny, almost as small as you,” Taehyung laughed, totally unbothered. “Besides, if she’s sticking around, she’s gotta get used to a little manhandling.”

“She won’t be sticking around if you scare her off by treating her like a sack of potatoes,” Mina snapped, hands on her hips.

Taehyung just grinned and looked down at me. “You don’t mind, do you, Y/N?”

Still processing the fact that I was four feet off the ground in the arms of a complete stranger, I blinked, and to my surprise, I nodded. “Uh, sure, Taehyung,” I muttered, feeling oddly at ease despite the absurdity of the situation. His energy, his laugh, the warmth in his eyes—it was impossible to feel uncomfortable around him.

“See? Y/N’s my homegirl now,” Taehyung said with a triumphant grin, like he’d just won an award for best human being.

“Oh, you know it, G,” Lucy chimed in, laughing like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Chim, come meet my new best friend!” Taehyung called over his shoulder, still holding me like it was the most natural thing in the world—like this wasn’t a situation where I probably should have been, I don’t know, walking?

Jimin, who had been watching the whole circus unfold with a quiet, amused smile, finally made his way over. He extended his hand, his voice as soft and melodic as the warm look in his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he said, each word carrying a kind of gentleness that made it impossible not to like him instantly.

Still awkwardly perched on Taehyung’s back, I reached out to shake his hand, the usual wave of discomfort that came with meeting new people creeping up. But something about Jimin’s calm presence, those kind eyes of his, made it easier than I expected. “Don’t worry,” he added with a knowing grin, “you’ll get used to this bunch of lunatics.”

I let out a small laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. “I’m starting to think you’re right.”

“Alright, enough with the pleasantries!” Mina’s voice cut through, sharp and loud, as always. She clapped her hands with military precision. “We didn’t drag you guys here for social hour. Time to work!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimin said, snapping a playful salute before heading over to the trunk to start unloading supplies.

I wriggled a bit on Taehyung’s back, trying to find a way down. “Okay, Taehyung, time to put me down.”

“Nope,” he replied, patting my leg like it was a done deal. “I told you, I’m carrying you in.”

“I can walk, you know,” I protested, feeling the need to remind him that I still had two fully-functioning legs, even if they weren’t exactly in peak condition. “And Jimin could probably use your help.”

“Jimin’s got it covered,” Taehyung said nonchalantly, grabbing a bag of paint supplies with one hand while still managing to hold me securely on his back with the other. “Lucy, grab her crutches—aka Goose and Maverick.”

“Goose and Maverick?” I raised an eyebrow, thoroughly confused.

“Your wingmen,” Taehyung explained with utmost seriousness, like I was supposed to get this. “You can’t fly without them.”

“You’re ridiculous, Taehyung.”

“I know,” he replied with a wide, disarming grin. “That’s what makes me so lovable.”

And with that, he hauled us both inside, with Jimin, Mina, and Lucy following behind, their arms loaded with paint cans and brushes.

By the time we made it up to my apartment, I’d stopped trying to escape Taehyung’s “manhandling.” It was clear this “Divine Design Day” was more like a crazy, fun-filled bootcamp than your typical painting party. But weirdly, I didn’t mind. Between the laughter, the constant banter, and the easy camaraderie, I realized something—I was smiling more than I had in a long time. The tension I’d carried around for months, maybe even years, seemed to melt away with every joke and every shared moment of laughter.

As the day went on, I noticed something else: this wasn’t just about painting or setting up furniture. This was their way of pulling me into their world, a world that felt warm and open in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. By lunchtime, I had Taehyung laughing so hard he nearly dropped his paint roller, and I felt myself slipping back into sarcasm, something I hadn’t felt comfortable doing in a while.

Lucy, Taehyung, and Jimin worked seamlessly together, taping off the walls and laying down tarps while Mina orchestrated the whole operation like a general overseeing her troops. At first, I tried to stay out of their way, but before long, I found myself pulled into the action—sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by paint splatters, as they worked around me. It felt oddly comforting, this strange, unexpected bond forming around me.

By late afternoon, the loft had transformed. We’d painted two rooms and were almost done with a third. The place was beginning to feel like an actual home, a place I could settle into. The thought of unpacking didn’t feel as overwhelming anymore, so I decided to start with something familiar: my books.

Jimin carried the three boxes over like they weighed nothing, flashing me a smile before heading back to help Taehyung with the last of the painting. I opened the first box, and immediately, nostalgia hit me like a wave. Books had always been my safe haven. The feel of the pages, the scent of old paper—it was like stepping back into a world where everything made sense. As I started stacking them by genre and alphabetically, a sense of calm washed over me.

“Hey, Y/N!” Mina’s voice called out from the living room, interrupting my quiet moment. “Do you want us to start unpacking these other boxes? The paint’s dry enough now.”

“Yeah, sure,” I called back, not thinking much of it. “There shouldn’t be much in them.”

Mina’s voice got closer as she poked around. “One’s labeled ‘Miscellaneous,’ and the other doesn’t have anything written on it.”

“Huh, that’s weird,” I said, frowning slightly. “I thought I labeled everything.”

“Well, want me to open the mystery box?” Mina asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Go for it,” I said, feeling a small tug of curiosity myself. What could it be?

I heard the familiar sound of tape being ripped open, followed by Mina’s high-pitched squeal that could probably be heard by the neighbors. It echoed through the loft, loud enough to make me jump.

“Geez, Mina,” I muttered, stacking another book on the shelf. “Are you trying to summon every dog in the city?”

“Y/N!” Mina’s voice was filled with barely-contained excitement. When she popped her head around the half-wall, her eyes were wide with mischief, the kind of look that usually meant trouble.

“What is it, Mina?” I asked, wary.

She strutted over, something in her hands, her face lit with that mischievous gleam. And then, she held it up.

It was the plaque. That plaque. The one my mom had made after the 2020 Olympics, with “Olympic Silver Medalist” gleaming beneath my name. My stomach dropped, like someone had yanked the floor out from under me.

Shit.

Everything inside me screamed to grab it, shove it back in the box, pretend I’d never seen it. But I was frozen, staring at that plaque like it had just upended everything I was trying to build here. There it was, in all its shiny, unapologetic glory—my past, casually standing right in the middle of my future like it belonged. Like it had every right to.

“Care to explain why you never mentioned this?” Mina teased, her grin stretching wide like she had just found the golden ticket.

I groaned and rubbed a hand over my face. Of course, of course this would come up now. I wasn’t ready for this conversation—not now, not ever. “Where did you even find that?”

“In the unmarked box,” she said, like that was all the explanation needed.

Of course. The unmarked box. Thanks, Emily, I thought, bitterly. Of all the things my mother could’ve sent, this had to make the trip.

Mina was looking at me like she was a detective who’d just cracked the case. Her eyes were practically burning holes through me, waiting for me to spill the beans. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t avoid it. “Was there anything else in there?” I asked, stalling, even though I already knew exactly what else was hiding in that box.

“Oh, plenty,” she replied, clearly loving this. “Or should I say... Y/N Y/L/N, Olympic Silver Medalist and National Champion Figure Skater? Care to explain why this little tidbit never came up in conversation?”

Her words hung there between us, playful but pointed, and I sighed again. Mina wasn’t mad, not at all. She was just amused—like she’d just uncovered some secret Easter egg in a movie she wasn’t expecting.

“Okay, yeah,” I muttered, feeling the flush creep up my neck. “You got me. I was going to tell you eventually, I just... didn’t want it to be a thing, you know?” I looked down at my hands, fidgeting with the spine of a book. “It’s not like I’m ashamed of it. I just... liked that you didn’t know. It was easier that way. I could just be Y/N, without all the... assumptions or whatever.”

Mina’s face softened, and she lowered the plaque with a quiet chuckle. “I get it, Y/N. Honestly, I do. And for what it’s worth, it doesn’t change anything. Lucy and I? We’re still the same girls who’ve been feeding you pizza and hauling in your groceries.” She gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “And trust me, Jimin and Taehyung? They’re probably the last people on earth who care about figure skating. No crazed fans here.”

Relief flooded through me, but a little bit of that lingering embarrassment stayed in the back of my mind. “Thanks,” I said, my voice quiet. “I’m sorry for not saying something earlier. It just... it felt good to be normal for a while.”

Mina grinned, nudging me with her shoulder. “Normal’s overrated. And you didn’t lie—you just... omitted a few sparkly details.”

I laughed, feeling the tension start to melt. We made our way back to the box. Inside, it wasn’t just the plaque—there were old photos, magazines, medals, and even some of my old costumes, glittering with sequins. It was like a time capsule from a life I thought I’d left behind, packed up meticulously and sent across the country by Emily, my ever-persistent mother.

Pinned to one of the costumes was a note in her unmistakable handwriting: Just in case.

“Subtle, Emily,” I muttered, tossing the costume back into the box.

“Who’s Emily?” Mina asked, plopping down beside me on the floor.

“My mom,” I replied, letting out a long sigh.

Mina nodded, picking up one of the magazines with my face plastered on the cover. She turned it over in her hands like she was still trying to process it. “So... I’m guessing you didn’t pack all this yourself?”

“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “I left all my skating stuff back in Vegas. But Emily—she has her own ideas about what’s best. She thought I might need a little ‘reminder’ of my accomplishments.”

“Or a lot of reminders,” Mina said, holding up another sparkly costume, her eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

I snatched the costume from her, laughing despite myself. “Well, I didn’t exactly want all of this here. I’m not sure if I’ll ever skate again, so I didn’t feel like living in sequins and medals every day, you know?”

Mina’s grin faded a little, and she placed her hand on my knee, her touch gentle. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s fine,” I said, trying to push away the heaviness creeping into my chest. “I’m dealing with it. I just... didn’t think I’d need all this while I’m... figuring things out.”

We sat there in a quiet, heavy silence, surrounded by the ghosts of my past life that refused to stay buried. I glanced down at the shimmering fabric in my lap, running my fingers over the beads, feeling too familiar, too close to everything I was trying to leave behind.

“And that’s exactly why she sent it all,” I added, offering a bitter smile. “In Emily’s world, this injury is just me being dramatic. I should be back on the ice by now, training for my next competition.”

“That’s insane,” Mina scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Doesn’t she know what’s going on with your knee?”

“Emily only hears what she wants to hear,” I half-laughed, half-sighed. “But don’t worry. She can’t push me into anything anymore. I’m in control now.”

“Well, whatever you need, we’re here for you, Y/N,” Mina said softly, her words warm and solid. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

I smiled, a warmth spreading through my chest that chased away some of the darkness. “Thanks, Mina. I know I’m not great at all this emotional stuff, but... I’m really glad I met you. It’s been a long time since I had real friends.”

Mina beamed, knocking her knee against mine. “Best friends, Y/N. Not just regular friends.”

I nudged her back, laughing, my heart feeling a little lighter. “Yeah, best friends.”

We sat there, sprawled out on the floor, amidst the remnants of my past life—photos, costumes, memories of who I used to be. And for the first time in a long time, the silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy. And, for once, I didn’t mind the mess.

"Hey, lazy bums!" Lucy’s voice rang out from the bedroom where she’d been helping Jimin and Taehyung tape off the last wall for painting. "Are you two just gonna lounge around while we do all the work?"

"Yep, that was the plan," Mina said, not missing a beat.

"Sounds good to me," I chimed in, grinning.

Lucy appeared in the doorway, her grin already in place as she plopped down next to us on the floor like she had nowhere better to be. "Well, if you’re gonna be lazy, I might as well join you."

Mina shot me a sly look and turned to Lucy. "So, Lucy," she drawled, dragging out the words, "did you know that Y/N here is a big-time figure skater?"

Lucy’s eyebrows shot up for a second before she shrugged like it was no big deal. "No shit? I knew your name sounded familiar," she said, totally unfazed. "That’s pretty cool."

Mina gave me a look that clearly said See? No big deal, and I tried not to laugh at how casually Lucy took it.

"You know, Y/N," Lucy said, leaning back on her elbows, "you kinda kick ass out there."

I couldn’t help but laugh. "Thanks, Lucy."

"Seriously," Mina added, rolling over onto her stomach and propping herself up on her elbows. "The things you can do with your legs... If I were that flexible, Jimin wouldn’t let me out of the bedroom for days!"

I giggled and shook my head. "Please, Mina, you’re giving me way too much credit."

Lucy grinned, mimicking Mina’s pose. "She’s got a point, Y/N. All that flexibility? Total game-changer in the bedroom. Think of the positions you could get into."

"Wow, thanks for the confidence boost, Lucy," I joked, feeling my face heat up. "Glad to know I’ve got you all worked up."

"Not me, you dork," Lucy said, with an exaggerated eye roll. "Guys. You know, the ones who actually matter in this scenario."

"Well, I wouldn’t really know," I said, trying to keep my tone light, though my chest was tightening a little. "But hey, good to know I’ve got options. Stripper? Kama Sutra demonstrator? Naked contortionist?"

Mina suddenly sat up, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Wait a second," she said, her voice suddenly full of disbelief. "Wouldn’t know? Y/N, are you... a virgin?" she asked, as if I had just confessed to being a secret agent.

Heat surged to my cheeks, and before I could even think about how to respond, I shot up like I had just been caught doing something illegal. "Okay, I think that’s enough prying into my personal life for one day," I called over my shoulder, trying—and failing—to sound casual. Embarrassment crawled up my neck like wildfire. "Let’s save the deep dives for when we’re knee-deep in a tub of Ben & Jerry’s at some inevitable sleepover. Pillow fights optional."

"Oh no, Y/N," Mina’s voice rang out behind me, dripping with playful menace. "We’re your best friends now—there’s no such thing as ‘enough prying.’" She paused dramatically, and I could practically hear her smirking. "But fine, keep your little secrets for now. Just know that Lucy and I are official Y/N Y/L/N spelunkers. No secret is too deep, no skeleton too buried. We’ll dig it all up eventually."

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I rifled through the fridge, pretending to look for something—anything—that would change the subject. The truth was, with Mina and Lucy around, there was no way in hell my past was going to stay hidden for long. They were relentless, the kind of friends who didn’t just scratch the surface. They dug. They prodded. They excavated until they hit bedrock. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Monday morning, I woke up before dawn, as usual. But instead of jumping out of bed and rushing straight for the coffee maker, I stayed under the soft feather pillows that Mina had insisted would help me sleep better. I wasn’t sure they had, but for the first time in a while, it felt easier to just stay there, letting the weight of the day press down on me slowly, like a shadow growing across the room.

Today was the day my path would be decided. I might have been being melodramatic, but it was hard not to be when the appointment felt like the turning point. The moment I’d have to choose which way to go. I’d been stalled at this fork for too long. It was time to pick a direction, any direction.

A lot of that decision would depend on the new doctor. Dr. Banerjee back in Vegas hadn’t been hopeful. He practically told me not to get my hopes up. Would Dr. Jeon say the same? Emily had made it clear she thought I was just milking the injury, playing the drama queen. And sometimes, I wondered if she was right. Was I just dragging this out? My knee still throbbed when I pushed it too hard, but maybe I was just being weak. Maybe I needed to toughen up, ignore the pain, and push through.

Enough lying in bed. The answer would come soon enough.

I climbed out of bed and started my usual morning stretches, paying close attention to how my knee felt. The lack of soreness gave me a little spark of hope. My flexibility was still there, too—thankfully, I hadn’t lost that during the months of inactivity. That was what had made me stand out on the ice, those long, graceful spiral sequences. If I could still do them, maybe I could skate again. And if I could skate again, I’d need to get back to my Pilates routine, pronto. The longer I waited, the harder it would be to regain the strength and flexibility I’d need.

But for now, all I could do was stretch and hope. The future could wait a little longer.

The truth was, I missed the rush that exercise always gave me. The kind of energy that made my limbs feel electric, the burn that felt almost like a reward. Sitting around, doing nothing, had turned out to be more suffocating than I’d imagined. The first week after surgery had been kind of a relief—like a forced break from the rigid schedule that had ruled my life for so long. I had sprawled out on the couch, devoured three Jane Austen novels in a row, only stopping for food, bathroom breaks, and the occasional nap. It was pure bliss.

But then... the days started to blur. By mid-December, boredom had sunk its teeth in, and I could feel it gnawing at me. Emily, of course, decided I needed a “push.” So, she dragged me back to the rink to “knock some sense into me,” as she put it. The rehab exercises Dr. Banerjee prescribed weren’t enough for her. She complained that it was all taking too long, and after one mortifying demonstration where she shoved me out onto the ice and I immediately fell flat on my ass, she finally stopped insisting I skate.

That didn’t mean she backed off, though. Oh no. She still had me show up every day to “consult” with Yoongi, my coach, about what came next. But it only made me feel trapped. Like a prisoner pacing in the perimeter of a shrinking cell. That was when I started thinking about leaving. With Emily always there, it was like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t hear myself over the sound of her voice barking orders and issuing demands. If my career was over, I needed space to figure out what came next, and staying in Vegas wasn’t going to give me that.

Dr. Banerjee had mentioned a few specialists in Michigan who had experience with my kind of injury. As soon as he said it, I latched onto the idea of moving back. The doctors would satisfy Emily’s need for reassurance, and the distance would give me the space to breathe, to be. She didn’t like it at first—said it was a waste of time, of resources—but when she saw I wasn’t backing down, she caved. Not without conditions, of course.

She found the apartment, bought the car, booked the doctor’s appointments, arranged the flights. The only thing I cared about was leaving as soon as possible. So, I did. I boarded a plane, said goodbye to the warmth of Nevada, and didn’t look back.

And here I was now. Sitting at the edge of a decision. Despite the tight knot of anxiety in my stomach, I had to admit, moving back was starting to feel like the right choice. There was something about Michigan that felt more like home than anywhere I’d been in years. It wasn’t just the cold air or the city’s winding streets; it was something deeper, something about being away from the noise of expectations, the pressure to constantly prove myself. Here, I could just be Y/N, and for the first time in a long while, that didn’t feel like a hollow title.

I went through the motions of getting ready—showering, drying my hair, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I wasn’t sure if the routine was helping calm my nerves or just delaying the inevitable. I ate a lemon poppy seed muffin, wiped the crumbs off the counter, and tried to ignore the tension creeping up my shoulders. My mind kept drifting back to the appointment. What would Dr. Jeon say? Was I still Y/N Y/L/N, competitive skater? Or was I about to become someone else entirely?

A knock on the door startled me out of my thoughts. Mina’s voice floated in, cheerful as ever. “Morning!” she called out as she let herself in. I’d given her a spare key yesterday—mostly because she insisted, and I hadn’t come up with a good reason not to.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt, as she waltzed into the kitchen, all bright-eyed and grinning.

“Happy Lose-the-Crutches Day!” she proclaimed with a teasing lilt in her voice.

“You’re weird,” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh, come on, Y/N. You can’t tell me you’re not excited to ditch your flyboys.” She shot a glance at the crutches leaning against the wall. “Maybe with fewer appendages to trip over, you’ll stop bumping into things so much.”

“Doubt it,” I replied, holding back a smile. “I’ve always been a klutz. Kind of ironic, don’t you think? Champion figure skater who trips over air.”

“Not ironic,” Mina said, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “You were born to be on the ice. That’s all.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, a little skeptical. “You really think so?”

“Definitely,” she said, her tone sincere, her eyes steady. It made me pause. “I’ve seen you skate, Y/N. It’s like watching something otherworldly.”

I’d heard words like that before—usually from articles or fans—but hearing it from Mina, with that quiet belief in her eyes, felt different. It felt like maybe I could believe it too, if I let myself.

I cleared my throat, avoiding her gaze. “Thanks, Mina.”

She grinned, brightening up. “Come on, babe. Let’s get going. Grab Goose and Maverick and let’s jet.”

I rolled my eyes at the ridiculous names she’d given my crutches but grabbed them anyway. The sooner this was over, the sooner I’d know what came next. Mina and I headed out, slipping into her car as she cranked the heat.

“Thanks for chauffeuring me,” I said, trying to make light of the anxiety gnawing at me.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she laughed. “I’m happy to do it. Besides, it gives me an excuse to pop in and see Dad. Makes me look like the ‘good child.’”

“I have a feeling you don’t need much help keeping that title.”

“True,” she said, her voice filled with fondness. “But I like stopping by the hospital now and then. It’s funny how different we all are—my brothers and me—but we’ve always been close. Taehyung’s a tank on the ice, and Jungkook’s fast as hell, but they’ve always looked out for me. And growing up with them... well, let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice handling troublemakers.”

"How did they end up playing on the same team, anyway? Doesn’t that kind of thing usually not happen?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the knot tightening in my chest.

“It doesn’t,” she admitted. “Taehyung wasn’t a big name in the draft picks. Being a hometown boy helped, but once the Red Wings saw him play, they knew they had a hidden gem. Then Jungkook came up the next year. Having Taehyung already on the team definitely helped his chances. Plus, it’s good PR—two hometown brothers in the NHL.”

“Guess I’ll have to learn a little more about hockey,” I said, offering a half-smile.

“Y/N, trust me. You’re in Michigan now. It’s practically a requirement.” She winked at me as we pulled into the hospital parking lot. The knot of anxiety tightened in my chest again, but it didn’t feel the same. The difference now was, for the first time, I felt like I had a little more control over where I went from here—even if I had no idea what the next steps would look like.

The uncertainty was still there, but it didn’t feel like a shadow I had to run from. For now, it was just another stretch of ice I’d have to navigate. And if I stumbled a bit along the way, well, I could live with that.

“That’s pretty cool,” I said, and Mina’s face lit up, her voice picking up speed as she launched into more stories about her brothers and their love for hockey.

“Yeah, they’re living the dream. Mom and Dad were all in on their decision to go pro. A lot of the hockey parents we knew were pulling their kids out, saying they should focus on school or get 'real' jobs. But my parents never did that. They always cared more about us finding something we loved, not just something practical.”

As she kept talking, sharing memories of their childhood, I could practically feel the warmth of the Jeon family’s bond. It was one of those things you could almost touch, the kind of closeness that felt familiar and distant all at once. Taehyung, I learned, was adopted. His birth mother had been Mina's aunt—Yuri's sister—who’d passed away when he was a baby. The Jeons had taken him in, raised him as their own, and made him the oldest son.

There was something comforting in the way Mina talked about them. It was like hearing about a life I’d never had but always kind of wished I could. A life where family wasn’t just a word, but a real, tangible thing.

We pulled into the parking lot of St. Joseph’s, and I felt the weight of it settle over me. Signing in at the front desk felt like signing away the last of my denial. And when the nurse called my name five minutes later, the nerves hit, deep and clawing at my chest.

In the exam room, everything smelled like antiseptic, cold and sterile, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones from the linoleum floors. The nurse did her usual routine—height, weight, blood pressure—and then left us alone. Mina sat in a chair next to the exam table, and I perched on the edge, my hands folded together so tightly that my knuckles were almost white.

It was ridiculous how fast my pulse was racing. I’d been through so much worse before—competitions where the world was watching, where one slip-up could cost everything. But this... this was different. This was my future, maybe even who I was, dangling on a thread. Figure skating didn’t give you time to waste. I always thought I had more. Now it felt like the curtain was coming down, and I was stuck in the dark.

My foot started tapping a nervous rhythm against the cabinet. I bit my lip hard enough that it almost hurt. Mina leaned over and gently placed a hand on my foot, stilling it.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I nodded, but it felt like a lie.

Before I could say anything, the door swung open, and in walked a man I assumed was Dr. Jeon. If this was Mina’s dad, then he was definitely proof that some people aged like fine wine. He had salt-and-pepper hair slicked back in a way that looked effortless but somehow stylish. His brown eyes were warm but sharp, taking in the room with a kind of calm authority that made me wonder if Michigan doctors all looked like movie stars instead of regular people.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” he asked, his voice shifting from professional to something warmer as his gaze landed on Mina. “Oh hey der, Mina! Didn’t see ya there!”

I almost snorted. Did he seriously just say ‘hey der’? I felt like I’d stepped into a Michigan stereotype, except, instead of flannel-wearing folks talking about fishing, everyone here looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

Mina jumped up to give him a hug, and the bond between them was clear. The way his arm slid around her shoulders, the way she grinned so wide her eyes sparkled as she introduced me.

“Y/N’s my new neighbor! Thought I’d bring her by to say hi,” she said, practically bouncing.

“Well, that’s just great! Hope she hasn’t been driving you too nuts already,” Dr. Jeon said, the playful gleam in his eyes making me smile, even though my nerves were still jittering.

“No, Mina’s been great, Dr. Jeon,” I said, but my voice came out a little tighter than I wanted.

“Please, call me Suho,” he said with a grin. “Any friend of Mina’s is a friend of mine. And if you’re hanging out with her, I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Oh! That reminds me,” Mina interrupted, her eyes suddenly wide with mischief. “Are you and Mom going to the game on Friday?”

“You betcha! Wouldn’t miss it.”

Mina turned to me, practically glowing. “Y/N, do you want to come to the Red Wings game with us? Lucy and I are going, and we always meet up with the guys afterward. It’s a blast! Please say you’ll go?”

“Mina, you’re pulling out the puppy lip,” I warned, though I felt my resolve weakening.

“I know! It works every time. Come on, please?”

I sighed, feeling the last of my resistance crumble. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Yesss!” she cheered, her excitement contagious. “This is going to be so awesome. Oh, and can I pick out your outfit?”

“Alright, Mina,” Suho interrupted with a chuckle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I need to actually, you know, consult with my patient here.”

“Oops, right,” Mina said, sheepishly. “I’ll be in the waiting room. See you Friday, Dad!” She kissed his cheek before bouncing out of the room, leaving behind a silence that felt almost too loud.

“She’s always been like that?” I asked, half-amused, half in disbelief.

Suho chuckled, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Yah, she’s always been a bit of a firecracker. But she means well. Now, let’s take a look at that knee, shall we?”

The fluttering in my stomach kicked up again as he flipped open a manila folder. “Your doctor in Nevada sent over your records,” he said, drawing out the ‘a’ in Nevada in a way that made me bite back a smile. He caught my look and grinned. “What’s the matter? My Michigan accent getting to ya?”

I let out a breathy laugh, the tension starting to ease. “Sorry, I’m still readjusting. It’s been a while since I’ve lived here.”

He leaned in like he was about to share a secret. “Oh, don’tcha worry. We’ll have ya speakin’ like a northerner again in no time, ya betcha.”

The exaggerated drawl pulled a groan out of me, but it was hard to stay tense with him grinning like that. The atmosphere in the room felt lighter, easier to breathe in. Maybe it wasn’t just the change of scenery that would help me adjust. Maybe it was moments like this.

“Alright, let’s get down to business,” he said, flipping open my medical records with a practiced flick of his wrist. His voice shifted, more serious now. “Looks like you tore your ACL pretty badly back in November and had surgery not long after. I see you also had a concussion from the fall?”

I nodded, the words tight in my throat as the memory of that day washed over me. The fall. It was one of those moments that replays on a loop in your head, like a nightmare you can’t escape. Every time I closed my eyes, there it was again.

“The good news is,” Suho continued, “it looks like the concussion’s healed up nicely. And your knee—well, it’s a long road, but you’re making progress. Any soreness left?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. “It still aches if I’m on my feet for too long. I’ve been doing the rehab exercises, but it’s slow. Really slow.”

Suho nodded and gently moved my leg, testing the range of motion. “That’s to be expected. Recovery from something like this doesn’t happen overnight. It’ll still be sore. It might even throb as you rebuild strength, but you’re healing. You’re making progress. I think we can start transitioning you off the crutches. Take it slow, though—walk short distances without them at first, see how it feels.”

His words hit me like a lifeline I didn’t even know I needed. “So... does that mean I can skate again? Not right now, but... eventually?”

Suho met my eyes. His face was serious again. “If you stick with the rehab, listen to your body, and don’t rush it, then yes, I think it’s possible. But it’s going to take time. Patience is going to be key.” He paused, his gaze anchoring me. “We can start you on the treadmill by the end of the week. Slow, steady walking, just to get your knee used to the movement again. Maybe—just maybe—if everything goes well, we can start with some light skating. No jumps, no spins—just laps.”

Relief hit me like a wave, a warmth that spread through me like the first hint of daylight after a long night. It wasn’t a promise, but it was something. And right now, that was enough.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice fragile, barely holding it together.

Suho smiled, kind but firm. “One step at a time, Y/N. You’re not in this alone.”

I sat there, absorbing the weight of his words. This wasn’t the end. It was a new beginning, a different kind of fight. But it was mine.

He flipped through my records, his voice settling back into its practical tone. “Keep up with the therapy. Let’s schedule a follow-up in early April to see how you’re doing. Any questions?”

One question burned in my chest, the one I’d been too scared to ask for months. My heart pounded in my ears, and I swallowed hard, trying to push past the lump in my throat. What if he said what Dr. Banerjee had said? That the damage was too severe? That I’d never skate again? That I’d never compete again?

“Yes, Y/N?” Suho’s voice was calm, patient, his eyes urging me to ask.

I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to speak. “Will I be able to compete again?”

For a split second, he didn’t answer, and in that pause, the whole world seemed to hold its breath with me. Then he exhaled slowly, his voice careful. “That’s a good question. It’s possible. A lot of athletes come back from ACL tears, some even making a full recovery. But a lot depends on how well the next few months go. You’ve got to retrain your knee without overdoing it.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. “The next month is crucial. You’re going to start feeling like your knee’s back to normal, but that’s when you’re most at risk for re-injury. It’ll be tempting to jump right back into your routine, but you’ve got to stick to the plan. If you can do that, we’ll reassess in April.”

I nodded, my mind spinning with all the things he was telling me. There was so much to process, and the fear—God, the fear—still lingered like a shadow, gnawing at the edges of my hope. But then Suho’s next words broke through that darkness.

“Y/N, I don’t want you to lose hope. I know it’s frustrating, but mental determination is going to play a huge role in your recovery. If you stay patient and committed, there’s every reason to believe you’ll get back to where you were.”

A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest. “Really?” I asked, barely daring to believe it.

Suho smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made me believe him just a little more. “I can’t guarantee anything, but if you stay the course, there’s a good chance you’ll be back on that ice—maybe even as an Olympian again.”

The weight I’d been carrying for months felt a little lighter. A little. I felt like maybe—just maybe—there was something to hope for. “Thanks, Dr. Je—uh, Suho,” I corrected myself, sheepish at the grin he shot me.

“No need to thank me,” he said with a chuckle. “This one’s all on you. Just don’t push yourself too hard. There’ll be plenty of time for that later, once you’re healed.”

I gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

We wrapped things up, and as I grabbed my crutches to leave, Suho gave me one last smile. “See you Friday night... at the game.”

“Oh, right! See you then.”

The cold January air hit me as I stepped outside, sharp and biting, but I didn’t mind. Not today. Hope had a way of making everything feel a little warmer, even when the world was still so cold.

After the appointment, Mina insisted on lunch, and we made our way to our favorite café. The kind of place where the staff knows your name, and the menu’s practically burned into your brain. Then, she drove me straight to the dealership where Emily had promised my new car would be waiting.

As we pulled up, my stomach did that familiar drop when I saw it: a shiny Mercedes Benz SUV, gleaming under the dealership lights like it was posing for a magazine cover. It screamed luxury—so Emily. So her. I mean, of course it was a Mercedes. Nothing less for someone like her. But to me, it was just... a reminder of how little she really understood me.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but there it was—the familiar weight of disappointment settling in my chest like a stone.

I reluctantly climbed into the car, too shiny and new, the leather too pristine beneath me. As I pulled out of the lot, my phone buzzed—Emily, of course. She’d been waiting for me to finish the appointment so she could call and get her feedback. Normally, I’d answer right away, quick to please. But not today. I hit decline, sending her straight to voicemail. If she got upset later, I could always claim I was driving, still getting used to the new car.

We arrived back at the apartment just as Lucy was pulling in, practically radiating her usual excitement. As soon as she saw us, she bounded over, brimming with that energy that made me laugh even when I wasn’t in the mood. The two girls—always together, always bouncing off each other—decided it was the perfect time to test out my "sea legs" with a walk around the block.

“Guys, it’s January. In Michigan. And you want to go for a walk?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, already knowing the answer.

“Come on, Y/N, you’re a figure skater! Don’t tell me you can’t handle the cold,” Mina teased, already bundling up in an impressive number of layers.

“I’ll manage,” I said, surprised at their enthusiasm. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could handle it, but they seemed so excited, I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

“It’s twenty-two degrees. Practically a heat wave!” Lucy laughed, wrapping a scarf around her neck like she was about to conquer Everest.

We set off, no real destination in mind. It felt surprisingly good to walk without crutches, to breathe in the sharp winter air, to move like I had control again. Like I wasn’t just waiting for my body to catch up with me.

Less than a block in, my phone rang again—Emily. I sighed and quickly muted it before either of them could notice.

“Who is it?” Mina asked, glancing over at me with a curious look in her eye.

“My mom,” I shrugged. “I’ll talk to her later.”

“You were living with her until last week, right?” Lucy asked, her voice full of that inquisitive, "I-want-to-know-all-about-you" tone that she never quite managed to hide.

“Yeah,” I said, glancing up at the sky, trying to gather my thoughts. “My parents split when I was a kid. Dad’s in Washington now, and Emily and I—well, we bounced around for a while.”

“That sounds exciting!” Mina said with wide eyes, like I’d been living some kind of glamorous life. “You must’ve traveled to so many cool places with skating.”

“Sort of,” I said, smiling a little. “I’ve traveled a lot, but mostly it’s arenas and hotel rooms. They all kind of blend together after a while.”

“Really? You don’t get to sightsee?” Lucy asked, surprised.

I shook my head, feeling a little embarrassed. “Not really.”

“That kinda sucks,” Lucy said bluntly, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, a little. I mean, I’m lucky to have had the opportunities, but it’s not all glitter and lights. Mostly it’s just ice rinks and gym time.”

“Not much of a social scene, huh?” Mina asked, clearly intrigued now.

“Nope,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just a lot of catty, ultra-competitive girls and their stage moms.”

“Ever seen anyone pull a Tanya?” Lucy asked, her voice suddenly teasing, the mischievous glint in her eyes impossible to miss.

“Harding? Nah, usually the sabotage is a little more subtle than a baton to the knee.” I giggled, feeling a little lighter. The past few months had been so heavy, and for a second, it felt like the weight was finally lifting.

“That’s not how you got hurt, is it?” Mina’s voice softened, the concern slipping into her tone as her eyes searched mine.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I just... fell during practice. Stupid. My skate caught on a rough patch of ice, and down I went. Concussion and a torn ACL.”

“Ouch,” Lucy winced, looking at me like I’d just told her about some medieval torture device.

“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” I said, feeling the sting of it even now, even though it was months ago.

“There wasn’t much news about it, though,” Lucy added, brow furrowing in thought. “I didn’t even know you were off the ice.”

“Oh, come on, Lucy!” Mina teased, rolling her eyes. “Y/N’s a big celeb. It was bound to be news eventually.”

“No, it’s okay,” I reassured them, wanting to avoid feeling like I was in the spotlight. “My mom’s my manager, and she kept it quiet. She was hoping I’d bounce back quickly and didn’t want the press all over it. I’m sure once I don’t show up at Nationals, something will leak.”

“Is it weird?” Lucy asked, her curiosity obvious. “Having your mom as your manager?”

“I never really thought about it,” I said, shrugging. “It’s always been that way. When we moved away after the divorce, she was already handling all my schedules and practices. It just sort of... evolved from there.”

“Do you miss her?” Mina’s voice softened, no teasing, just a gentle curiosity.

I sighed, the question catching me off guard. “Honestly? It’s been nice having some space. She couldn’t stop talking about my knee, about how I needed to get back on the ice. It’s like she doesn’t know what to do with herself if I’m not skating.”

“That would get old fast,” Mina agreed with a sympathetic smile.

“Yeah, it really did,” I said, appreciating the distance from it all. For the first time in a long while, I could breathe without worrying if I was letting someone down.

The conversation shifted after that, and soon we were all laughing again as Mina told us about her latest wedding-planning disaster—because, of course, there’s always something.

Before I knew it, we were back at our building, heading up in the elevator.

“So, it’s Monday night,” Lucy said, her grin widening like she was about to make a really good point. “None of us have to work tomorrow, and the guys are busy. You know what that means?”

I shook my head, clueless, watching as she and Mina exchanged a look.

“Girls’ night!” Mina squealed, her excitement practically vibrating in the air.

“Girls’ night?” I echoed, frowning slightly, still trying to wrap my head around what that actually meant.

“Oh, you have no idea what you’ve been missing,” Lucy teased, flinging an arm around my shoulders like we’d been friends for years instead of days. “It’s sacred. We eat junk food, drink cocktails, and watch chick flicks until we pass out from a sugar coma.”

“And this is… fun?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be intrigued or terrified.

“Uh, yeah!” Lucy said, like I’d just asked if the sky was blue.

“I’m not really much of a drinker,” I admitted, feeling a little awkward all of a sudden.

“Lightweight or just don’t like it?” Lucy asked, her curiosity sharpening like she was about to dissect me.

“Neither, really. I just… never really had the chance. Training and alcohol don’t mix, and I was always in bed by nine.” I could feel the heat creeping up my neck, my embarrassment showing through the words.

Mina’s eyes went wide, like I’d just confessed to living under a rock. “Wait, you’ve never had a drink?”

“Not really,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling like I didn’t belong in this conversation at all.

“No moral objections or anything?” Mina asked, her voice teasing but still full of genuine curiosity.

“No, I just… never got around to it,” I said, trying to brush it off but already feeling the weight of my own weirdness.

Mina grinned, practically glowing with excitement. “Well, no bedtime tonight! You in?”

I hesitated. The idea of drinking for the first time made me nervous. But the way their enthusiasm was lighting up the room—well, it was kind of infectious. “Yeah, okay,” I said, even though I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

“Great! We’ll be right over with the provisions!” Mina practically dragged Lucy into their apartment, leaving their door wide open as they disappeared inside, their voices floating back out into the hallway.

"Mina, let’s get the movies! What’s the vibe?" Lucy’s voice called from inside, pulling me into their whirlwind without even asking.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching them with a grin. Lucy was already ransacking their kitchen, piling snacks and bottles into a laundry basket like she was gearing up for some epic battle. “What kind of movies do you like?” she asked, still rummaging around, not even looking up.

“I’m not picky,” I said, laughing at how absurdly fast she was moving.

“Perfect! Chick flicks it is!” she declared, holding up a bag of chips like she’d just discovered treasure.

“Wait, are we really watching all of those?” I asked as Mina emerged from the bedroom with a stack of DVDs taller than her head. It looked like enough to keep us glued to the screen for a week.

“No, but it’s good to have options,” Mina said with a wink, tossing the cases into the basket like she had it all figured out.

“Alright, give us a sec to change into some sweats, and we’ll be over,” Lucy said, already heading to her bedroom with her spoils.

“Sweats, Mina?” I teased, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even own any?”

“It’s girls’ night, Y/N. Concessions must be made,” she replied, pretending to be scandalized.

Back in my apartment, I changed into fleece pants and my old Team USA hoodie, pulling on a pair of fuzzy slipper socks. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for whatever this was, but I was definitely curious. The second I stepped into the living room, I was hit with the full blast of their “party zone” transformation. Mina was fiddling with the DVD player, while Lucy was already setting up the counter with snacks and drinks, making a delightful symphony of chaos in the kitchen.

A wicked grin spread across my face. Emily would flip if she saw this junk food carnival. Tonight was about firsts—first girls’ night, first chick flick binge, first cocktail, first indulgence in all the things I’d never let myself have. I was ready to enjoy it all.

“So, what’d you start us off with?” I asked, as Lucy tossed a bag of Doritos to Mina, who caught it in mid-air with a triumphant grin.

“Well, we’ve got to save our tearjerkers for later,” Mina said with a mischievous smile. “I thought we’d kick things off with How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Gotta get the laughs and the man candy going early, you know?”

“Mmm… McConaughey…” Lucy sighed dreamily, stretching out like a cat. “That man makes me miss Southern boys.”

“Hey, you could’ve snagged yourself a Texan. You and Jimin both went to Texas Tech,” Mina giggled, throwing a pillow at Lucy.

“Taehyung more than makes up for the lack of an accent,” Lucy shot back with a smirk.

“Uh, speaking of accents…” I chimed in, still trying to shake the sound of Dr. Jeon’s voice from earlier.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” Mina burst out laughing, catching on immediately. “I should’ve warned you about my dad. Isn’t his accent hilarious? I’m used to it, but even now, sometimes it catches me off guard.”

“That man is like sex on a stick at the State Fair,” Lucy added, already heading back to the kitchen for more drinks.

“Lucy!” I exclaimed, feeling my face heat up like a furnace.

“Just admit it, Y/N—Dr. Jeon is drool-worthy,” Lucy teased, her grin so mischievous it was practically glowing.

“Yeah, he’s good-looking,” I stammered, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “But isn’t he, like, practically your future father-in-law?”

“Exactly,” Lucy said, holding up her drink like she’d just won a gold medal. “Gives me a glimpse into my future, and it’s looking damn good twenty-five years down the road.”

I blinked, trying to process the absurdity of the conversation. “I’m sure Mina doesn’t appreciate you associating her father with… well, that.”

“Stop being such a nun, Y/N. I know my dad’s a DILF,” Mina said, so casually I almost choked.

“A what?” I asked, horrified but somehow intrigued.

Mina and Lucy exchanged a knowing glance. “Oh, sweet summer child,” Lucy sighed dramatically. “DILF stands for ‘Dad I’d like to—’”

I choked on my chip before she could finish, coughing like I’d just swallowed a firecracker. My face was even hotter now.

“Didn’t need that visual, thanks,” I muttered, half-laughing, half-wincing.

Mina patted me on the back, giggling like she couldn’t contain herself. “Oh, Y/N, you’re just too much fun to corrupt.”

“You underestimate the power of the Dark Side,” Lucy added, her voice dropping into a low, Darth Vader impression, complete with heavy breathing.

“Mina, there is no place for Star Wars geekery at Girls’ Night,” Mina interjected with a mock-serious tone, like she was the gatekeeper of some sacred tradition.

“Mina, there’s always a place for Star Wars geekery,” Lucy shot back, turning to me for backup, her eyes wide with earnestness. “Right, Y/N?”

“Uh, sure?” I replied, suddenly feeling very much like I was in a conversation I hadn’t quite signed up for.

“You’ve seen it, right? Star Wars?” Lucy asked, her disbelief written all over her face.

“Actually… no,” I winced, bracing for the fallout.

Lucy gasped like I’d just told her I’d never seen the sun rise. “OH. MY. GOD!” she screamed, the force of her voice almost knocking me over. She dropped her drink onto the counter with a clang. “Are you kidding me? Mina, go get my special editions! We need to fix this now!”

“No way!” Mina shot back, hands on her hips like some kind of movie-critic superhero. “Girls’ Night equals chick flicks, not galactic battles.”

“Hey, The Empire Strikes Back is very romantic,” Lucy protested, her voice full of conviction.

“Yeah, until someone gets their hand sliced off with a lightsaber,” I countered, feeling a little bolder now.

“Whatever, you uncultured heathen,” Lucy rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up dramatically. “Soon, Y/N. I’ll fix this, I swear.”

Lucy handed each of us a glass as she emerged from the kitchen, and Mina reached for the remote. “We ready?” Mina asked, settling in next to me, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Yup, everything’s prepped,” Lucy said, raising her glass like she was about to make a grand speech. “Alright, ladies, a toast—to the first of many Girls’ Nights with our new BFF, Y/N.”

“And to getting Y/N tipsy enough to spill all her secrets,” Mina added, making me laugh mid-sip.

“Cheers!” we clinked glasses, and I took a cautious sip of what I thought was water but tasted like pure fire. The burn hit me so fast, I practically choked.

“That’s disgusting! How do you guys drink this stuff?” I gasped, pushing the glass away as my throat burned like it had just met lava.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Lucy said with a grin, clearly enjoying my suffering. “Next round, I promise something fruity.”

Mina snapped her fingers at Lucy. “Make the woman a Kami!”

“So demanding,” Lucy sighed, but a few moments later, she handed me a frothy, pink drink. “Try this. You’ll like it.”

I took a cautious sip, surprised to find it actually tasted good. The burn was still there, but it was wrapped in this sweet, tangy burst of raspberry. I took another sip, feeling warmth spread through me like I’d just been wrapped in a blanket of comfort.

“Good, right?” Lucy prompted, watching me carefully, her grin not quite hiding her excitement.

“Really good,” I nodded, a little more confidently this time, taking a bigger drink.

“Just pace yourself,” Mina warned, raising an eyebrow. “There’s more alcohol in those than it tastes.”

Hours flew by in a blur of movies, laughter, and progressively more ridiculous makeovers. By the time we finished Clueless, I was sprawled across the couch, my head resting in Lucy’s lap with Mina snuggled up against my legs. The room felt warm and familiar, and—surprisingly—comfortable. Like I belonged.

“The night’s still young! What’s next?” Lucy stretched, her voice muffled by the pillow she was hugging to her chest.

“Leo!” Mina shouted, her eyes practically sparkling. “The night isn’t over until we’ve seen Leo!”

Lucy popped in Titanic and grabbed another drink from the kitchen, moving just a little slower now, like the alcohol was finally starting to catch up. “Anyone else?”

“I shouldn’t—” I started.

“Nonsense!” Mina interrupted, poking me in the side with a wicked grin. “You’re still way too coherent for a proper Girls’ Night.”

Rolling my eyes, I accepted the glass she handed me. “Fine. But if I pass out, I’m blaming you.”

By the time Jack was sketching Rose, I’d stopped keeping track of the drinks, and the night had dissolved into fits of laughter and way-too-drunk confessions. At one point, Lucy and Mina reenacted the “I’m flying” scene, nearly knocking over the wine bottle in the process.

But as the movie stretched into the early hours, I found myself comfortable—maybe too comfortable, considering how much I’d indulged. As the credits rolled, Mina turned to me, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Okay, real talk, Y/N. Never?” Lucy asked, her voice serious but with that mischievous gleam in her eyes that I knew meant she was circling back to the topic she was clearly obsessed with.

“Nope,” I said, crossing my arms like some sort of rebellious fortress. I wasn’t budging.

“That’s just... so wrong,” Lucy groaned, her eyes practically rolling out of her head. “Your lady business must be staging a rebellion.”

“There are plenty of people who make it to twenty-four without sex,” I said, rolling my eyes like I was offering them the most obvious truth in the universe.

“Yeah, but you’re hot!” Mina chimed in, her hands waving around like she was making a dramatic point. “Guys should be lining up for you!”

“I’d jump you,” Mina added with a grin, her finger lazily plucking at the fuzz on my pants like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Thanks, Mina,” I laughed, genuinely amused. “That’s true friendship right there.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, her expression pure contentment, like she’d just solved world peace.

“I don’t know what to tell you guys,” I admitted, my thoughts briefly flickering to Jungkook. “I just never really had the opportunity.”

“There’s gotta be at least one hot male figure skater you could’ve, you know, jumped in the weight room,” Lucy teased, her tone teasing but somehow still playful.

“Lucy, some people actually use the gym for exercise,” I shot back, feeling like I was dodging a slow-motion car crash.

“Oh, believe me, Y/N, I use it for recreational purposes,” Lucy quipped, her grin devilish. “My idea of ‘recreation’ just doesn’t match yours.”

“Perv,” I muttered, laughing, trying to shield myself from her shenanigans.

"Proud to be one!" Lucy declared, her laughter echoing through the room like a contagious wave.

“We need to find you a guy,” Mina said suddenly, tapping her chin like she was a mastermind concocting a plan for world domination. “Lucy, who do we know?”

“No way!” I held up my hands defensively. “You are not setting me up with anyone.”

“But, Y/N!” Mina protested, as if this was a criminal injustice.

“I can find my own guy if I want to,” I insisted, my thoughts unwillingly drifting to Jungkook. I bit my lip, and it was like they could read me like a book.

“Oh, look at that face!” Mina practically lunged at me. “You met someone, didn’t you?”

“No!” I shot back a little too quickly, feeling the heat of embarrassment climb up my neck.

“You can’t fool us, honey,” Mina said, her voice full of mock disbelief. “That face has ‘crush’ written all over it!” She leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Who’s the guy? Is he hot? Is he here? Did you kiss him? Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Her questions were coming at me like a machine gun, and I was about to implode.

“There’s nothing to tell!” I mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch, wishing I could just disappear.

“Y/N!” Mina cried dramatically. “We’ve been with Chim and Tae for years! We need to live vicariously through your romantic escapades!”

“What romantic escapades?” I shot back, trying—and failing—to sound cool and detached.

Lucy raised an eyebrow, her look knowing and challenging. “You’re hiding something boy-related. Spill.”

“Fine!” I groaned, throwing my hands up in defeat. “I met a guy at the airport. We talked for a few minutes while he helped me with my bags. That’s it. Can we move on now?”

“No, we cannot move on!” Lucy said, her eyes practically popping out of her head. “Was he cute?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I shrugged, trying to sound indifferent, but the truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“You guess?” Mina echoed, her brow almost disappearing into her hairline.

“I wouldn’t really call him ‘cute,’” I muttered, my face burning as I tried to downplay it.

“Well, what would you call him then?” Mina’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Hot? Sexy? Drop-dead gorgeous? Fuckhawt?”

“Uh… all of the above?” I finally admitted, which sent them into a squealing frenzy that could’ve shattered glass.

“Did you kiss him? Did you give him your number? When are you seeing him again?” they fired off at me, like they were in some kind of interrogation scene in a rom-com.

“No, I didn’t kiss him, and I didn’t give him my number,” I confessed, biting my lip as I fought to suppress the butterflies. “But, yeah, he suggested we meet up again. That’s all.”

Mina looked at me, her expression downright disappointed. “Why didn’t you give him your number?”

“I don’t know, Mina!” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “I have no clue what I’m doing when it comes to guys. He didn’t ask for my number, and I wasn’t about to throw it at him if he was just being polite.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t just being polite, Y/N,” Lucy said, her tone dripping with conviction, like she knew something I didn’t.

“Whatever,” I sighed, trying to steer the ship away from that topic. “He was gorgeous and sweet, and yes, he gave me butterflies, but I’ll probably never see him again, so can we please talk about something else?”

Mina leaned back with a dreamy sigh, her eyes practically glowing with unspoken wisdom. “Don’t worry, Y/N. Your butterflies are still out there. You just have to catch them.”

© chimcess, 2025. Do not copy or repost without permission.