ceo of yoongi

“A moment, Y/N?”

You were not often irritated. It was actually quite hard to get you to a point where it showed on the surface. You know, customer service and all that. 

But there was something about finishing your seven hour shift – that in actuality turned to nine hours – only to have your name called with your jacket halfway over your shoulders.

Your mouth probably quivered in the effort, but you managed to force on a half-smile anyways. “Yeah?”

“Listen, I hate to ask you this, but can you take a shift tomorrow?”

If your manager hated it as much as she claimed, she would have asked anyone but you. Especially knowing how many extra shifts you had picked up lately due to sickness from other employees. More often than not, you cursed your strong immune system. 

Where was a cold when you truly needed it?

“I’m sorry, I’m actually busy tomorrow.” The lie was effortless on your part.

Your manager’s brows furrowed. “No way you can postpone?”

“No sorry. It’s a family birthday, can’t really postpone that, you know.”

You were honestly bone-tired after working the entire week, with all your six hour shifts becoming overtime by several hours and you just needed one damn day of rest. To just bed rot to your heart’s content without worrying. 

Your pride was usually too stubborn, and a few extra bucks in your account each month definitely never hurt, but you were certainly feeling your age right now.

“Oh okay.”

That was it, you supposed, mentally rolling your eyes as your manager turned back around without a goodbye as you watched her walk away with the tight smile still present.

God, you were not paid enough to deal with her attitude. 

“Bitch.” you couldn’t help but mutter to yourself. 

The cold was unforgiving in the beginning of this year, and you had never been much of an ice, snow or even cold weather person to begin with, which added to your already foul mood. 

You had to switch metro lines once, and then take a bus to get to your destination. And the idiot should appreciate your effort after a long shift. Not to mention all the security measures needed for you to get past just to get to his building.

The front door had never looked more inviting as you entered the doorcode and let it close shut behind you with a rhythmic beep. You could hear the sound of talking coming from the living room or kitchen, as well as the sound of the TV somewhere in the background.

“If anybody’s looking for me, it’s your birthday tomorrow!” You called out just before rounding the corner to the kitchen.

Yoongi blinked at you, while Jimin and Taehyung were mid-giggle about something.

“Oh, hey boys,” you added quickly, trying to hide the fatigue in your voice. 

A black little fluff ball weaved out from beneath the dinner table and trotted over to you eagerly as you cooed and bent down to greet him. “Look who it is, hi Tangie.”

The black cat was vocal, meowing at you in greeting and rubbing against your legs until you gently pushed him away to go sit down. 

“Hiyaa noona,” Tae grinned at you, picking up a piece of meat from the grill on the table. 

“Noona, come eat with us!” Jimin stood up to grab an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl of rice as you plopped down on the chair next to Yoongi. 

“What are you talking about?” He drawled to your sudden shoutout while wrapping up his ssam. 

“If my manager is asking, I'm busy with a family birthday tomorrow.”

“And how would your manager know me?”

“It’s a what-if situation, Yoongs. Just go with it.”

He huffed and wordlessly plated your bowl with rice and several pieces of perfectly grilled meat, as Jimin poured you a glass of soju. Always the gentlemen. 

You caught yourself smiling, small and soft, and felt the weariness in your chest ease just a little from their presence.

“Was work tough today, noona?”

“Less tough and more annoying, to be honest.”

“Let’s drink to that!” Tae held out his glass as you two clinked and downed it one shot. 

“What’s with the impromptu dinner?” You asked after a few bites. 

“We were bored,” Jimin shrugged. 

“They didn’t exactly ask to come,” Yoongi clarified in return. “Barged in like an hour ago demanding me to cook.”

“We asked you,” Taehyung corrected. “And came bearing gifts.”

“You mean soju which I already had in my fridge?”

“And now you got double, you’re welcome.”

You only chuckled to yourself at the usual bickering between the boys as they continued to talk about the past, and down alcohol like it was water. 

Maybe it was the weather, or even the significance of a new year beginning. But your mind somehow felt reminiscent. Sitting here in Yoongi’s large home, silently watching as he acted annoyed by his two younger members with that smile on his face. 

And somewhere in the back of your mind, the memories started to drift.

Your parents had been close – were close to this day. Though Yoongi’s family had moved to a newer house in the years that followed whilst your family still remained in the same neighborhood. 

They had dragged you to dinner at the petulant age of ten, promising there was going to be another kid there your age, and someone for you to play with. They just never mentioned it was a boy. And at that age, boys were very much gross to you. And yet, you grew inseparable. 

Yearly summer vacations spent together, sitting on the curb eating ice creams, biking through the streets and waiting for each other after school to walk home together. During your middle school years the two of you would often hang out on the school’s rooftop during breaks, being split into different classes. He was always scribbling away, and you beside him lounging tilting your head curiously now and then. 

“I’m gonna move to Seoul one day,” he often declared. 

“I know.”

“You do?”

“You love music, of course you’ll move.”

He frowned. “Do you think I’ll make it?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. “Because you’re stubborn.”

By the time the two of you turned seventeen he was already active in the underground hip hop scene in Daegu. And you were often used as a scapegoat to distract his parents from his absence rather than being by his side.

“I’m supposed to be cool, Y/N. I can’t have you by my side like a clingy sister every performance,” he had whined while you gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Cool, my butt.”

You had been the one to help him pack the day before his move to Seoul, choosing which clothes were best fit for the fancy big city neither of you had experience living in. 

“Take the black one,” you had ordered.

“But I like the yellow one.”

“It makes you look like a middle schooler, don’t you want to be taken seriously?”

He switched it out without another word. 

His first year in Seoul went by with constant phone calls and texts. You even got scolded by your mother for spending your entire monthly phone credit in just two weeks for constantly calling him. 

And then one day it just stopped.

At first you hadn’t thought much of it. Yoongi was busy, and he often left you on read due to time restraints. But then it got suspicious. To the point even his own mother had received the same treatment. 

‘Are you dead?’

‘Yoongs?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Did I do something?’

‘Hello?’

There were days between each one. And then weeks later, you got a reply;

‘I’m fine.’ 

You called right away, but it went unanswered. 

You couldn’t even remember your feelings back then, it felt too long ago. An emotional turmoil of a teenager that made no sense. And you had no choice but to grow up and continue your own life despite the heartbreak of a friendship lost. 

That’s why it felt strange at first when you stumbled across it; Bangtan Sonyeondan’s debut. 

It was a strange name, with an even stranger concept. But you had recognized him. 

Of course you had. 

And ever since that moment, he had never left your orbit even from a distance. Even when you didn’t want to, you saw it all. From their failed attempts to remain popular, to songs that didn’t make it big yet were still added to your playlist for genuinely being good music. 

It came to a point where you no longer viewed him as your Yoongi. But rather BTS’ Suga, and a part of you was convinced it helped you move on quicker. 

Then COVID hit, and you were forced to move back home to your parents. 

You chalked it up to coincidence at first; running into his mother at the grocery store after how many years? She had grown excited, even teary-eyed and hugged the life out of you as she cooed over how grown you were. A beautiful young woman. 

“You know, I think he’d love to hear from you.”

Your breath had hitched, until you forced out a small, polite laugh. “It’s been years. I doubt he even remembers.”

She had given you a knowing glance, rummaged in her bag and ripped out a small piece of paper and written a number on it. “He’s having a bit of a rough time right now, with everything being cancelled. I think a text from you would cheer him up.”

You felt your chest tighten, memories flooding back. The late-night calls, the unanswered messages, even the reluctant acceptance of distance.

“I’ll think about it, thank you.”

And you thought about it. For days. Staring at that single slip of paper like it was your largest obstacle.

‘Hey. It’s Y/N. From Daegu.’ 

It had only been an hour when the reply came. 

‘I know.’

“Another shot?” Jimin’s voice snapped you from your thoughts, chopsticks hovering dramatically over the grill.

“Yeah,” you said with a small laugh, reaching for your glass. Tae clinked his against yours, smirking.

Yoongi glanced at you, brow slightly raised, as if he could tell your mind was elsewhere. ‘You okay?’ His silent question was obvious and you just assured him with a smile. 

Yoongi always kept the grill going and filled your bowl to the point you were ready to roll home. So when it hit 10PM, you stood up with a stretch. “Right, time for me to head off.”

Yoongi’s brows furrowed as he glanced at the time. “It’s late already, just stay over.”

“Nuh uh. I stay at your place almost more than my own, and I still pay my bills.”

“Just stay and let me drive you home tomorrow morning.”

“The bus straight to my house is literally down the road,” You gave him a pointed look. “Besides, It’s my first day off in a week, so I will be rotting in my own bed and eating unhealthy food the entire day.”

With that declaration you grabbed your bag and gave them all a wave over your shoulder. “Don’t text me tomorrow unless someone’s dying.”

“At least let me call you a taxi!” He called at your retreating back.

“Buh bye!” Was all you said, and the sound of the door being unlocked and closing again. You left behind a waft of your favorite perfume; a deep warm combination of something spicy and floral.

Silence swiftly took over in your departure besides the TV. Well, for five seconds at least, until Jimin broke it.

“So when’s the wedding, hyung?”

“What are you on about?”

“Oh come on!” He giggled. “You’re telling me she isn’t the perfect woman for you?”

“She’s Y/N,” Yoongi rolled his eyes.

Taehyung smirked knowingly “Yeah, Y/N who’s been by your side since you were both ten.”

“Yah, not you too, Taehyung.”

“I’m just saying, hyung. Jimin has a point.”

“What point? She’s my best friend.”

“The point, that she's the only female who’s been by your side longer than your mom. And you’re saying you don’t have feelings for her?”

“Stop being a nuisance and finish the food.”

“Hyungnim!” Jimin suddenly spat out firmly, his face exaggeratingly strict which did not go in hand with his flushed cheeks and messy hair, as Taehyung snorted.

Yoongi only raised a brow silently, waiting.

“As your family, we think you need to pull your denial out of your ass and start looking.”

He ran a hand through his longer hair now, sighing heavily, knowing the two younger men wouldn’t let this go until he heard them out.

“Meaning?”

“Be honest, hyung,” Taehyung had dropped his chopsticks, leaning forward conspicuously over the table like they were discussing some kind of secret. “Are you telling us you haven’t once looked at Y/N noona and thought she was attractive?” 

Whether he was actually thinking about it or just teasing them by taking an extra long time to pour his shot and then sip it, they didn’t know. But Yoongi finally answered with a light shrug. “I have.”

“Because I can definitely tell you that Jeonggukie–wait what?” Taehyung actually looked genuinely surprised whilst Jimin let out a triumphant laugh while clapping.

“You have?”

Another shrug. “I’m well aware that Y/N is a pretty woman.”

“Then why haven’t you told her?”

“I tell her all the time.”

Jimin cut in with his continuous giggles. “Hyung, telling her she looks good, is not the same as telling your potential girlfriend you look beautiful.”

“Stop getting ahead of yourself. Who said anything about a girlfriend?”

“Oh my God.”

Leaning back in his chair, Yoongi zeroed back on Tae. “What were you saying about Jeongguk?”

It was Taehyung’s turn to shrug. “We’re pretty sure he has a crush on Y/N.”

“What makes you say that?”

Jimin exhaled, holding up his hand ready to count. “She’s pretty, smart, independent, physically fit, has tattoos and bonus points for being older. That’s pretty much his type.”

Yoongi didn’t react immediately. Because when Min Yoongi didn’t react, he was thinking. Deeply at that. 

Their hyung usually had a quick brain, and never failed to make them speechless with how smart he actually was. 

So this…this was a good sign. Right?

"He told you that?”

Jimin blinked. “Huh?”

“Didn’t think he had a type,,” Yoongi repeated flatly, eyes still on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. “Did he tell you that, or are you just assuming?”

Taehyung and Jimin shared a look.

“We have eyes, hyung,” Taehyung said carefully. “He’s not exactly subtle.”

Jimin nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, he gets all–” he gestured vaguely, shoulders hunching as he put on a poor imitation, “–Noona~ did you eat?’ ‘Noona~ you look tired’–”

“It’s actually quite pitiful to witness,” Taehyung added. 

Yoongi clicked his tongue, looking away. “You’re both reading too much into it.”

“Are we?” Taehyung asked, brows raising slightly.

“Most likely, like always..”

“Then why do you look like that?”

Yoongi frowned. “Like what?”

“Like you want to punch something.”

Jimin snorted. “Or someone.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” he repeated, firmer this time.

Then Jimin leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand, eyes narrowing just a little. “Hyung.”

“What.”

“You know we’re not saying this to mess with you, right?”

He rolled his eyes, mouth tugging. “I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Yoongi exhaled sharply, standing up before either of them could say anything else to grab a bottle of soju and shutting the fridge door a little harder than needed. “Because the two of you are trying to fish for something that isn’t there..”

“You’re certain about that?” Taehyung asked unflinchingly. He had grown more outspoken with his thoughts around his oldest members after the military, and Yoongi was getting the whole spectacle right now. “You’ve been weird about her for a while now.”

Yoongi turned slightly, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing. “Okay, weird how?”

Jimin exchanged another look with Taehyung before answering. “You watch her.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched, expression still trying to feign disinterest. 

“Like, all the time,” Jimin added. “You think no one notices, but–”

“That’s–”

“You do,” Taehyung smirked. “And you get annoyed when someone else is paying attention to her.”

“I don’t–”

“And you always make sure she eats,” Jimin continued, back to counting on his fingers now. “And you let her do whatever she wants here, but if anyone else does the same thing, you complain.”

Yoongi opened his mouth to protest, but his members were doing their darn best to not let him get a single word in. 

“You remember things she says that she doesn’t even remember saying.”

He looked away, down at the floor, really. At the slippers covering his feet “…so what?” he muttered. “She’s my friend.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Is that all she is?”

“Yes.” The answer came out automatically.

But it must have worked, because the persistence of Jimin and Taehyung seemed to calm down as they shrugged and finally left the topic alone, as if agreeing to let him off the hook for tonight. 

So to distract himself from their annoying gazes and muttered laughter, he did the dishes. Slowly and meticulously, because his brain was whirring too much to actually focus. 

And without his knowledge, Jimin smiled lightly behind his tense back exchanging a silent fist bump with Tae, as if the both of them didn’t just drop something in their second-oldest hyung’s lap and just disappear. 

“…Tch.”

+

The tip of your pointed heels were pinching your toes for each step as you got off the bus in a slight hurry, trying to smooth down your freshly curled hair and flyaways all in one movement as the venue got closer. There were already dozens of guests mingling inside, holding champagne flutes and exchanging polite conversation as you brushed past them. 

You spotted the main couple near one of the double entrances greeting guests, and as you got closer your friend’s face brightened in recognition. 

“Y/N, you came!” She squealed happily, hugging you as her white poofy dress swallowed your legs as you stepped into the hug. 

You grinned at her excitement, impressed that she still had that much energy and returned the hug gently to not ruin anything. “Of course I came, you invited me.”

“Thank you for coming, Y/N,” Her husband smiled beside her, shaking your hand. 

“Of course, of course,” you waved off their gratitude before pulling out the white envelope from your purse. “Where’s the box?”

“Oooh, I’ll show you!” Soojin, your childhood friend, looped her arm through yours. “Honey, will you take over a bit? I need some girl talk.”

Her husband only smiled. “You two go ahead, I can handle the crowd.”

Before you had a chance to protest, Soojin was already pulling you into the venue hall where dozens of round tables were set up filled with people, but she pulled you further to the back where a large box for money envelopes stood and grabbed a flute of champagne for you on the way. 

“So,” you finally managed to pull her to a stop as the two of you stood in the corner, private but not hidden from sight. “How does it feel to be married?”

“Ugh, tiring,” Soojin let her head drop back, long veil brushing the floor. “But at least it’s almost over and done with.”

You glanced out of the room. “Who are even all these people?”

She waved her hand. “No idea. Most of them are his colleagues or friends of his parents’. My family and I just invited close friends and relatives.”

Sipping from the glass, you chuckled but stopped when noticing her looking. “What?”

“How’s everything on your end? Any handsome gentleman that is making those wedding bells ring?”

“God no!” You scoffed. “I’m a single, thirty-three year old woman who works at two different cafés. Not exactly dating material.”

“Girl,” Soojin pushed your shoulder in disagreement. “Who gives a shit what your job is, at least you have one!”

Fair point. 

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you took another sip of champagne. “Yeah, well, try telling that to literally any man over thirty.”

“They’re idiots,” she dismissed immediately. “And probably intimidated.”

“By what? My ability to steam milk and survive on three hours of sleep?”

“By this,” she gestured vaguely at you, up and down, as if that explained everything. “You’ve always had this thing, you know. Like you don’t need anyone. Independent woman and all that shit.”

A part of you was strangely touched by that. 

“I don’t,” you replied lightly, though it came out quieter than intended.

Soojin’s expression softened just a fraction, like she caught the shift but chose not to dig. “Still,” she nudged you again, grin returning. “if anyone tries anything tonight, I expect a full report.”

You rolled your eyes. “At your own wedding?”

“Especially at my own wedding. It’s prime matchmaking territory.”

“I’m not getting set up with someone’s cousin.”

“Too late,” she sang, already reaching for your hand again. “Come on, I need to introduce you to–”

“Soojin!” Her name was called from across the room, sharp enough to cut through the chatter.

She groaned dramatically. “Saved by the bell.”

“Go,” you laughed, gently pushing her away. “Bride duties.”

She squeezed your hand once more before letting go. “Don’t disappear, okay?”

“No promises.”

And just like that, she was gone, swallowed back into the crowd, her white dress a moving beacon among dark suits and muted colors of people dressed in mostly sleek business attires rather than fancy dresses. 

You ended up seated somewhere in the middle of the hall, wedged between a couple who introduced themselves as Soojin’s university friends and another woman who barely looked up from her phone.They were nice enough, with polite smiles, brief introductions and small talk that never quite went anywhere if you were being honest. 

You nodded when appropriate, laughed when expected, sipped your drink awkwardly when silence stretched just a second too long.

“…and then we all went to Busan for spring break, it was insane–”

The plates came and went, courses replaced one after another as speeches started, applause echoing across the room in bursts. You clapped along, half-genuine half out of your depth watching Soojin from afar; her bright smile, the way she leaned into her husband without thinking, the ease of it.

Something in your chest pinched at the sight. Jealousy perhaps, or even longing. You wondered just briefly, how it would feel. To have something like this, a day of celebration with a person constant at your side. 

You prided yourself in being an independent woman in a big city like Seoul. Surviving by yourself, not needing anyone to help with most things, but then he happened. Yoongi swooped back into your life like some damn hurricane, flipping your days upside down. 

No longer did you wake up to a silent phone, but a text message telling you to come over to dinner. Sometimes you found his car parked outside after a late shift and he would drive you home, or if you stayed over he would drive you to work with a full stomach. 

It was nauseating how caring he was without realizing it, and it didn’t help that your heart and stomach fluttered at everything he did. 

By the time dessert rolled around, you were halfway through mentally planning what greasy takeout you’d order tomorrow when her familiar voice came again. 

“Y/N!” You looked up to see Soojin slipping into the empty chair beside you, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed from moving around all evening.

“Finally found you,” she said, grabbing your arm like she was afraid you’d disappear.

You smiled, setting your fork down. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I know, but everyone keeps pulling me everywhere,” she huffed, before her eyes scanned your table briefly. “Are you okay? You look a bit bored.”

“I’m not bored,” you lied easily. “Just tired, double shifts.”

“Mm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. Then, like a switch flipped, her expression brightened. “Okay, but listen. I know someone.”

You blinked. “Please no.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“He’s single, works in finance, makes good money–”

“I don’t care if he owns the bank, Soojin.”

“He’s tall!”

You gave her a flat look. “That’s your selling point?”

“It’s an important one.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not interested. But appreciate the effort.”

“Why not?” she pressed. “You can’t just be single forever.”

“Do you want to bet on that?”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I,” you said with a giggle, lifting your glass. 

“Girl, stop,” she nudged you hard enough to make you lean slightly. “You’re hot, you’re funny, and you’ve always had your life together way more than the rest of us.”

“That’s debatable.”

“It’s not,” she insisted. “And you should be dating. You deserve that.”

You softened a little at that, but still shook your head. “It’s just not… something I’m thinking about right now.”

“That’s exactly why I need to interfere.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m just saying–” she leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what about someone you already know?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “I don’t like where this is going.”

She grinned. “What about Min Yoongi?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden name drop as your heart hammered. “Why him?”

Soojin tilted her head, studying you. “Didn’t you guys date?”

“What?” you let out a short laugh, shaking your head immediately. “No. Since when?”

“That’s what everyone thought,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You were literally attached at the hip.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, glancing down at your plate, “we also didn’t speak for like ten years after.”

There was a small pause, enough for you to look up only to regret. Because her eyes were fucking sparkling like the diamonds from her engagement ring she had sent a picture of. 

“No,” you warned immediately.

“You like him.”

“Soojin–”

“You do!”

You dragged a hand over your face, groaning under your breath. “Can you not start something at your own wedding?”

“This isn’t something, this is a revelation.”

“It’s not.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I just did.”

“No, you deflected.”

“Okay, fine!” You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice despite the noise around you. “But you do realize we’re talking about one of the world’s most famous idols right now?”

“And?” she shot back instantly.

“And that should end the conversation and the possibility of anything.”

Soojin didn’t answer immediately, which was worse. She always had something to say. “No,” she shook her head lightly. “That’s your excuse.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Excuse? For what?”

“For not even trying.” 

Your jaw tightened just slightly. “That’s not–” you started, then stopped, fingers tightening around your glass. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple for me,” she said, softer now, but just as persistent. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re shutting something down before it even exists.”

You glanced away, eyes drifting back toward the head table where she had been sitting earlier, where everything looked natural. 

Because the fear of your feelings ruining this friendship again was something you didn’t want to see happen. Just the thought of it was more painful than actually being rejected. You had gone a decade without him, and now that you finally had him back in your life, you didn’t want to lose him again.

“He’s my best friend,” you said instead, the words coming out more firmly than you felt. “I’m not risking that.”

“And?” she asked after a moment.

“And,” you continued, voice lower now, “he has his life. I have mine.”

“That doesn’t mean–”

“It kind of does,” you cut in gently. “Be realistic for a second.”

Her brows furrowed. “I am being realistic.”

“No,” you shook your head, finally looking back at her. “You’re being romantic.”

“And you’re being pessimistic.”

“How?.”

“By being scared.”

You went quiet, because there wasn’t an immediate comeback for that. Soojin’s gaze softened just a little when you didn’t respond. “You still talk to him, don’t you?” she asked.

“...yeah.”

“How is it? When you do?”

You let out a small breath, looking down at your hands. “It’s normal,” you said after a second. “Like nothing changed.”

“And you don’t think that means anything?”

You gave a faint, almost tired smile. “It means we were friends for a long time.”

“Maybe that’s not all?” Soojin let out a breath, turning to fully face you sitting sideways on the chair. “You’re saying it’s not realistic because he’s an idol, and that might be true for fans, but you’re not a fan, Y/N. You’re already neck deep in his world.”

“If I cross that line,” you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, “there’s no going back.”

Soojin stayed quiet.

“So I’d rather just…” you trailed off, shrugging lightly. “Keep it like this.”

Her lips pressed together, like she didn’t quite agree but understood anyway. “And you’re okay with that?”

Your eyes flickered, almost unconsciously, back toward the front of the room. Toward her, her husband, the soft glow of something settled and certain before looking away again with a shrug. 

“I have to be.”

+

You woke up late.

Deliciously late. 

It was definitely later than intended, but not enough to make you feel guilty about it. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in dull winter light that made everything feel slower than usual. 

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, duvet pulled to your chin and trapping the comfortable warmth underneath, mind blank. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Your brain, traitor that it was, immediately started replaying yesterday.

Yoongi’s hand brushing against yours when he passed you the glass.

The way he had said, just stay over.

The way he always–

You groaned, dragging the blanket over your face. “Stop it,” you muttered. 

It didn’t mean anything, because it never did. Especially when it came from him. It’s just who he was and you’ve known that since you were ten. But still, it was your own fault not listening to the oldest rule in the friendship book, aka. falling for your own best friend. 

You dropped the blanket and stared at the ceiling again. “…annoying,” you sighed.

You stretched lazily, letting your arm fall back onto the bed as you debated getting up when your phone buzzed from the bedside table. 

Your brows furrowed slightly as you turned your head, reaching for your phone.

Jeonggukkie: are you alive?

You huffed a small laugh, already typing back.

You: barely

Three dots appeared immediately.

Jeonggukkie: dramatic did you eat

You stared at the message just as your stomach rumbled and the time finally made you realize it was actually 1PM already. 

You: Not yet

A small pause went by. 

Jeonggukkie: ok, i’m coming over

Your eyes widened slightly, fingers tapping furiously

You: why

Jeonggukkie: don’t argue 20 mins actually give me 30 

You blinked at the screen. “…This kid,” you muttered, but there was no real annoyance behind it.

You pushed yourself up with a sigh, stretching as your feet hit the floor. “Guess I have to be a functioning adult now,” you mumbled, dragging yourself toward the bathroom.

Twenty five minutes later there was a knock at your door. Jeongguk stood there, hood up, cap and mask on with two bags of food in his hands as well as takeaway coffee. You stepped aside quickly, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him like you were hiding a fugitive. “Did anyone see you?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check?”

He blinked. “Check what?”

“The street? The cameras? The neighbors?”

He just stared at you as you locked the door. “You’re stressed.”

“I am stressed,” you snapped, turning to face him. “I’m stressed for you. Why are you not stressed?”

“I’m stressed in appropriate situations” he said easily, slipping off his shoes. “Just not about this.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughed under his breath, holding up the bags. “I brought food. Rosé tteokbokki, mild flavored, and pork belly.”  

You still refused to give in, even though you were practically drooling at the smell wafting towards you now, until he held up the last bag of two coffees. 

“I also bought your favorite; vietnamese iced coffee.”

“Fine,” you gave in, pulling out a chair and dropping down opposite of him as he was already unpacking everything and grabbed two pairs of chopsticks from your drawer. 

Jeongguk shrugged off his jacket and mask, as he grinned knowingly at your weakness. 

“You always bring food when you’re committing crimes.”

“I’m not committing a crime.”

“You’re an internationally known idol sneaking into a civilian’s apartment unannounced,” you said, grabbing the first piece of meat and then tteok, humming content. “That feels illegal.”

He never stopped that grin, following you in grabbing some food and handing you the coffee after stirring it, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“You worry too much, noona.”

“I worry the exact right amount,” you shot back. “One blurry photo and your entire company will be breathing down your neck.”

“As if they dare.”

You turned to glare at him. “Confidence much?.”

“And you are way too paranoid.”

You opened your mouth – then paused. “Okay, maybe a little.”

He snorted. “A little?”

“Shut up, kid.”

Both of you ate mostly in silence, although you noticed him only taking a small bite here and then, letting you enjoy yourself while sipping on his own coffee. You were the one who had introduced the boys to the deliciousness that was Vietnamese iced coffee with condensed milk, and you would catch most of them drinking it now and then after practice, or whenever you met up with them for quick coffee catch-ups. 

Jeongguk leaned back slightly, watching you with quiet satisfaction. “You look less dead from the last time I saw you.”

“Wow. Thank you. What a way to make a woman feel better.”

“You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had already dropped. As you leaned back in your rickety little plastic chair you got on a sale on Coupang, you watched Jeongguk carefully. 

He did look wholly out of place in your little studio loft apartment that probably fit in his living room alone. But he still found it comfortable here in your space. Like an annoying little brother who had nowhere else to go, as if his six older members didn’t have large fancy homes of their own. 

He was just persistent when it came to you, and worried as if his schedule wasn’t a hundred times harder than your own minimum wage, mundane café jobs. 

Jeongguk noticed you stopped eating and stood up wordlessly to pack the remaining leftovers in a box for later, and started cleaning up everything as well as recycling, leaving you to relax and enjoy your coffee.

“I heard you went to hyung’s yesterday.”

What a smooth talker. “Hm, did Jimin snitch?”

He chuckled. “It was Taehyung hyung, actually.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing much. Just that you came by while they were eating.”

“Right…you’re being nosy.”

Jeongguk shrugged, drying his hands on the towel before sitting back down. “I have eyes. And nosy hyungs who update me on everything even when I’m not interested.”

“You and everyone else, I suppose.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, before turning serious again. “Why haven’t you told him yet?”

You flickered up a brow, pausing your sipping on the straw. “I told you that in confidence,” you said flatly. “Not to use as ammunition.”

Jeongguk ignored your dig. “You should tell him.”

You snorted immediately. “Yeah, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I enjoy my stressfree life?”

“That’s a lie.”

You leaned back. “Oh?”

“You’re miserable when you overthink, noona” he stated simply. “And you’ve been doing that a lot, so not as ‘stressfree’ as you think.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re very observant for someone who used to have a crush on me.”

“Used to,” he emphasized, as if the memory itself brought forward shudders. “And very briefly at that.”

It was fucking ironic, actually. You, sitting here discussing your current long-time crush on your best friend with one of his best friends that used to have his own crush on you. 

Jeongguk, despite his younger age, had been upfront about his feelings for you right before his military enlistment. Thankfully he hadn’t been too deep in to actually get heartbroken when you both gave it two dates before realizing friends fit you better. 

Not that anyone was aware of this. God, the chaos it would bring if they knew. 

“Mm.” The silence settled for a bit, as you forced yourself to relax before admitting. “It’s complicated.”

Jeongguk pursed his lips in thought. “Does it have to be?”

“It does with him.”

Jeongguk didn’t respond right away. “What if he likes you too?”

You let out a small laugh. “Not possible. He’s Min Yoongi. His love is his work.”

“Maybe a couple of years ago, but we’ve all matured since then.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to worry about it right now, Guk. Let’s not, okay.”

He wanted to protest, you saw it. But he respected you enough to not push so he nodded. 

“Okay, noona. Let’s just relax, how about a movie?”

You smiled thankfully. “Sounds good. You choose.”

And just as you were settled in the couch and the intro started playing, your phone buzzed with a text. 

Yoongs: What are you doing?

You typed a reply without much thought. 

You:  watching a movie with guk

You waited for a reply, but it never arrived. Not even after the movie had ended and Jeongguk had left.

+

A couple of days go by before you find yourself looking for him again. But this time it’s at HYBE. 

You always feel like a nervous wreck stepping inside the intimidating glass building, your stomach fluttering with worries that probably won’t happen. 

Like the security dragging you out on suspicions for being a stalker fan, for example. 

God, your brain went haywire sometimes. 

You follow the protocols carefully; stepping up to the reception desk as they register your already known name, printing the guest tag and band for you to wear around your neck with a polite smile. 

There were so many people walking in and out of this building on a daily, that most employees didn’t blink when you arrived. For them you could be anyone. From a visiting stylist to a dancer, or even business partner. As long as your name was in the system, it meant you had already passed all security checks and approved for visits whenever. 

This time you felt slightly more confident, tapping yourself through the gate and waiting for the lift surrounded by strangers and not fidgeting too much. Your destination was one of the higher floors; dedicated to the Big Hit creative team, and where Yoongi’s studio was located. 

You were the only one still in the lift by the time it was your turn to get off, and when you arrived at the closed door of his studio you stared at the keypad for a second longer than necessary. The code still worked a moment later, of course it did, before you pushed the door open and the familiar quiet of Yoongi’s place greeted you immediately.

It was darker than usual, but he was there. On the large, comfortable office chair in front of his desk with four screens, a microphone and more speakers than you could identify. 

Despite being half-inside the room already, you knocked lightly anyway.

“Yoongs?”

The studio smelled faintly like decaf and something warmer, perhaps tea. He had reached a stage of only decaf these last few years, which honestly hurt your coffee-loving soul more than anything. The glow of his monitors lit up his face in soft blues and purples, shadows resting under his eyes but nothing you hadn’t seen before. 

His black hair was also long again, with bangs framing his now slimmer face from when he first got out of the military. 

Yoongi didn’t turn right away, just lifted a hand briefly in acknowledgment.

You hovered for a second before lifting the bag slightly. “I brought food.”

That got his attention. He turned his chair halfway, eyes flickering down to the bag before settling on you. “What is it?”

You held it up like an offering. “Don’t act like you’re not going to eat it.”

A faint huff left him, something just short of a laugh. “Did I say that?”

“You were about to.” You walked over to the low table by the L-shaped couch against the wall, taking out the containers and drinks, already moving like you’ve done it a hundred times. Because, honestly, you had. “Or something along the lines of not being hungry.”

Standing back up with your hands on your hips, you turned to face him again with a pointed look. “You haven’t eaten yet, right?”

“Not yet,” Yoongi confirmed, never seeing the point of lying to you when you already knew him so well. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Shocking.”

You handed him a pair of chopsticks before taking the seat on the small couch tucked against the wall. He swiveled his chair slightly, accepting them without a word.

You had cooked an average pesto pasta with marinated chicken strips. Nothing fancy, and definitely easier to buy as delivery. But a part of you still remembered when Yoongi complimented your cooking during one of the rare times you had made it for him, and he said it tasted better than the ones at restaurants. 

You were annoyed how vivid that simple comment still stayed with you. 

You watched him, but not obviously. And never long enough to get caught. 

Just…small enough glances to feel satisfied. 

The way his hair fell slightly into his eyes when he leaned forward. The way his fingers moved without thinking, precise and practiced, even when he was just picking at food with the chopsticks. How fine and elegant his hands looked.  

He looked a little tired, you noted. Not surprising, with how much they were all still fine-tuning the new album. 

Something in your chest tugged at the sight. 

“Did you sleep at all?” You asked after a couple of bites. 

He hummed. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

He just shrugged and instead took a bite, knowing you weren’t one to stop him from eating. 

You leaned back into the couch, exhaling softly. “You’re going to burn out again.”

It slipped out before you could stop it. His hand paused mid-air for a fraction of a second, then continued.

“I won’t,” He assured you, sounding calm and confident and you did believe him. But a part of you was always worried. 

“You always say that.”

“And I’m still here.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I guess.”

Suddenly there was a knock against the door, and you remained seated watching as he stood up and opened the door to grab whatever the person on the other side handed to him before it closed again. 

Yoongi handed it to you, as you pulled out a large sized cup of Vietnamese iced coffee from your favorite coffee shop chain, and felt your heart swell. 

“I ordered when you said you were on the way up.”

You smiled faintly into your drink, savoring the taste. “Thanks.”

Your gaze drifted back to him. To the way he had already turned back toward his screen, attention slipped back into his work like nothing else existed.

You knew that look. You've seen it since you were kids.

Back when it was notebooks and scribbles instead of full studios and polished tracks. When you sat next to him on a rooftop, pretending you weren’t watching him as closely as you were.

And somehow nearly fifteen years later, you found yourself still watching. 

“Play it.” The words left your mouth before you could overthink them.

He didn’t turn. “Play what.”

“Whatever you’re working on.”

“It’s not finished.”

“When have I ever cared?”

You could almost hear the hesitation as he scrolled through a couple of files, almost thinking which one to choose before a sound filled the studio. 

♫Twenty-four hours in the tubTwenty-four hours of your thoughtZ-z-z, don't wake me up꿈이면 깨기 싫어, 내.”

FantasyIt's a fantasy (Ayy, you next to me)It's a fantasy (Oh)You're my fantasy (Take that) ♫

The damn irony of those lyrics, you wanted to scoff to yourself. 

“It’s good.” Your voice came out softer than intended, perhaps softer than needed for the poppiness of the song that had filled the studio. 

His eyes flickered toward you, just enough that you noticed. And for a second it felt like he was waiting for something else. Instead he huffed lightly. “That’s it?”

You smiled a little. “Do you want me to lie and say it’s bad?”

“No.”

“Then it’s good.” You pulled your legs up on the couch, tucking them underneath you. 

He didn’t respond, but you saw it. The smallest shift in his shoulders and the way his posture relaxed just slightly, as if you had confirmed something for him. You couldn’t fathom why he cared that much for your opinion. Your musical understanding was minimal at best. 

“You always say that,” he muttered. 

“Because it’s always true.”

You looked away first, distracting yourself on your phone. Because if you didn’t, you might keep staring.

And if you kept staring…You honestly didn’t want to think about that.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup instead, wanting to say more. You always did, but the words stayed where they were. Always caught somewhere frustratingly uncomfortable between your chest and your throat.

+

Fuck. He genuinely forgot how tiring concert and comeback prep used to be. 

Spending months in LA creating songs was a different mental tiredness he could handle better. But the physicality of things? At damn age when it feels like his knees would crack by the slightest bend? Someone give him a break, please. 

Luckily he wasn’t the only one who thought so. All of them were struggling more than normal, besides Seokjin and Hoseok, who had been doing their own things for a while now and gotten used to the rush again. 

Him and the others though? What a mess. 

Jimin and Taehyung would giggle every five minutes at their attempts of coordinating, while Jeongguk would be the one to try and pick a fight just for the fun of it. Namjoon tried his best, laughing along and whining whenever a member teased his dancing, which had actually improved rather than gotten worse. 

The guys had even been impressed with the muscle mass he had put on in the last couple of months since returning to Korea. With nothing to do with his time besides finishing up the album, he had decided that starting to hit the gym more seriously was a good idea. 

Still, he had managed to switch out one mental stress for another. From album concerns to his own personal life now beating the fuck out of him whenever he thought of a person. 

Yoongi was already exhausted by the time he stepped out of the practice studio for a quick pick-me-up. All he wanted was ten minutes of silence and maybe another decaf coffee he absolutely did not need, but could pretend would help him with his exhaustion. 

The placebo effect was real, he was convinced. 

But instead, he heard your very familiar laugh echoing down the hallway. A voice that shouldn’t be in this building at the moment, to his knowledge. 

His steps slowed automatically when he rounded the corner. Jeongguk was leaning against the wall beside you, phone in hand while showing you something on the screen. You stood close enough that your shoulder kept bumping his arm every time you laughed.

“No, wait—play that again,” you said through laughter.

“I’m telling you, hyung looked ridiculous.”

“Jeongguk!!”

“What?” He grinned unapologetically before replaying the video anyway.

Yoongi recognized it immediately, to his chagrin. A behind-the-scenes clip from years ago where he had nearly fallen asleep during an interview, of his eyes dropping in real-time and becoming a meme in the fandom and their groupchat. 

Traitor.

You dissolved into laughter again, instinctively grabbing Jungkook’s sleeve for balance. And something inside Yoongi twisted unpleasantly. Which was somehow worse when Jeongguk was the first one to notice him there, of course the damn kid did. 

His grin shifted instantly into something more suspicious, which Yoongi did not like.

“Yoongi-hyung.” He straightened casually. “You done already?”

Your head turned immediately, your face lighting up the second you saw him. “There you are.”

Again, that dangerous little sense of relief settled in his chest at your expression. Yoongi shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you two doing?”

“Bullying you, apparently,” you answered easily.

Jungkook snorted. “She started it.”

“You literally showed me the video!”

“And you enjoyed it.”

“I did.”

Yoongi couldn’t help watching the way Jungkook looked at you when you spoke. The stupid word of Jimin and Taehyung replaying around in his mind of his apparent crush on you. 

It was clearly comfortable and playful, perhaps even too comfortable if he could add. 

Then Jungkook casually threw an arm over your shoulders, clearly a thoughtless action that he had done several times before. But Yoongi’s jaw tightened instantly.

You, completely oblivious, kept talking like nothing happened. “…and then he got mad at me for laughing,” you continued.

“I did not get mad.”

“You glared at me for like three hours.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop laughing.”

Jungkook looked between the two of you briefly before a slow grin appeared on his face. “Wow.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” His grin widened. “You guys are seriously weird.”

If Yoongi hadn’t paid as much attention as he did, he wouldn’t have noticed the slightly sharp nudge you gave into Jeongguk's side as he flinched slightly away. 

Yoongi narrowed his eyes slightly. Jungkook only looked more entertained. “I thought you were at work?” 

“In an hour, it’s just around the corner so I’d thought to stop by and cheer you all on,” you shrugged. 

“You should come eat with us first,” the brat offered. 

Before you could answer, Yoongi spoke. “She’s busy.”

Both of you looked at him. Including Yoongi himself, internally, while Jeongguk’s eyebrows lifted slowly.

You frowned. “Am I?”

“You promised to help me with something before, remember?” The lie came easily.

“Oh yeah! I remember now.”

For a second nobody spoke. Then Jeongguk looked like he was physically restraining himself from laughing. “Right,” he said carefully. “Of course she did.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but knowingly while Yoongi avoided looking directly at either of you. You had known each other long enough for you to pick up on his excuse and play along. 

And suddenly Jungkook looked way too entertained for Yoongi’s liking.

+

The last employee finally waved goodbye before disappearing down the street, leaving you alone with the familiar task of locking up. You exhaled tiredly, turning the key as you rolled your tight shoulders before tugging lightly on the café door to make sure it was secure. 

Your shoulders ached from the long shift, feet even worse, and all you could think about was getting home and collapsing face-first into bed, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of your stomach.

The low rumble of an engine made you glance up, and a familiar black, gleaming car sat by the curb. You slowed down immediately with a sigh, but the affectionate smile was hard to hide. 

And then the driver’s window rolled down. Yoongi looked at you from behind the wheel, one arm resting lazily near the window. “You done?”

“What are you doing?”

“Picking you up, obviously.”

You gave him a pointed look. “And I told you to stop doing that.”

“You said your shift ended late.” That explained absolutely nothing. Still, warmth spread embarrassingly fast through your chest as you crossed the little space toward him.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” 

Which somehow made this entire situation worse for your stupid heart.

You slid into the passenger seat, immediately greeted by warmth and the faint scent of clean laundry mixed with his cologne. Familiar enough now that your body relaxed before your brain caught up.

“You look tired,” he said once you buckled in. 

“Yeah, feel like shit.” You had never been dishonest to him about your work. 

The car pulled smoothly back onto the mostly empty road at this time, only a handful of cars whizzing past. For a while, silence filled the space between you comfortably. The radio played quietly in the background while Seoul’s lights blurred outside the windows.

Then Yoongi glanced at you briefly. “Did you eat?”

You looked out the window immediately. “Maybe.”

“That means no.”

“I was busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, and you yell at me for it.”

“Well obviously.” You frowned slightly. “Somebody has to.”

Yoongi hummed quietly, like he found that amusing. A few minutes later, however, you realized the roads looked wrong.

You frowned. “Yoongs.”

“Hm?”

“This isn’t the way to my apartment.”

“I know.”

You turned toward him slowly. “Min Yoongi.”

“You’re eating first.”

“I can eat at home.”

“You won’t.” Annoyingly enough, he sounded completely certain.

“You’re very bossy today.”

“And you’re very stubborn.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

A small smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.

God. That stupid smile really needed to stop affecting you. And he needed to stop being so easy to love. 

“You can sit down,” he called. “I’ll make you something to eat, it won’t take long.”

“I know where your couch is, Yoongi.”

“Just making sure you don’t collapse halfway there.”

“You’re hilarious.”

He smirked. “Go take a shower, you know where the clothes are.”

You sank into the couch with a quiet groan, letting your head fall back briefly before muttering. “I need to wait for a bit. Can’t be bothered to move right now.”

You heard cupboards opening before Yoongi reappeared carrying two bowls, setting one in front of you on the coffee table. Ramyeon with extra green onions and two eggs, exactly how you liked it.

Your chest squeezed slightly, and he must have noticed your expression. 

Yoongi looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You complain when people make it wrong.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.” 

“Fine.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him as he sat beside you, knees touching yours as you both ate. For a while, the only sounds were the television playing softly in the background and the clinking of chopsticks against bowls before you sighed dramatically. 

“What.”

“You know, I never told you Soojin’s wedding exhausted me emotionally.”

Yoongi glanced over. “How so?”

You slumped further into the couch. “Do you know how terrifying married people are?”

“That sounds judgmental.”

“They become obsessed with everyone else dating.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “Ah.”

“She tried setting me up with like three different men.”

Yoongi’s chopsticks paused briefly before continuing. “And?”

“And what?”

“Did you want her to?”

You blinked at him. “Not particularly.”

“Why not, I thought you said having someone would be nice.”

You shrugged lightly, staring down into your empty bowl. “I don’t know. I’m busy with life. I’m still paying down on my student debt, my monthly rent is going up in a bit and job applications are going nowhere.”

“You could if you wanted to.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m just asking.” Something about his tone felt strange to you, almost like an interrogation rather than his usual amused interest. 

“Yeah apparently so. She kept insisting I’m ‘too pretty to be single,’” you muttered with a grimace.

Yoongi looked at you then, and your stomach tightened slightly under the weight of it. “Well, she’s right.”

You were fucking certain you were blushing like a damn tomato, but the dim lighting in the room hid most of it. You hoped so at least. 

Were your hands clammy? They certainly felt like it. 

You stared at him for half a second too long before forcing out an awkward laugh. “Wow. Look at you being nice.”

“I’m serious, though.”

His voice stayed frustratingly steady, and suddenly the air between you felt different again. He was still looking at you, dark eyes looking more intense than you had seen him besides when working on music or on the stage in front of fans. 

Your heartbeat started climbing for absolutely no reason. So naturally, your brain panicked. “You know, one of them owned like…three cats.”

Tangie meowed just then from the top of one his cat towers in the room, as if knowing. Yoongi blinked once, clearly caught off guard by the abrupt subject change. “What?”

“At least that’s what Soojin said. Honestly that should’ve been her opening line.”

A quiet laugh escaped him then. And God, you loved that sound more than you should.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured almost knowingly. 

Your eyes lifted toward his automatically, and this time neither of you looked away. The moment should’ve lasted a second like it always did. The two of you making eyecontact was nothing strange. But it didn’t.

he television kept talking softly in the background. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe clicked faintly with the heat, Tangie’s claw were gently scraping against his post. 

And Yoongi’s gaze dropped, just slightly. But enough to send your heart stuttering.

It was small. Barely there. So quick you almost convinced yourself you imagined it

Your throat went dry. “What?” you asked, quieter than before.

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand through his hair like he was physically resetting himself. “Nothing.”

What a fucking lie, you both knew it. 

Still, you nodded slowly, because that was easier than acknowledging what your body was suddenly doing. How aware you were of his knee still touching yours, of how close he actually was, of the fact that you could smell him even over the food.

Besides the entirely strange moment that just happened between you, you knew something was bothering him otherwise. And if you didn’t ask him, you doubted any of the others would. 

Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap. “Yoongs, what’s been bothering you?” you said carefully, like saying his name wrong might break something.

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh—but there was no humor in it. “Please don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

He shook his head once, like he was annoyed at himself more than you. “Forget it.”

He started to stand, hands ready to take the bowls towards the kitchen. And that should’ve been the end of it, but your hand moved before your brain caught up as you caught his sleeve.

Yoongi froze. His gaze flicked down briefly to where your hand still held his sleeve and you let go immediately. However, that didn’t stop you from following him stiff form into the kitchen. 

“Why won’t you answer?” Your voice followed him before your feet fully caught up.

Yoongi stopped near the sink and didn't turn around immediately. The bowls were still in his hands, but he didn’t set them down either. 

For a second, all you could hear was the faint running of the refrigerator and the distant hum of the city outside the window. “Because you’re not going to like it.”

That made you pause as you scoffed, leaning back against the counter behind you and crossing your arms. “Try me, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi finally set the bowls down with more care than necessary and when he turned, it was slower than before. His eyes found yours instantly and stayed there as you swallowed. 

“You always do this,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Push.”

Your brows knitted slightly, annoyance crawling underneath your skin. “I’m asking a question, Yoongi.”

“I know.” His voice softened, but carefully. Like he was holding something at the edge of slipping.

“Then answer it.”

Silence stretched again; long enough that your chest started tightening in a way you didn’t like. What was he keeping from you? Had something happened? About the album or upcoming tour? Something more internal, perhaps. 

A…girlfriend?

Fuck, just the thought of it made something in you want to break but you kept it all together. 

Then Yoongi exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had changed. Resignation, you realized. He was done holding back whatever had been bothering him. 

“You don’t notice it,” he said, and you held back from replying. His gaze flickered briefly down, then back up. “Never mind.”

Your frustration sharpened. “Don’t do that. Start saying things and then stop halfway.”

That made something in his expression shift. “You really want me to finish it?” he asked.

Your heart stuttered, but you nodded anyway. “Of course I fucking do, Yoongi. When have I never listened to you?”

A long silence, then Yoongi finally stepped closer. Just enough that now there was no pretending this was casual anymore.

“I don’t like watching you with other people.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t interrupt. Because something in you already knew that wasn’t the full sentence.

His voice dropped lower. “And I don’t like how easily you laugh with them, and how I notice it.”

The room went still as your stomach twisted. Your voice came out smaller than you meant. “…Yoongi.”

He didn’t look away and barely moved. Just stayed there, like he’d already crossed a line he couldn’t step back from. 

“I don’t know how to stop noticing you, Y/N.”

It was like your brain went dry, and very, very quiet. Your heartbeat hammering in your ears, the only thing you saw was him. Your hands were trembling too, gripping your clothes as you simply tried to take it all in. 

Every time he picked you up when you didn’t ask. Every time he asked if you ate like it mattered more than it should. Every time his eyes lingered just a second too long when you laughed at someone else. Every time he went quiet after Jungkook put an arm around you like it physically cost him something not to say anything.

It all snapped into place at once, the dumb realization of it. And how your own worries had been nothing at this point. You had worried for nothing. 

And you felt so incredibly dumb. 

Your chest tightened, like something inside you had been holding its breath for too long and finally let go.

In the turmoil of it all, Yoongi was still watching you carefully. As if he was waiting for rejection. “…say something,” he said quietly.

That almost made you smile as you stepped closer. His eyes flickered down to you the moment the space between you changed, but he didn’t move and chose to let you control the pacing. 

Your hand came up first, gripping the front of his shirt as Yoongi’s breath caught slightly at the contact. That was a new reaction you only just noticed. 

You’d never seen him react like that before; like he was the one who might lose control. You loved it. 

Your voice came out softer, but surprisingly steady for everything happening inside. “Unbelieveable.”

That was the moment everything inside you shifted from shock into certainty.Because Min Yoongi, calm, composed, unreadable Yoongi, was standing in front of you right now like you were the only thing he couldn’t control.

And you had never wanted anything more.

His brows pulled faintly together. “What is?”

You didn’t even bother to answer, just pulled him down to your height. 

Yoongi froze for half a heartbeat before he gave in. 

The kiss wasn’t near anything soft and careful. His hand found your waist immediately, steadying you like instinct finally caught up with intention. The tension he’d been holding all night snapped, something long overdue.

Your fingers slid up into his shirt as if you needed something real to hold onto while your brain caught up with the fact that this was happening—this was him—this was the thing you’d been orbiting without naming for years.

His mouth was relentless on yours, moving gently but urgently at the same time as you hummed into the kiss, his tongue caressing yours as you stumbled back into the counter behind you. 

Yoongi groaned softly against your mouth, hands coming up to cup your face, fingers curling into your hair deliciously as you sighed. 

When you finally broke it, it was only because you had to breathe. Yoongi stayed close, refusing to move as his forehead rested against yours, breathing heavier than before, like he didn’t trust air to behave normally anymore.

The second kiss lingered longer than the first. Your heart was still catching up, beating unevenly in a way you were very aware of.

“So,” you said eventually, voice softer than you meant it to be, “this is happening.”

A faint breath left him, almost a laugh again, but warmer now. “Yeah,” he said simply.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look at him properly, unguarded and sparkling. “And what now?” you asked.

His thumb moved once against your back—slow, grounding, like he was thinking with his body more than his words. “I certainly hope this meant you’re willing to become my girlfriend.”

You bit down on your lip, containing the grin wanting to stretch and he noticed it with a shy smile, ducking down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Stop it.”

“I thought you’d never ask, Min Yoongi.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Yes,” you giggled before tightening your hold around his waist, chin resting against his collarbones as your face tilted up. “But you love it.”

His gaze softened visibly, tucking a loose strand behind your ear as his thumb brushed against your cheek. “I do.”

+

Yoongi lays awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling with a heavy sleepiness that comes from sleeping for too long and still not getting enough rest. The weight of you curled against his side is a comfort, a warmth that makes him sigh into your hair as he shifts to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but through the thin curtains he could see the very beginning of dawn. A pale light in the distance as the sun makes its sure ascent. It’s far too early, but he knows your alarm would go off in a couple of minutes, and you’d drag your tired self up and out of bed and downstairs to prepare for the day.

Yoongi loves this life, and he loves you more than anything.

The air in the bedroom had a certain type of stillness, held in the suspended animation of the hour before dawn. Yoongi’s eyes tracked the slow crawl of shadows across the ceiling, his mind busy mapping the geometry of your lives, piece by piece, as he did every morning.

The weight of you, curled against his side, is the only thing keeping him tethered to the bed. Your breathing is soft, rhythmic, and entirely trusting. The kind of trust that makes his chest ache, a sharp, dull throb that he’d long since learned to live with. He adjusts his arm, his calloused palm lingering against the back of your head, his fingers tracing the curve of your hair. He thinks of the sprawling, estate you’d left behind, and then he looks at the thin, peeling wallpaper of the bedroom you both shared.

When you’d walked into his life, you hadn’t been an heiress to him. You were just a girl with a tired smile and a heart that felt like it was breaking under the weight of expectations. And when you’d handed him that stack of savings, your father’s future for you, converted into a down payment on this rotting, charming, middle-of-nowhere wreck; he’d felt the crushing gravity of it. That was nearly three years ago now. He’d stayed with you despite your father’s disapproval, and you'd hidden it for two years. When you were tired of your father trying to set you up with this young socialite elite and that, you’d left.

It wasn’t a pretty sight; your mother had begged you to stay, crying and clutching her silk handkerchief that they’d make it work with whatever you chose. Your father cursed Yoongi’s name to hell and back three times over; you’d packed what you could into a single suitcase, hopped into his mustang and never looked back.

He’d spent months on his knees in the backroom, turning that derelict storage space into a mechanic’s shop, his hands raw from prying up rusted floorboards and wrestling with corroded pipes. He’d done it because he was terrified. If he worked hard enough, if he fixed every leaky faucet and every grinding gear, maybe he could trick the universe into letting you stay here. Maybe he could make up for the fact that he was a nobody, a mechanic with nothing but a set of wrenches to his name, while you were the daughter of a man who could buy and sell the town you were currently hiding in.

He moves silently, untangling himself from the warmth of the sheets and you with the practiced grace of a man who didn’t want to wake the only good thing that had ever happened to him.

Downstairs, the diner was a cavern of cooling air and the faint, lingering scent of last night’s coffee. He moves through the darkness like a ghost, his boots making no sound on the worn linoleum. His gaze landed on the industrial-sized coffee maker, a temperamental piece of junk he’d spent three weekends re-wiring. It had a habit of clogging, a low-frequency hum that signaled it was about to give out.

Without thinking, he reached for the toolbox he always kept tucked beneath the counter, pulling out a screwdriver with his name etched into the handle in faded permanent marker. He kneels, the concrete floor cool against his shins, and went to work. He tightens a loose intake valve and flushes the draining system; his brow furrowed in concentration.

If he fixed this now, you wouldn’t have to fiddle with it when you stumbled down at six. You’d just hit the button, and the coffee would brew, and you’d have one less thing to worry about.

It was a small thing. An insignificant thing. But it was all he had to offer. Look, he thought, staring at the valve. Look at how hard I’m trying to keep the world from breaking for you. He tightened the screw, his jaw set, his heart heavy with the secret fear that one day, the machinery of your lives would stop running, and you’d finally realize that he was just a man with a rag and a wrench, and you’d look for the exit. He’d wake up and find the simple gold band of your wedding ring on the dresser and empty spaces where the pieces of you lived.

But for now, he just turns the valve, checks the pressure, and stands up, his knees popping in the quiet room. He wipes his hands on his jeans, leaving a fresh streak of dark oil against the denim, and listens to the silence of the house.

The coffee machine hisses a familiar, rhythmic protest that Yoongi has grown to recognize as clearly as his own heartbeat. Once the dark, rich scent begins to drift through the stagnant air of the diner, he wipes his hands on his trousers and turns to the tables.

He moves with a quiet, efficient grace, unstacking the heavy wooden chairs and setting them down with deliberate care. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoes against the linoleum, marking the rhythm of his own internal monologue.

His gaze sweeps over the room, the faded checkerboard floor, the menu board he’d handwritten in chalk, the front door that still needs a bit of a shove to lock properly. To anyone else, it is a roadside relic that has seen better decades. To him, it is a museum of his own inadequacy.

Every time his hand brushes the back of a chair, he sees a phantom image of a different life. Not the one you both have, but the one he should have provided. He remembers the day you both stood in the sterile, fluorescent-lit office of a city courthouse. The smell of industrial floor wax, the bored clerk who didn’t even look up from her crossword puzzle as she stamped the papers.

There was no white lace, no chapel bells, no sea of flowers that you deserved to walk through. Just the two of you, nervous and vibrating with the adrenaline of a getaway, signing your names on a document that tethered you to a man who, by every metric that mattered to your father, is a failure.

He grips the back of a chair, his knuckles turning white. He stole you from a world where you were a princess and brought you to a place where you have to wrestle with a stubborn espresso machine and wake up before the sun to pay the electricity bill. The sheer, suffocating weight of it hits him again; the guilt that is as much a part of his morning routine as the coffee is.

Yoongi would give you everything if he could. He’d pluck the stars from the sky for you told hold just so he could see them dazzle your eye. You gave everything up, used your trust fund to build the life you both have now. Yoongi wishes he could give you much more than what this life with him offers.

He remembers the way you smiled at him in that courthouse, though. You were wearing a simple dress, your hair tucked behind your ears, and you didn’t look at the lack of grandeur. You looked at him like he was the only thing in the world worth tethering yourself to.

He sets the final chair down with a sharp clack.

A courthouse wedding, he thinks, a bitter taste rising in his throat. You have never said it, never hinted at it, but he knows. He knows that for all your talk about being happy, you must have wondered, at least once, what it would have been like to have a day that belonged only to you. A day that wasn’t paved with the jagged edges of a secret elopement.

He is the one who drove the car that carried you away from your father’s golden cage, but sometimes, in the quiet of the morning, he wonders if he is actually the one who built a different kind of prison; one made of grease, diner shifts, and the constant, aching fear that eventually, you will wake up and realize the fairytale wasn’t supposed to end in a mechanic’s shop.

He stands there for a long moment, watching the horizon grow brighter, waiting for the sound of your footsteps on the stairs, terrified and relieved all at once to see you.

Yoongi jumps when your arms suddenly wrap around his waist. You press your cheek against his shoulder blade.

All his thoughts melt away, fading into the background of this moment where he’s tethered to you, and you’re tethered to the ground to keep him there. Yoongi turns in the circle of your arms, cupping your cheeks in his palms and bending his head to press a kiss to your lips.

You giggle against his mouth and Yoongi can’t help his smile.

“Good morning, husband.” You murmur, smiling sleepily still, but smiling, nonetheless.

“Good morning, wife.” Yoongi smiles, swaying you both a little.

You squint at him in the pale morning light, the corners of your mouth tugging downwards, “You’re thinking too much again.”

“I think just the right amount, thank you.”

You pull away from him with a soft laugh, and Yoongi follows you like he’s caught on a line as you round the counter. You push the single swinging door to the back kitchen, stopping to tie your hair back and put a hairnet on.

Yoongi helps you gather things for the morning breakfast rush. It’s only after six, but seven-thirty would come soon enough. You work quietly for a moment; Yoongi sets out a crate of eggs and fresh seasonings and puts the bread you made last night on the warming rack. He grabs mugs for both of you and walks out to the front to fill them with coffee.

“I fixed the coffee machine again.” Yoongi says, coming back into the kitchen. He reaches over to stop you cracking another egg into a large silver bowl and presses one of the mugs into your hand. “I’ll see about getting a new one next week.”

It’s a little promise. He’d rather you not have to struggle with things more than you have already. He watches as you set the metal whisk aside, and the way the overhead lights shine like little orbs in the reflection of your eyes, and his heart swells. Full of adoration and pain all at once, you take a sip of the coffee and then purse your lips at him.

“There’s nothing wrong with that one.” you huff, looking at him as though he’d told you he’s gonna throw your favorite book out. The steam from your cup swirls upwards and disappears.

“There’s a lot wrong with it, actually.” Yoongi snorts and puts up a hand, “Drainage is shit, it takes forever to heat up, and if you aren’t careful, it heats up too much...”

He wags a finger at you, "I can go on."

“That’s part of its charm.” You say defiantly, and then you shake your head, “It’s fine.”

Yoongi sighs, but he’s not in the mood to argue with you about it, so he resigns himself to bringing it up when you’re half-asleep tomorrow. You’d agree with him then. You had a habit of holding onto old things... at least some things.

Yoongi takes time to chop up a bundle of chives and onions so you wouldn’t have to, letting you tie his hair back and tuck a hairnet over his hair with a smile. You heat up the grill, spread oil along the flattop, and shimmy back over to the stainless-steel table to lean against it.

“We don’t have donuts today. Carter’s sick, so no sweet treats for anyone.” You heave the big bowl of whisked eggs over to the counter near the grill, “Are you busy today?”

“No.” Yoongi hums, “No clients today, so I'm all yours.”

It’s been a year and a half of building this routine. You work the diner; Yoongi helps when he has free days, otherwise he’s buried under someone’s hood. This life isn’t anything grand, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything, and he knows you wouldn’t either. Despite his concerns.

The transition from the kitchen to the floor is a practiced dance. You wipe your hands on your apron, leaving a faint streak of white flour across the dark fabric, and head toward the swinging door. Yoongi watches you go, his eyes tracking the way you move before he turns his attention back to the grill. He needs to have the hash browns crisp and the eggs perfect before the doors open, so he settles into the rhythm of the kitchen.

He can hear you out in the dining area; the soft clink of glass as you arrange the sandwich showcase, and the register drawer being pulled open, and the hum of the old radio you both insist on leaving on. He doesn‘t need to see you to know exactly where you are.

A few minutes later, you pop your head back into the kitchen. “The coffee is good,” you call out, checking the clock on the wall. “And the showcase is officially stocked. Are you almost ready back here?”

Yoongi flips a row of bacon with a flick of his wrist. “Two minutes. I just need to get these hash browns plated.”

“Perfect,” you say. You grab a stack of menus from the counter and head back out to the floor, your voice trailing off as you start tidying the condiment bottles.

He loves this part of the day. He plates the breakfast specials for the warmer, ensuring every garnish is placed exactly how he knows you like it. When he pushes the service window open, he sees you already moving to the front door to flip the sign.

The day begins in earnest. It‘s a blur of orders and banter, the kind that doesn’t require much thought because you have been doing it for so long.

When a customer orders a side of sourdough, you don’t even have to look at the ticket; you just shout, “Sourdough for table four!” before Yoongi has even finished plating the eggs. He has the bread toasted and on the pass before you have even finished pouring the customer‘s water.

“You‘re fast today,” you murmur, passing him a stack of dirty dishes as you grab the next set of orders.

“You‘re just slow,” he teases, though he brushes his arm against yours as he takes the plates.

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “I‘m efficient. There is a difference.”

“Whatever you say.”

You both work in a seamless loop. When the rush hits, there is no need for instructions. He manages the heat and the timing, and you manage the flow of the room, handling the customers with a patience he knows he wouldn’t have. He watches you weave through the tables, laughing at a joke from an old regular, and he feels that familiar, steady thrum of satisfaction.

By midday, the rush tapers off into a slow, steady trickle. Yoongi finally has a moment to step out of the kitchen, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. You are at the counter, counting the mid-shift drawer, looking focused and calm.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

You look up, your expression softening instantly. “Hey. You want a drink?”

“Just water,” he says. He walks over, standing behind you while you finish the count. He rests his chin on your shoulder, feeling the warmth of you through your apron. “We are doing okay today.”

“We are doing great,” you correct, closing the register with a soft click. You turn around, tucking your arms around his waist. “Are you sure you didn’t have any work to do today?”

“Yes.” he laughs, his voice dropping. “I‘m all yours until closing.”

You smile, and he knows that, even if the rest of the day is full of grease and long hours, as long as you are both in this building, everything is exactly where it needs to be.

By the time five rolls around, the customers have dwindled and the sun is starting to stretch it’s fingers along the gravel lot.

Yoongi is just reaching for the broom to sweep the front entrance when the crunch of tires on gravel breaks the silence.

It isn’t a local truck. It is a sleek, black sedan; the kind of machine that looks like a shark cutting through the dusty haze of your quiet town. It rolls to a stop right in front of the garage bay.

Yoongi stops, his hand tightening on the broom handle. “I thought we were done for the day...” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“Maybe they just need a quick look?” you say, stepping up beside him and wiping your palms on your apron.

“I’ll go check.” He says, patting your hip and directing you out of his way.

Yoongi sets the broom aside and walks out to meet the car. He wipes his hands on a rag, his brow furrowing as the driver’s side door opens. A man in a sharp, charcoal suit steps out. He looks completely out of place, like a polished marble statue set down in a field of dry weeds. Yoongi eyes the man carefully, a sudden need for caution springs up in the back of his mind.

“We’re closed,” Yoongi says, his tone level.

The man in the suit adjusts his cuffs, his eyes scanning the garage with a strange, clinical interest. “I apologize for the intrusion. I’m just passing through, but the engine is making a sound. I was told this was the only shop for miles.”

Yoongi studies the sedan, then looks back at the man. “I can take a look…”

The man nods, his expression unreadable. “I only need a quick assessment.”

While Yoongi pops the hood and leans into the machinery, he catches the man glancing toward the diner. The man gestures toward the dark windows. “The diner? Is it still serving?”

Yoongi doesn’t look up from the engine block, though his grip on his wrench tightens. “We just locked up. But if you really want something, I suppose I can get you a sandwich and a drink. Just don’t expect a full menu.”

The man nods, his gaze lingering on the faded sign above the door. He remains silent while Yoongi works, his presence adding a strange, heavy tension to the quiet evening. It wasn’t long until he found the issue—a simple intake fault—and fixes it. He closes the hood and walks over to collect payment. The man pays in cash, offers a curt, polite nod, and slides back into the driver’s seat.

As the sedan pulls away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake, Yoongi stands in the middle of the lot. He watches the taillights disappear until they are nothing but tiny red specks in the distance. He stands out there for a long moment, a prickle of unease in his mind.

Shaking his head, he turns and walks back toward the diner, wiping his hands clean of engine grime with a rag. He pauses at the door, taking a deep breath of the cooling air, and pushes inside to find you. The diner is quiet, the lights dimmed, and the scent of floor cleaner is already starting to replace the smell of the day’s grease. He catches your eye, and for a second, he considers mentioning the man in the suit. But then he sees you, hair a little wild, looking tired but content, and he stuffs the rag into his back pocket.

“Everything alright?” you ask, leaning against the counter as you finish wiping it down.

“Just a passerby,” Yoongi says, his voice steadying. “Car trouble. It’s handled.”

He moves to your side, taking the cloth from your hand. He doesn’t want to bring the outside world in here. He just wants to finish the cleaning, lock the doors, and be alone with you in the quiet that you both worked so hard to build.

Dinner is yesterday’s lunch, and you both spend most of the time at the coffee table that’s covered in invoices and bills and the sales book.

You’re picking at your food, and had said you weren’t feeling up to much eating so Yoongi didn’t press you.

“We gotta account for the new coffee machine.” He says, his voice breaking the heavy silence.

You glare at him over the rim of your juice cup, though there isn’t much heat in it. It’s a tired sort of defiance.

He looks over the frame of his glasses at you, with a raised.

“If you bring that up one more time.”

“You’re beating a dead horse, woman.” Yoongi shakes his head, sliding a pen behind his ear. “Thing’s gonna give out one of these days, and then you’re gonna look at me and say ‘so about that coffee machine…’”

Your toes press into his side, a blunt protest under the knitted blanket. He bats your foot away with a short, huffed laugh, but the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The night goes on without much fanfare. Once the totals are tallied and the bills are tucked into their respective folders, you curl against his side like a cat seeking heat. You doze off, your breathing shallow, leaving Yoongi left to his own devices in the dim lamp-light.

He thinks back to the man in the sedan, the way he looked at the diner like it was a curiosity under a microscope. It’s probably nothing. He shouldn’t dwell on it. It’s not like he kidnapped you; he didn’t force the pen into your hand at the courthouse. Though, he knows your father probably thinks differently. The memory of his face, frozen in a portrait of cold authority, swirled into a foreboding sense of doom at the back of his mind. He looks down at you, tucked securely under his arm, and sighs, forcing the thought into a locked box for another time.

An hour passes in a blur of heavy-lidded exhaustion. Yoongi’s eyes flutter open to the sensation of your soft thumb pressing firmly into the space between his eyebrows, trying to smooth out the tension he didn’t know he was wearing.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, his voice gravelly as he stares up at you. There’s a matching furrow between your own brows.

“You looked troubled.” You say softly, your hand lingering. “What’s wrong?”

Yoongi hesitates. He looks at the room: the mismatched coasters, the rug that’s fraying at the edges, the scent of old wood and grease that never quite leaves the air. The guilt he usually keeps at a low simmer suddenly boils over.

“I was just thinking,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “About everything. You had a life where you never had to look at a bill. You had people to do that for you. And now… I’ve got you waking up at six to scrub a grill and worrying about a broken coffee machine in a town no one can find on a map. I feel like I took you away from everything you deserved, and I… I feel guilty, I guess.”

The distress comes off him in waves, thick and jagged. You don’t say anything at first; you just shift, moving with a quiet deliberateness until you plop yourself right into his lap.

“Don’t do that.” You say, cupping his cheeks in your hands. You smile at him, but it’s a watery thing, your eyes shimmering in the low light because you hate seeing him sink into himself like this. “I’m perfectly happy, Yoongi. I don’t secretly hate you, and I haven’t spent a single second wishing I’d made a different choice.”

He grumbles something, a low protest that comes out smooshed between his pouted lips as you press his cheeks together.

“I love you. So much. And I love this life.” You continue, your voice gaining strength. “Sure, I gotta wake up at six every day and you annoy me when you leave that dirty ass rag everywhere, but I wouldn’t give it up. Not if someone offered me the whole world. I would never give you up. I’m right where I want to be.”

Gently, you lean forward and kiss him. For a moment, the ghost of the man in the black sedan vanishes, and the heavy weight of the bills on the table feels as light as air.

He pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and finally, the furrow between his brows disappears. You both decide that sleeping on the couch isn’t the best idea and fumble your way to the bedroom.

The silence of the house is absolute until three in the morning, when the mattress shifts and the frantic, hollow sound of you retching in the bathroom breaks the peace. Yoongi is upright in a heartbeat.

He finds you slumped over the porcelain, your skin clammy and pale under the harsh vanity light. He holds your hair back with a steady hand, his other palm resting flat against your forehead. You aren’t running a fever; your skin is cool, almost cold, and his worry settles into the low, manageable thrum of a suspected stomach bug.

He helps you back to bed, tucking the duvet around your shoulders and pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. He stays awake for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest until his own exhaustion pulls him under.

At six, the sky is a thin, watery grey when he peeks through the window to squint at it. He looks at you, still dead to the world, and decides then and there that he wouldn’t bother to open today. He isn’t letting you scrub a grill or haul crates of eggs while you’re feeling like this, and the thought of crawling back under the covers for an extra hour or two is the only thing making the early morning tolerable.

He heads downstairs into the dim, quiet diner. Yawning, he scratches at his tummy, rummaging around under the counter for something to write on and the roll of tape he knows is around here somewhere. He grabs a piece of cardstock and a thick marker, scrawling a quick "Closed Today" on it.

Tearing a piece of tape off the roll with his teeth, he’s in the middle of sticking the piece of cardboard against the glass door when the crunch of gravel shatters the morning quiet.

The black sedan from yesterday rolls into the lot, its headlights cutting through the light morning mist before dying out. Yoongi stands frozen, the half-taped sign fluttering against the door. He stares through the glass as the passenger side opens.

The man who steps out is a ghost of the titan Yoongi remembers. In the year and a half since the elopement, your father has aged a decade. The sharp, predatory edge of his posture is gone, replaced by a heavy, stoic exhaustion that makes his expensive overcoat look too large for his frame. He looks like a man who has spent every one of those eighteen months being eroded by a quiet, persistent regret.

Yoongi meets his gaze through the glass, his heart hammering against his ribs, a measure of raw worry tightening his throat. He doesn’t move to open the door until the older man raises a hand, a gesture that isn’t a command, but a plea.

“I didn’t come to cause any trouble,” your father says, his voice muffled by the glass but unmistakable in its defeat. “I only want to talk.”

A mug scrapes along the wood of a table, steaming and dark. Yoongi’s a bit miffed the coffee machine decided to be on its best behaviour this particular morning.

Your father’s eyes are elsewhere, looking at the tables and the floors, and the old-timey framed photos around.

He finally turns his gaze when Yoongi’s hand pulls away from the mug.

“Business is good, I hope?” He does sound rather hopeful, and Yoongi feels that hope bloom in his chest in equal measure. Hope that this would go quickly and your father could say what he came to say and leave.

“Yes.” Yoongi says curtly, far too much he realises, but your father doesn’t pay it mind. Yoongi had never disrespected this man. Even back then, he’d taken every harsh word spat at him and tucked it into his pockets and let them weigh him down. He let you handle it because you asked him not to give your father any more reasons. But as Yoongi sits here in front of him now, all the things he wanted to say back then bubbles up and dances on his tongue.

Your father stays quiet for a long moment, staring down into the coffee in front of him.

“What do you want?”

While it’s not exactly what Yoongi wanted to say, it would suffice to be the safest string of words in his head.

“I…” he sighs, turning to look out the window, “I didn’t come to make any trouble, or any demands.”

Yoongi stays quiet, giving him the moment he looked like he desperately needed to gather his thoughts.

“I wanted to apologize.” Your father says, and then, he looks away, somewhere to the side of Yoongi’s head. “I know I’m the last person you’d want to see first thing…”

Yoongi raises a brow, and then, leaning back into his chair he shakes his head, “I’m not the one you should apologize to.”

“I know. But you deserve one nonetheless.” He looks him right in the eyes now, the corners of his own eyes wrinkled by stress and time. “I practiced saying this so many times and now that I’m here…I don’t know what to say first.”

He takes a deep breath, “Back then, I said some things about you, your character and your worth. I spoke to you like you were a thief stealing my daughter instead of the man she chose to love.”

He looks down at his hands, which are wrapped tightly around the warm ceramic. “I let her walk away thinking I hated her. I let my own pride convince me that if she didn’t live the life I dictated, she didn’t deserve a father at all...”

Yoongi doesn’t offer a nod or a comforting word; he simply sits there, an immovable witness to the older man’s unraveling. He thinks of the nights he spent holding you while you cried in your sleep, and the way you’d flinch whenever a car that looked too much like your father’s drove past the diner.

Despite everything that was said and done that day, you loved your father and that never changed.

“It took me a long, long time to come to terms with the fact that separating you both would’ve done more harm than good.” He says this a little more to himself, his index finger scratching at a sticker a kid put on there weeks ago. “Funny thing about being a parent…you raise a child one way and you plan their whole lives in your head because you want what’s best for them. Some of us forget that they’re people too.”

He sighs, and continues, “we try to make them do what we want while forgetting they can think for themselves and the life you made might not be suited for them.

I’m truly sorry, about back then. I only wanted what I thought was best for her, though, that isn’t an excuse. I wouldn’t blame you if you cursed me and told me to leave, it’s far less than I deserve.”

It’s quiet for a long moment. Yoongi turned his head to stare out the window with a frown to gather his thoughts. There’s so much he wants to say back, the petty part of him is sticking out his tongue and saying, ‘We made it anyway’.

Looking at your father, who’d gone back to staring at his coffee, his face so hopeful and he knows that if you were sitting next to him with the same measure of hope this would be much harder. For your sake alone, Yoongi sighs.

“How did you find here?” He asks because he needs to know before anything else happens. He watches your father’s expression carefully.

“Oh, my assistant was passing through here yesterday.” He says and then, “I realize how it may have looked. It was just a coincidence that he found you here, I promise.”

He doesn’t seem to be lying, the earnest, hopefully expression remains.

“She’s upstairs.” Yoongi says softly, “She’s not feeling well today.”

“It isn’t serious, is it?”

Yoongi shakes his head, “just a bug, I think.”

Your father relaxes a bit, and the tension slowly eases out of the room. The sun finally made it’s way up, indifferent to this morning’s happenings, it streaks golden and bright across the table tops and the faded checkered flooring. It makes the gray in your father’s hair and beard more prominent, but his eyes looks less troubled in the light.

“Thank you.” He says, sounding like he was three seconds away from crying him a river, “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“It’s all I’ve ever done.” Yoongi says evenly, and then takes a deep breath, “Thank you... for apologizing.”

Your father nods, looking relieved and exhausted all at once.

There’s a sudden creak from the floorboards upstairs, and then, the sound of hurried footsteps and then you’re stumbling into the room.

“Yoongi!” your voice cracks, breaking into a laugh that sounds a bit tearful, “Its not a bug! I’m not sick.”

You’re waving something white you clutch in your hand with a sort of frantic energy, looking like you’ve been awake for all of ten minutes—hair a beautiful mess, still looking a little sick from last night, but smiling.

“I’m—” The brightness of your smile fades just a bit, as your eyes dart from Yoongi to your father sitting opposite him. It fades completely as you stand there in the threshold of the doorway. You’re staring at your father but Yoongi’s heart’s in his throat and beating a samba staring at the little stick that’s quite obviously a pregnancy test.

Yoongi is on his feet before he can even think, his chair screeching against the linoleum. His eyes dart from the pregnancy test in your hand to your father’s face, and then back again. He feels a dizzying, electric jolt through his veins; a realization that hits him with a force that sends his heart back to his chest where it should be. But the joy is immediately crowded out by the sight of you, frozen in place. You turn your gaze to him, staring with a swirl of emotions he can’t decipher right now.

Your father stands up slowly, his movements stiff and uncertain. His eyes are locked on the small object in your hand, the implication of those two lines sinking into his expression like ink into water. He looks at you, not as the rebellious daughter who fled in the night, but as a woman, a wife, and now, a mother to be; you’re all trying to process the same things at once.

Yoongi had stepped into the kitchen, giving you enough room to speak to your father privately but also staying close enough should you need him. He left the swinging door propped open a couple inches, and could hear the murmur of conversation between you and your father.

He’d busied himself with scrubbing a stray pot that really didn’t need the extra attention, just to keep himself from combusting on the spot. The pregnancy test he’d taken from you lays on the steel prep table like a neon sign hot on the back of his neck. He’d spent a good ten minutes just staring at the thing.

His heart is still hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. A baby. The thought is so massive it feels like it might crack his chest wide open. He looks down at his hands, the faint scar across his knuckle from a slipped wrench that one time, and he feels a dizzying surge of protectiveness. He thinks of the drafty window in the bedroom and the way the heater groans in the winter. He needs to fix those. He needs to fix everything.

He hears a choked, wet sob from the booth, and his muscles coil, his grip tightening on the sponge. He almost drops it to go to you, to pull you back into the safety of his arms, but then he hears your father’s voice: soft, broken, and devoid of the steel that used to define it.

Yoongi exhales slowly, forcing his shoulders to drop. He stays where he is. Through the gap in the door, he watches the silhouette of your head dip as you wipe your eyes.

You’ve been crying for the better part of five minutes, the kind of tears that have been bottled up for a year and a half. But then, he sees the shift; your shoulders relax, and a small, watery smile breaks across your face. The kind of smile you only wear when a weight has been lifted.

After about twenty minutes of him finding things to do in the kitchen, which was really nothing more than him just standing around and staring at the florescent lights.

He hears the chair drag along the floor, and your father stands to pull you into a hug. A signal that the heaviest part of the conversation was over, and he walks back through the door.

The diner feels smaller, more intimate than it did an hour ago. The morning light has fully claimed the room, warming the vinyl of the booths and turning the old coffee stains on the floor into amber-colored spots.

Your father is already standing, smoothing the front of his coat. He looks smaller, his shoulders rounded in a way that suggests he’s finally putting down the burden he’s been carrying. When he sees Yoongi, he doesn’t look away, but there is a hesitancy in his posture that wasn’t there before.

You’re standing beside him, still clutching that small, plastic stick like it’s a lifeline, your face flushed and damp from crying. You look toward Yoongi, and your eyes soften with a relief that makes the air in his lungs feel lighter.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” your father says, his voice quiet. He gestures vaguely at your midsection. “This is… this is a day for you two.”

He shifts his weight, his gaze dropping to the floor before coming back to rest on Yoongi. “If you’d allow it,” he starts, then stops, searching for the words. “I would like to be involved. In your lives. In the life of my grandchild. And, Yoongi, I would like to get to know you better. I know I have no right to ask that of you, not after everything, but I would like to try.”

Yoongi stands there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. He looks at you, and you’re nodding, a fresh tear tracking through the faint flush on your cheek. He looks back at your father, seeing the genuine, raw uncertainty in the man’s eyes.

“I think I can do that.” Yoongi says, his voice steady.

Your father lets out a shaky, relieved breath. He reaches out, and for a moment, he looks like he might hesitate, but then he pulls you into one last, lingering hug. You bury your face in his coat, your shoulders shaking with a few final soft sobs.

“I’ll bring your mother,” your father promises, his voice muffled against your hair. “Next time. I’ll bring her.”

He pulls away, gives Yoongi a curt, respectful nod, and heads for the door. The bell above the entrance jingles a bright, cheerful sound that punctuates the silence as he steps out into the morning.

Yoongi walks over to you, the distance between you vanishing in two steps. He reaches out, carefully pulling you against him. You lean into his chest, your hands bunching up his tee-shirt, and he rests his chin on top of your head.

The diner is perfectly still. The coffee machine is finally silent, the morning rush is a world away, and the heavy, suffocating anxiety that had been dogging Yoongi’s footsteps for eighteen months is finally gone. He holds you tighter, feeling the solid, living warmth of you against him.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair.

You look up at him, your smile bright and shaky, and you nod. “I’m perfect.”

Yoongi leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and then he looks out the window at the empty gravel lot. The sun is high, and the day is wide open. He takes your hand, interlacing his calloused fingers with yours, and leads you away from the tables, ready to start this new, quiet life that started on a shotgun dream.

This life may not be anything grand; you both struggle and have to pay bills like everybody else, but it’s something Yoongi would never give up.

You learned this at eight years old when Galia Vatne told you at recess that her pet had died, delivered with a shrug that suggested the dog's age and weakness made the death mathematically inevitable.

You learned it again when you saw Robin from the Temporal Analysis Department freeze mid-sentence in the garden CHRONOS had rewritten as the 'Garden of Stability' for this timeline—because you'd mentioned a temporal anomaly and his face had gone slack, setting the moment his reality fractured.

You learned it watching Hoseok this morning, when you passed his door and heard the silence that wasn't silence at all, but the specific frequency of grief that comes from losing a piece of your own consciousness.

Ruckus was more than a construct; he was a neural extension, a manifested fragment of Hoseok's psyche given form and autonomy.

Losing him was an amputation. The phantom pain must be excruciating.

Hence, Jimin staying in bed with him was logical.

Hence, Jimin not being your instructor today was predictable.

Hence, you standing outside the training room door at 09:38—eight minutes later than your scheduled session—was a simple matter of cause and effect, not a deliberate act of defiance.

You were not looking forward to this training session anyway.

Jimin's particular brand of instruction has a way of making you feel intellectually deficient for asking questions he deems obvious, his tone carrying that specific inflection that suggests you are being deductively 'cunty'—a concept you do not find particularly compelling—rather than genuinely curious.

This is obvious from the way he uses the term when talking about you—clearly meant as an insult and not a compliment.

But you were looking forward to observing his powers.

Short-term premonition—thirty-second glimpses into immediate futures, according to him—is a fascinating manifestation of temporal manipulation that defies easy categorization.

Thus, you wanted to analyze the mechanism, map the neural pathways, quantify the energy expenditure. You wanted to understand how his brain processed multiple probability streams simultaneously without cognitive collapse.

Now you'll have to wait.

You push open the door.

The training room is dim, lit only by the ambient glow of the holographic displays lining the walls. The center of the space is clear, mats arranged in a precise grid pattern that suggests intentional structuring rather than comfort. The air is colder than the corridor outside—chilled, you presume, to keep students alert.

You are, however, not alone.

"You are late."

The voice is raspy, pitched low, and you don't need visual confirmation to know whose presence has altered the room's atmospheric pressure.

Your heart rate accelerates anyway—142 bpm, up from 87.

Agent Min.

He's standing near the far wall, back turned, examining something on a display, wearing a simple grey long-sleeve that shows the line of his shoulders, the tension in his spine. His hair is damp, like he showered recently.

You catalog the observation: post-workout recovery, or possibly just an attempt to wash away the previous night.

"What are you—"

"Jimin is indisposed." He cuts you off without turning. "I'll be instructing you today."

Yoongi turns then, his movement economical. His eyes sweep over you without making contact, settling somewhere in the middle distance above your left shoulder.

"On the center of the room, A-735."

The use of your designation instead of your name is a reset of professional distance. A re-establishment of hierarchy after last night's emotional detonation.

You don't move.

"I didn't know someone was waiting for me," you say, and your voice comes out flatter than you intended. "I thought I'd be training alone since Jimin is not—"

"You thought incorrectly," he interrupts, clipped and final.

He walks toward the center of the room, and your skin prickles with static electricity that has nothing to do with Kairos manifestation.

Yesterday, he held your hand for fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

Yesterday, he screamed at you in front of multiple witnesses.

Yesterday, he admitted he doesn't care about the mission when you are the variable at risk.

Today, he's pretending none of it happened.

"You are developing moderate proficiency with spatial manipulation," he says, voice returning to its detached baseline. "But your control is imprecise. Your energy expenditure is excessive. You rely on instincts rather than actual intention."

He stops in the center of the mats, eyes finding yours—expression set in the neutral mask you've learned to recognize as extreme emotional suppression.

"Today we fix that."

You walk to the center, maintaining the distance he's established—approximately two meters. Close enough for instruction, far enough to avoid accidental contact.

"I'm not imprecise," you say, and the words come out more defensive than you anticipated. "I transported twelve people across 4.7 kilometers through a reality-anchor-dense sector. That requires precision."

"It requires luck."

"It requires calculation."

"It requires me stabilizing your signature so you didn't scatter yourself across a thousand probability streams." His voice sharpens, just enough to show the anger underneath. "You don't even know what you did wrong because you can't perceive the variables you miscalculated."

"Then explain them."

"Trust me, I intend to."

He gestures to the mat in front of him.

"So. Stand there. Eyes closed. Hands at your sides. And no Kairos."

"That's counterproductive. How am I supposed to—"

"By listening to me instead of arguing for once."

Something stirs in your chest.

You want to point out that your analytical approach is what saved those Outliers, that your calculations were optimal given the constraints, that his emotional response is clouding his tactical judgment.

But you step onto the mat.

You close your eyes.

You place your hands at your sides.

The room goes dark behind your lids, but not silent. You can hear his breathing—slightly elevated, controlled but not calm. You can hear the faint noise the holographic displays emit. You can hear the distant sounds of the base continuing its operations despite the emotional earthquake that happened less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Now," his voice says from directly in front of you, closer than he was before, "I want you to feelthe space around you. Not with Kairos. With your actual senses."

"I can't—"

"You can."

His presence is a heat source at approximately 1.2 meters. You can feel the displacement of air where his body occupies space. You can sense the precise location of his torso, his shoulders, the angle of his head.

"Tell me where I am," he says.

"Directly in front of me. 1.2 meters. Facing me."

"How do you know?"

"Air displacement. Thermal gradient. Auditory input from your voice."

"All logical deductions." There's something in his tone—grudging approval, maybe, or simple acknowledgement that you're not completely incompetent. "Now tell me what's behind me."

You pause.

Without opening your eyes, without Kairos, you have no way to perceive the wall that should be ten meters behind him.

"I can't—"

"You can. Stop thinking like a temporal analyst and start thinking like a spatial manipulator. Space isn't just coordinates. It's relationship. It's context. It's the absence of things as much as the presence."

His voice moves. Not away—around. Circling you at a distance of approximately 1.5 meters, maintaining the radius with mathematical precision.

"Where am I now?"

"To my left. 1.5 meters."

"How do you know?"

"Your voice. The way the sound waves reflect off the walls."

"Reflection patterns change based on my position relative to the room's geometry. You're calculating that in real-time."

"It's how hearing works."

"No. It's how your hearing works. Normal humans don't parse spatial geometry from auditory data. They just hear direction. You're hearing location."

He stops moving. The heat source settles directly behind you now, at approximately 0.8 meters.

"Now," he says, and his voice is lower, closer to your ear than you expected, "tell me what I'm about to do."

You freeze.

Your analytical mind races through probability matrices.

He could touch you. He could step away. He could manifest Kairos. He could—

His hand brushes your shoulder.

Not a touch. Just the whisper of fabric against fabric as his sleeve passes within millimeters of your skin.

You flinch. Involuntary. Your entire nervous system sparks with static electricity from the proximity.

"Too slow," he murmurs, and there's something in his tone that isn't professional anymore, that sounds like the edge of a cliff you're both standing on. "You're still reacting. Still thinking. Still calculating."

His hand moves again. This time you sense it—a displacement of air, a shift in the thermal gradient, the subtle change in pressure as his palm approaches the back of your neck.

You step forward, away from the contact, eyes snapping open.

Yoongi is standing exactly where you calculated—0.8 meters behind you, hand extended, expression unreadable.

The distance you created is precisely 1.2 meters now.

"Better," he says, and his voice is clinical again, the edge gone as if you imagined it. "But still too slow. You should have sensed my intention before I moved."

"I can't read minds."

"You don't have to. Intention changes spatial relationships before action occurs. The body telegraphs. The air compresses. The thermal signature shifts. You just have to learn to feel it."

He walks back to the center of the mat, putting distance between you again. Professional distance. The kind that maintains boundaries.

"Again," he says. "Eyes closed. This time, don't react. Anticipate."

You close your eyes.

The static hums in your blood, a frequency that matches his heartbeat.

The second round goes worse than the first.

He moves faster now, circling you as if testing the perimeter of his territory.

Every time you anticipate correctly, he adjusts. Every time you react in time, he increases the difficulty. Every time you manage to dodge his approach, he finds a new angle that exposes your blind spots.

You're learning nothing.

You're being managed.

"Your left side is still weak," he says, voice flat. "You're over-relying on auditory input instead of spatial awareness."

"My auditory input is accurate."

"Accurate isn't sufficient. Accurate gets you killed when your opponent knows to approach from the direction that minimizes sound reflection."

You open your eyes, frustration bleeding through.

"Then demonstrate the correct technique instead of simply cataloguing my failures."

"I am demonstrating." He stops moving, settling into a position approximately 1.8 meters in front of you. "You're just not observing correctly."

"I'm observing your position, your movement patterns, your—"

"You're observing data." The interruption is sharp enough to cut. "You're not perceiving space. There's a difference."

"Explain the difference."

"I just did. You weren't listening."

Your jaw tightens.

He's doing this deliberately, answering in a way that closes the door before you can step through it, constructing responses to make you feel like you're asking the wrong questions.

This is not instruction.

This is punishment.

Your gaze drops to his hands.

And it is then, that you realize.

The gloves are back.

Black leather, tight fit, covering every millimeter of skin from wrist to fingertip. The same barrier he wore before the mission, before he removed one to hold your hand through the corridors, before he clasped both around yours while you tore a hole in space.

You stare at them for 2.3 seconds too long.

"What?" His voice carries an edge.

"You're wearing the gloves again."

"Observation noted."

"It's counterproductive."

His eyebrow arches—a micro-expression of challenge.

"Is it."

"The cellular transfer has already been initiated. Skin contact occurred during the extraction mission. Wearing gloves now doesn't reverse the biochemical cascade—it merely delays the next exposure while allowing the dependency to compound."

"I'm aware of the mechanism."

"Then you're aware that avoidance is mathematically suboptimal."

"I'm aware," he repeats, and something in his tone becomes acerbic, "that my choices regarding physical contact are notsubject to your tactical review."

"They are when they affect mission readiness."

"This isn't a mission." He takes a step closer, closing the distance. "This is training. And in training, the instructor's methodology is not up for debate."

You hold your ground.

"The methodology is flawed if the instructor is making decisions based on emotional variables rather than tactical ones."

"Emotional variables." He repeats the phrase like it tastes bitter. "Is that what you think this is?"

"The gloves serve no practical purpose given our current biochemical status. The only logical explanation for their presence is psychological—a symbolic barrier intended to communicate distance despite the physical irrelevance of the gesture."

His jaw tightens. You can see the muscle jump beneath the skin.

"You're deflecting from the actual lesson."

"You're deflecting from the actual issue."

"The issue—" His voice rises fractionally before he catches himself, forces it back down. "—is that you can't perceive spatial relationships without visual input. The gloves are irrelevant."

"The gloves are a control mechanism."

Silence.

His eyes narrow.

"Excuse me?"

"You're using them to establish authority." You keep your voice level, analytical, even as the words land accusingly. "The same way you're using this training session to reassert dominance after last night's confrontation. The methodology isn't pedagogical—it's psychological. You're not teaching me to perceive space. You're teaching me to submit."

The temperature in the room drops three degrees.

Or maybe that's just him.

"That's quite an analysis," he scoffs, and his voice drops. "From someone who doesn't understand basic spatial perception."

"I understand enough to recognize avoidance behavior when I see it."

"You understand nothing." He takes another step closer. 0.5 meters now. "You think because Jin explained the cellular mechanism, you comprehend the full scope of what's happening? You think knowing about the addiction means you understand its implications?"

"I understand that wearing gloves after we've already established skin contact is the equivalent of closing a door after the fire has already spread through the house."

"Maybe I'm containing the damage."

"Maybe you're pretending you have control over something you don't."

His hand comes up—still gloved, still maintaining the barrier—and for a moment you think he's going to touch you anyway, contradiction be damned.

He doesn't.

His hand hovers in the space between you, fingers slightly curled, and the gesture reads as both threat and restraint.

"You want to talk about control?" His voice is low, rough. "Fine. Let's talk about control. Let's talk about how you made a unilateral decision last night that could have killed you. Let's talk about how you forced my participation by threatening to act with or without my stabilization. Let's talk about how you used my—"

He stops. Swallows.

"—my investment in your survival as a tactical lever."

"It worked, did it not?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" You step forward, closing the distance he's been so careful to maintain. 0.3 meters. "You're angry about something you can't articulate, so you're channeling it into authority games and symbolic barriers that serve no practical purpose."

"You think the gloves are symbolic?"

"I think you're being a child."

Three seconds of silence.

The kind of silence that has mass.

"A child." He repeats it slowly, each syllable weighted. "You think I'm being a child."

"Yes." You don't back down. "That is what I said, I believe. I'm glad your hearing is intact."

His expression doesn't change, but something behind his eyes goes very, very still.

"You're upset about last night. You're upset that I made a choice you couldn't control. So you're reasserting control in the only arena currently available to you—this training session. The gloves are part of that reassertion. A visual reminder that you can choose to withhold something I—"

You stop.

The word you almost said hangs between you, unspoken but present.

Want.

His hand—still hovering in the space between you—trembles almost imperceptibly.

But his lips?

His lips twitch.

"Something you what, Noma?"

You don't answer.

"No, please." There's a smile in his voice now. "Finish that thought. Something you what? Need? Crave? Can't stop thinking about even though you don't remember why your body responds to mine like it's coming home?"

Heat floods your chest. Your neck. Your face.

"I was going to say require. For stabilization purposes."

"Liar."

The accusation is soft. Almost gentle.

And completely accurate.

You hold his gaze anyway.

"The gloves are unnecessary."

"The gloves are mine." His hand finally drops. "My choice. My body. My decision about what barriers I maintain and when."

"And yet you removed one yesterday. In the facility. Without my asking."

"That was—" He stops. His throat works. "That was different."

"How?"

"Because I—" Another stop. Another swallow. "Because you needed—"

"Because you needed," you correct quietly. "Your hand found mine before I showed any signs of temporal distress. You removed the glove because you wanted contact. Not because I required stabilization."

The truth of it sits between you.

His breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. The kind of respiratory pattern that indicates elevated stress response.

Or something else entirely.

"You want the fucking gloves gone?" The words come out rough, almost torn. "Fine."

He yanks at the leather. First the right hand—sharp, aggressive tugs that bare pale skin and prominent veins. Then the left—same violence, same barely-contained fury.

The gloves hit the mat and then? his hands are bare.

Exposed.

The same hands that held yours through a teleportation that should have shattered you.

The same hands that cradled your joined fingers like something precious while he poured his own stability into your fracturing signature.

"Gloves are fucking gone." His voice shakes. "Now what, Noma?"

Your knees threaten to buckle.

It's a physiological response you don't anticipate—the sudden weakness in your quadriceps, the micro-tremor that runs through your stabilizing muscles, the way your center of gravity shifts 0.3 centimeters backward as if your body is trying to create distance your mind refuses to allow.

His hands.

Pale. Long-fingered. Blue veins running from knuckle to wrist like a map of something you want to trace with your tongue.

You want them around your throat. You want those fingers wrapped around the column of your neck, pressing just hard enough to feel your pulse hammer against his palm.

His breathing changes. Subtle, but you catch it—a slight hitch, a fractional increase in respiratory rate.

You lift your hand, and watch his eyes track the motion, watch the way his jaw tightens as your fingers approach his.

He doesn't pull away.

But he doesn't move toward you either.

Stalemate.

Your fingertips make contact with his palm—the kind of contact that could be accidental, incidental, meaningless.

It's none of those things.

His hand twitches. The muscle beneath his thumb spasms once before he controls it. You can see the effort it costs him—the way his shoulders lock, the way his breath goes deliberately even.

"Interesting."

Your finger traces a slow line across his palm. Following the deep crease that runs from index finger to wrist.

"What is," he manages, and his voice—

God, his voice is frayed.

"Your commitment to maintaining composure." Your touch drifts to his wrist, finding the ridge of bone, the thin skin over his pulse point. "Given the circumstances."

"The circumstances being?"

"You told me once that semantic sparring between us constitutes foreplay."

Your finger traces a pattern on his inner wrist—and then you feel it. A slight raised edge.

Ink beneath skin.

"I'm curious whether you still believe that assessment was accurate."

You look down.

There, on the inside of his wrist, barely visible against his pale skin: an infinity symbol. Small, elegant, positioned exactly where a watch strap would hide it.

Your finger traces the loop. Once. Twice.

Something flickers across his expression—not quite pain, not quite pleasure. Something older than both.

"You have a tattoo," you observe.

"I have several."

"This one is interesting." You complete another circuit of the symbol. "Infinity. Endless recurrence. Rather on-the-nose for a Time Anchor, don't you think?"

"It predates my temporal abilities."

"Does it predate me?"

His jaw locks in response to the question, to the implication, to the centuries of history embedded in that small piece of ink.

A bead of sweat forms at his temple.

"You're sweating, Agent Min."

"Observant."

"You're also vibrating."

"Noma—"

"And yet you're still pretending this is about training protocols and professional distance."

"It is about—"

"It's about control."

His breath catches. Actually catches, like you've reached into his chest and squeezed.

"You put the gloves on because you felt threatened by what happened yesterday. By what you admitted."

The word threatened lands precisely where you aimed it.

His nostrils flare.

"A good leader shouldn't need barriers against a subordinate."

"A good leader," he says, dangerously soft, "knows when to put a subordinate in their place."

"Is that what you want to do, Agent Min?" You hum. "Put me in my place?"

"You have no idea." His breathing is ragged now. "What I want to do right now."

"I might be able to conjecture."

"Conjecture." He repeats the word like it's obscene. "Go ahead, then. What's your hypothesis?"

"That you want to have me." You don't blink. "Right now. Right here."

His hand moves. Not away. Toward. Fingers wrapping around your wrist—bare skin on bare skin, contact point igniting like a lit fuse.

"Have you?" The words come out fractured, rough. "You think I want to have you?"

For the first time in this interaction, you swallow, off balance.

Did you guess incorrectly?

No, but he's—

"Am I wrong?" your voice wavers.

His expression cracks—shatters.

"Noma." His grip on your wrist tightens, pulling you fractionally closer. "I don't want to have you."

His other hand comes up, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back.

"I want to fuck you like an animal."

The kiss isn't gentle, it's a collision—his mouth crashing into yours with seventeen timelines of accumulated desperation behind it. His hand fists in your hair, angles your head where he wants it, and his tongue slides past your lips with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how you taste.

Because he does.

He remembers.

Your back hits the training room wall. You don't recall moving, but suddenly there's solid surface behind you and solid muscle in front of you and his thigh is pressing between yours and his mouth is consuming you.

Arousal spirals upward, each sensation amplifying the next, until you can't tell where your desperation ends and his begins.

Your fingers find his hair, mint strands sliding between your knuckles, softer than they look, and you grip them like you're drowning and he's the only thing keeping you above water.

Maybe he is.

His mouth is relentless, fueled by a hunger that feels older than this moment, older than this timeline.

You can't categorize it, can't file it into neat compartments.

All you know is you need more.

You open your mouth against his. He responds instantly, lips parting, and you give him the kind of kiss that your body somehow knows he likes—wet and open and searching. Tongue sliding against his lower lip before finding his.

His breath hitches.

Tell.

You file that away even as your higher cognitive functions start shorting out.

The hitch means he likes it. The hitch means keep going.

So you do.

His tongue pushes into your mouth and you make a sound—something between a gasp and a moan that you don't consciously authorize. It just happens, pulled from somewhere deep in your chest by the slide of him against you.

He likes that too, you feel it in the way his grip tightens, the way his hips press harder against yours, the way his hand moves from your hair to cradle your jaw. The angle shifts—his palm warm against your cheek, fingers curving around the hinge of your jaw, tilting your head exactly where he wants it.

Better access.

His tongue works against yours in a way you presume he's explored a thousand times before.

"Mhm—"

The sound vibrates against your lips.

You chase it, tongue finding his again, and you can't—you can't explain why you need this. Can't articulate the compulsion that makes you press closer, grip harder, breathe him in like oxygen.

He tastes like something familiar. Something necessary.

He tastes like mint.

"Up."

The word comes out rasped between kisses. Barely intelligible.

You blink your eyes open, vision hazy, brain struggling to parse language when all your processing power is dedicated to sensation.

His eyes are still closed. He leans back in, mouth finding yours again, softer this time but no less hungry.

"Your legs," he manages against your lips. Kiss. "Up." Another kiss, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours for a brief, devastating second. "Around—"

He breaks off to kiss you properly. Deep and thorough and claiming.

"—my hips, C'mon, pretty girl."

The term of endearment exacerbates the warmth spreading through your chest.

You separate—just far enough to look at him, to process the words, to feel the sensations coursing through your veins.

Pretty girl.

He watches your mouth with dark eyes—smoky, pupils blown so wide his irises are nonexistent.

Then he's leaning in again, and this time he doesn't kiss you—he licks. Tongue tracing the seam of your lips slowly, tasting the shape of them.

His forearm slides beneath your thigh.

You don't remember deciding to move, but suddenly you're being lifted, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back pressed against the wall, and he's between your thighs with an ease that suggests he's done this before.

He has. You know he has.

Your body remembers even when your mind doesn't.

"That's so much—"

He kisses you. Brief, biting.

"—mhm—"

His tongue slides against yours again and the sound you make is completely outside your control.

"—better."

His hips are flush against yours now, his weight pinning you to the wall, and you can feel—

You can feel him.

Hard. Unmistakable. Pressing against your center with a pressure that makes your thighs tighten involuntarily around his waist.

He groans into your mouth while his hand finds your hair again, tilting your head back, and his mouth leaves yours to trace down your jaw.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck. The scrape of teeth against your pulse point.

You're shaking.

You don't know when that started.

"Yoongi—"

His name comes out broken. He hums against your throat, lips vibrating against sensitive skin.

"I know." His voice trembles. "I know, I know—"

Before you can protest the loss of his mouth on yours he's nuzzling against your throat. Nose pressing into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, inhaling deeply.

A shudder runs through his entire frame.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin. "You smell so—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. Just inhales again, deeper this time, like he's trying to pull your scent into his lungs and keep it there.

The heat between your legs flares brighter.

"I keep lavender under my pillow."

The confession comes out mumbled against your throat. Half-formed. Like he's not entirely conscious of saying it.

"What?"

"Lavender." His lips brush your pulse point as he speaks. "Little bag of it. Under my pillow. It's—" He exhales, ragged. "It's the only fucking thing that lets me sleep at night."

Your chest constricts.

"It smells like you," he whispers. "Every timeline. You always smell like lavender."

You don't fully understand the significance, but you feel it—the weight of what he's admitting.

Centuries of sleepless nights. Centuries of reaching for something that reminds him of someonewho doesn't rememberhim.

The hand that was gripping your thigh starts drifting—sliding from the outside curve toward the back, fingers spreading across the swell of your ass while his other hand skims up your belly.

The touch is light, almost reverent, tracing the line of your ribs through the fabric of your shirt. Higher. Slower.

He stops at your cleavage.

His chin lifts from your shoulder, settling against your chest instead. The angle forces him to look up at you—gaze all hazy, and expression somewhere between desperate and destroyed.

"Can I—" His voice cracks. He swallows, tries again. "Can I unbutton your shirt?"

The question is so unexpectedly polite that it takes you a moment to process.

He's asking.

After everything—after pinning you to a wall, after kissing you like he wanted to consume you, after confessing things that span centuries—he's asking.

You nod and his whole body shudders. A full-body reaction, like your permission has ensbled something fundamental in his nervous system.

His fingers find the first button.

Pop.

Your shirt falls open an inch.

Pop.

He's not looking at his hands. He's looking at you—watching your face, tracking your breathing as more skin becomes visible.

Pop.

The last button gives way.

Your shirt falls open, the fabric parting to reveal the turquoise bra beneath. Not particularly sexy, but the way he's staring at it, you might as well be wrapped in silk and lace.

"Christ," he exhales.

He lets your weight rest against the wall, freeing both hands. They come up your sides slowly, reverently, and cup your breasts, the heat of his palms searing through the fabric.

You make a sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his eyes flutter closed for a moment, savoring.

"I know," he murmurs, seemingly at a loss for words. "I know, I've got you—"

His thumbs brush across your nipple, and even though it is a touch above the bra, the sensation makes you arch into his touch.

You cannot prevent your hips from rolling against his involuntarily, seeking friction. Nor can he, the way he groans low in his throat in response.

His fingers hook under the edge of the cups, and slowly—agonizingly slowly—he pulls the fabric down.

Your breasts spill free and his hands fly right there, cupping the bare flesh.

"Fuck." The curse comes out wrecked. Broken.

You note how his gaze admires the way your breasts overflow his palms, the way your nipples have already peaked from the cold and the arousal, the way your chest heaves with each stuttered breath.

His thumbs trace slow circles around your nipples without quite touching them.

Teasing.

"Yoongi—"

"I know." His voice is barely recognizable. "I know what you need."

He looks up at you.

There's a question in his expression—a hesitation that furrows the space between his brows. Like he's asking permission for something he's done a thousand times before. Like he needs to be sure you want this even though your body is already screaming the answer.

You don't nod.

You don't have to.

Something in your expression must give him what he needs, because the hesitation dissolves. His eyes go half-lidded, hazy with want, and he gives up on coherent thought entirely.

His mouth finds your nipple.

The sensation—

You can't categorize it.

Your analytical mind tries. It reaches for parameters, for comparison points, for some framework that would make this comprehensible. But the moment his lips close around the peaked flesh, every cognitive process shorts out.

It feels like someone is buzzing against your clit.

That's the only way to describe it. The pleasure doesn't stay localized in your breast—it travels, arcing down through your belly, pooling hot and liquid between your thighs. Your nerve endings must be cross-wired, or maybe this is the cellular entanglement Jin mentioned, but the result is the same.

You gasp.

His tongue flicks across the tip and the sensation doubles.

"Oh—"

The sound escapes before you can stop it. High and breathy and completely beyond your control.

He hums against your skin, a vibration that adds another layer to the already overwhelming input, and your fingers tighten in his hair without conscious command.

He switches to the other breast.

The first one aches at the loss—actually aches, the cool air hitting wet skin making you shiver—but then his mouth is on the second nipple and the pleasure spikes all over again.

He's thorough.

Devastatingly thorough.

His tongue traces circles around the areola, tracking it methodically, before closing his lips around the peak and sucking. Gentle at first. Testing pressure. Then harder when you make a sound that apparently tells him what your thoughts fail to produce through your mouth.

Your thighs tighten around his waist.

He knows your body to perfection, you realize.

He knows exactly how to touch you, exactly what pressure to apply, exactly when to switch from soft to sharp. His teeth graze your nipple and you jolt, but he's already soothing the sting with his tongue, reading your responses like a language he's fluent in.

Because he is.

Seventeen timelines. However many centuries.

He's had practice. With you. Many, many times it seems.

One of his hands comes up to cup the breast his mouth isn't attending to, the thumb rolling across the nipple in counterpoint to his tongue.

"Yoongi—"

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air across wet skin.

You whimper.

"I know," he murmurs.

Then he goes right in with his teeth closing around the sensitive peak with just enough pressure to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Your back arches off the wall, pressing your chest further into his mouth, demanding more.

You swear you can feel his arousal—not just the physical evidence pressed against your center, but the actual sensation of it. His want bleeding into yours through a connection that has to link your nervous systems.

Because if you had to hypothesize right now—every spike of pleasure you experience echoes back to him, amplifies, returns to you doubled.

And you need more.

Your hips roll against him instinctively, trying to chase the resolution your mind is asking for.

He hisses, pained, and his hand flies from your breast to your hip. Palm pressing flat against your pelvis, pinning you to the wall with enough force that you couldn't move if you tried.

"Noma." His voice comes out strangled. "Please."

You still, breath coming in ragged gasps.

He rests his forehead against your sternum. You can feel his chest heaving, feel the tremor running through his frame, feel how hard his dick is under you.

"I'm barely—" He exhales, shaky. "I'm barely holding it together as it is."

His thumb strokes across your hip bone in what you assume is a soothing movement, but just makes you want to roll your hips again.

"And I really—" Another breath. "I really want to take my time worshipping you."

He looks up at you then, and his eyes are desperate.

"Don't make it impossible for me."

"I don't want you to take your time."

The words come out before your analytical mind can filter them. Blunt. Demanding. Completely outside your normal communication parameters.

His head lifts from your sternum, eyes finding yours with an expression that borders on pained.

"Noma—"

"I want—" You swallow, trying to organize the chaos in your skull into something resembling coherent speech. "I need—"

What do you need?

The question should be simple. Your body is screaming the answer with every nerve ending, every spike of arousal, every desperate clench of your thighs around his waist.

But the words won't form.

"I know what you need." He grits out. "That's not the issue."

"Then what—"

His mouth finds your clavicle.

The sentence dies in your throat.

His lips trace the ridge of bone from shoulder to sternum as if he intends to memorize the topography of your skeleton through skin.

"You have no idea," he mumbles against your skin, "how many timelines I've spent thinking about this exact spot."

His teeth graze the junction where your clavicle curves into your shoulder.

You jolt.

The reaction is completely involuntary—a full-body spasm that arches your spine and tears a sound from your throat that you will never be able to categorize in any professional report.

He pulls back slightly. Studies your face with those dark, blown-out eyes.

Then he bites.

Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough pressure to send electricity cascading down your nerve pathways, pooling hot and liquid between your thighs.

Your moan echoes off the training room walls.

"There it is." He sounds satisfied. "Right there. Every timeline. Same spot."

He bites again, worrying the flesh between his teeth, and your fingers tighten in his hair hard enough that you must be hurting him. He doesn't seem to care. If anything, the pain makes him groan against your throat, hips rolling forward in a motion that presses his cock directly against your center.

"Yoongi—"

"I know." His mouth soothes the bite mark with his tongue. "I know, pretty girl."

His hand leaves your hip.

You register the loss of pressure, the shift in his stance as he adjusts your weight against the wall. His palm slides down—over the curve of your waist, the jut of your hip bone, finding the waistband of your training pants.

The sound of a zipper cuts through the heavy air.

Your analytical mind tries to process the sequence of events.

His fingers hooking under elastic.The drag of fabric down your thighs.The cool air hitting skin that was covered moments ago.

Your hips roll forward without your permission.

He hisses—a sharp intake of breath that sounds like it hurts—and his hand flies back to your pelvis, pressing you flat against the wall.

"Fuck—" The curse comes out strangled. "You're going to make me lose it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're existing." His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin. "That's enough."

His thumb shifts.

Finds your clit through the thin cotton of your underwear.

The sound that escapes you is completely outside your normal vocal range—high and breathy and desperate.

His head lifts. Dark eyes finding yours, something raw and wrecked in his expression.

"I know." His thumb circles slowly, maddeningly. "I know, baby. I know."

Baby.

The endearment lands somewhere in your chest and detonates.

"Please, want you inside—"

"I'm trying." His voice cracks on the words. "I'm trying to—"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

Instead, golden light flickers at the edges of your vision.

You feel it before you understand it—a shift in the air, a hum that resonates in your bones. His temporal manipulation activating, but not aimed at you. Aimed at—

Your clothes dissolve.

Not removed. Not torn. Simply... unmade. The fabric breaking down into component fibers, then molecules, then atoms, then nothing.

One moment you're wearing training pants and cotton underwear.

The next moment... There's only skin.

He reversed time on the material itself. Sent it back to before it was woven. Before it was processed. Before it existed as anything other than raw chemical compounds.

The implications are staggering.

The sensation is overwhelming.

Cool air rushes against every inch of newly exposed skin. His clothed body presses against your naked one, the texture of his shirt against your breasts, the rough fabric of his pants against your inner thighs.

"I'm sorry. Couldn't—" His voice is barely coherent. "Couldn't wait. Couldn't—"

He's shaking, movements frantic and clumsy.

One hand stays locked on your hip, keeping you pinned, but the other fumbles at his side. Searching. His mouth finds yours again—messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth and ragged breathing—while his fingers dig through his pocket.

"Wallet," he mumbles against your lips. "Wallet, wallet—fuck, where—"

You feel him pat different pockets, hear the soft curse when he comes up empty, feel the relief flood through his frame when his fingers finally close around leather.

He breaks the kiss long enough to extract something small and square.

A condom.

Your brow furrows.

"Why—" You have to stop, catch your breath, try again. "Why do you have a condom?"

He looks at you. Really looks, with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and agony.

"Because I'm not going to force your body chemistry to prevent pregnancy." The words come out rushed, tumbling over each other. "You hate the hormonal fluctuations. You make presentations about the side effects every reset. So we use barrier methods instead, and if you want to have this argument for the eighteenth time, we can do that in a few days."

"Eighteenth—"

"Yes, eighteenth." He tears the packet open with his teeth, a motion that should not be as attractive as it is. "We've had this exact conversation seventeen times. You always ask. I alwaysexplain. You always eventually agree it's the optimal solution."

His hand shakes as he reaches for his zipper.

"But right now—" His voice breaks, goes hoarse. "Right now I am in actual physical pain from not being inside you, so unless you have pressing objections to latex barriers, can we please—"

"No objections."

The words come out fast. Desperate.

His exhale sounds like relief and agony combined.

"Thank fuck."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

His hand moves in a swift motion then—condom unrolled, positioned, secured. You barely track the mechanics because his other hand is still on your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow of bone, and your brain is too busy cataloguing that single point of contact to process peripheral data.

Then he shifts.

His grip adjusts your angle. Tilts your pelvis forward. Lines himself up with a precision that speaks to muscle memory, to repetition, to knowing exactly where you need him.

"Breathe."

The command comes out ragged. He's not looking at your face—his gaze is fixed downward, watching the space between your bodies, watching himself position at your entrance.

You try to obey. Try to pull air into lungs that have forgotten how oxygen works.

He pushes forward.

One slide.

Easy.

Your body opens for him like it was designed to, like your internal architecture has been waiting for this specific configuration.

No resistance. No adjustment period. Just—

Full.

The stretch registers somewhere in the back of your skull, but it's not pain. It's recognition. Nerve endings firing in patterns that feel less like first contact and more like reunion.

His arms wrap around you.

Not holding you up anymore—that's the wall's job now. This is him melting into you, chest pressing against yours, face burying into the curve of your neck, entire frame going slack like someone cut his strings.

"F-fuck."

The word vibrates against your throat.

"Fuck."

Again, more broken.

"Ffffuck, Noma—"

His breathing is ragged. You can feel his chest heaving, feel the way his ribs expand and contract against yours in a rhythm that matches your own stuttered attempts at respiration.

You're both panting.

Two bodies trying to remember how to function while simultaneously experiencing a neurological overload that defies easy categorization.

He's inside you.

The thought keeps looping through your consciousness, failing to fully process.

He's inside you and your body knows him. Your vaginal walls know the exact dimensions of his cock like they've memorized the data across timelines you don't remember.

He moves, hips pulling back in a slow drag that makes you feel every centimeter of withdrawal. Then forward—quick, deep, a fierce motion that jostles your entire body upward against the wall.

Your spine arches involuntarily.

His head flies back. Dark eyes find yours, gold threading through the dark brown of his irises, and he's watching. Studying your face like it's the most important data set he's ever analyzed.

He does it again.

Slow pull. Quick thrust.

Deep enough that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

Your mouth falls open on a sound you don't recognize—half moan, half whimper, entirely outside your normal vocal parameters.

"Yeah?" His voice is wrecked. "Like that?"

You nod, the only response you can manage. Your higher cognitive functions have officially gone offline, leaving nothing but sensation and the desperate need for more.

"I know, baby." He rolls his hips again, grinding deep. "You always take it so good."

Always.

The word should trigger analytical inquiry. Should make you question how he knows what you always do when you don't remember any previous encounters.

But your brain is too busy drowning in dopamine to pursue logical threads.

His arms loosen.

The hug dissolves slowly—not because he wants to let go, but because he wants to see. His upper body pulls back, creating space between your chests, and his gaze drops to where your bodies connect.

The expression on his face—

You can't classify it.

Awe comes closest. That specific look humans get when confronted with something they've seen a thousand times but still can't believe is real.

He pulls out. Slow. Watching his cock emerge glistening.

Pushes back in. Slower. Watching himself disappear inside you.

His exhale sounds like it's being torn from his lungs.

"God."

The word is barely audible.

"Look at this—" His voice cracks. "Look at this pretty cunt glistening."

His thumb moves. You feel it brush against your outer labia, feel him push the flesh to the side, creating a better viewing angle for himself.

"Fu-uck. Y-yeah." He sounds destroyed. "Always glistening—for me."

You should find this embarrassing. Should feel exposed in a way that triggers defensive responses.

Instead, you feel wanted.

He pulls out again—halfway this time, slow and deliberate—and you watch his face as he watches his cock slot back into place. The way his jaw goes slack. The way his breathing stutters. The way his eyes track the motion like he's witnessing something sacred.

"Perfect." The word comes out like a prayer. "Perfect fucking fit."

His thumb strokes along your entrance, feeling the stretch where your body accommodates his girth. You shiver at the added stimulation—his cock inside you, his thumb tracing where you're joined, his eyes cataloguing every detail like he's committing it to permanent memory.

Which he probably is.

Seventeen timelines of data. Seventeen versions of this exact scenario.

And he still looks at you like it's the first time.

He pushes in again. Pulls out. In. Out. Establishing a rhythm that's less about chasing orgasm and more about observation—like each withdrawal is an opportunity to appreciate the visual.

"You have no idea," he breathes, still watching himself move inside you, "how many times I've pictured this."

Your walls clench around him involuntarily.

He groans—low, guttural, affected—and his hips stutter before he forces them back to the slow rhythm.

"Every time, you forget." He breathes. "But me? I always—always remember this."

His thumb finds your clit, circling it slowly, barely any pressure.

"I remember how you sound—" His circles match the pace of his thrusts. "How you feel—" Another circle. "How you look when I'm buried in you."

Your head falls back against the wall.

"Yoongi—"

"I know." His voice is thick. "I know, baby. I'm right here."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

His mouth finds yours.

The kiss is messier this time—less precision, more desperation. His tongue slides against yours in a rhythm that matches the pace of his hips, and you taste the groan that escapes him when your walls clench around his cock.

His thumb keeps circling.

Steady. Relentless. Each rotation sending sparks up your spine while he fucks into you with increasing urgency.

"Nnh—"

The sound gets swallowed by his mouth. He drinks it down like he's been starving for it, angling his head to kiss you deeper while his hips snap forward with more force.

Faster now.

The wet sounds of your bodies connecting fill the training room—obscene, rhythmic, loud.

You should care about acoustics. About who might hear.

But then again, soundproofing is likely in a facility designed for combat practice.

"Yeah?" He breaks the kiss just enough to speak, lips brushing yours with every word. "My pretty girl likes this rhythm better, hm?"

You can only nod. Your vocal cords have apparently joined the rest of your higher functions in total system failure.

"Yeah." His voice is thick with satisfaction. "I know, baby. Your body tells me."

He's right.

Your body is screaming data at him—the way your thighs tighten around his waist, the way your hips try to meet his thrusts despite the wall pinning you in place, the way your pussy clenches around him every time his thumb completes another circle.

"So fucking responsive." He's panting against your mouth now, breath hot and ragged. "Always—fuck—always so goodfor me."

His pace increases again.

The thrusts become shorter, sharper. Less about depth and more about friction, about hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges.

"Taking me so well—" His thumb presses harder against your clit. "—this perfect pussy—"

"Yoongi—"

"I know." He kisses you again, brief and biting. "I can feel it. Feel how close you are."

You don't question how he knows.

You just know he does.

"Yeah?" He pulls back to look at your face, studying you with those blown-out eyes. "My pretty girl close?"

You nod frantically.

The pressure building in your core is almost unbearable. Every thrust pushes you higher, every circle of his thumb winds the tension tighter, and you're right there, right at the edge—

"Okay." His voice softens despite the brutal pace of his hips. "Here it comes, yeah? You ready, baby?"

Another nod. More desperate this time.

His arms wrap around you again.

The hug is different from before—tighter, more urgent. Like he's trying to fuse your bodies together at the cellular level. His face buries into your neck, breath scorching against that spot where your throat meets your shoulder.

Two more thrusts.

Deep.

His thumb grinds against your clit and his teeth sink into your flesh and everything detonates.

A full-system overload whites out your vision and tears a sound from your throat that you'll never be able to categorize. Your walls clamp down on his cock in rolling spasms, and you feel him follow—feel his hips stutter, feel his cock pulse inside you, feel the groan vibrating against your neck where his teeth are still buried in your skin.

He bites harder.

The pain mixes with the pleasure in a way your neural pathways can't separate, extending your climax past any reasonable duration.

You're both shaking.

His arms tremble around you. Your thighs tremble around him. The wall is the only thing keeping either of you vertical as the aftershocks roll through in diminishing waves.

Eventually—you're not sure how long, your internal clock has completely malfunctioned—his jaw loosens.

His teeth release your skin. His tongue soothes the mark he's left, and you can feel it throbbing.

The hickey is going to be visible for days. Maybe weeks.

He doesn't seem concerned about that.

"Fuck," he breathes against your throat.

Eloquent.

Your brain slowly comes back online. Systems rebooting one at a time—motor control, sensory processing, analytical functions.

The last one latches onto a data point it can't reconcile.

"That's statistically unlikely."

The words come out hoarse. Wrecked. But coherent enough to make him lift his head.

"Huh?"

He's still catching his breath. Still buried inside you. Still looking at you with that hazy, sex-drunk expression that suggests his higher functions haven't fully restored either.

"Climaxing at the same time." You swallow, trying to clear the roughness from your voice. "The probability of simultaneous orgasm without deliberate timing coordination is approximately 12%. Lower if you account for individual variance in arousal curves."

Silence.

He stares at you for 2.7 seconds.

Then he laughs.

Not the heated, rough sound from before. This is different—sharp, almost derisive. The kind of laugh that precedes correction.

"Uh-uh."

You blink, still processing post-orgasmic haze while he's apparently already back in instructor mode.

"The 12% figure you're citing assumes independent arousal curves with standard deviation parameters." His thumb traces lazy patterns on your hip while he speaks, utterly unbothered by the fact that he's still buried inside you. "You're not accounting for the quantum entanglement variable."

Your brain struggles to shift gears from sensation back to analysis.

"The cellular—"

"The cellular transfer creates a coupled oscillator system." His voice takes on that particular edge he gets when correcting your calculations—pedagogical, precise, with an undercurrent of satisfaction at catching your error. "When two biological systems achieve quantum coherence, their arousal patterns synchronize automatically. It's not probability—it's physics."

He shifts slightly, making you gasp, but his expression remains focused.

"The probability isn't 12%. At our current level of entanglement, simultaneous climax is approximately 94% likely. Higher if you account for my temporal manipulation subconsciously compensating for micro-timing discrepancies."

Your analytical mind latches onto the framework despite the distraction of his body still pressed against yours.

"So the synchronization is—"

"Inevitable." His thumb stops moving. "Given sufficient contact frequency and duration, the systems align. Basic resonance theory."

The correction should irritate you.

Instead, it does something else entirely—sends a spike of heat through your already oversensitive nerve endings because apparently Agent Min is the kind of person who delivers physics lectures with his cock still inside you.

He notices your reaction. You can tell by the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes track the flush spreading across your chest.

But he doesn't comment.

The moment stretches.

Then you notice his expression shift, bleeding into something quieter, something that looks like resignation.

"We can't do this again."

The words are not regretful nor apologetic.

But they are true.

You don't respond immediately. Your throat feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with the hickey blooming on your neck.

He pulls out slowly, and the loss of contact makes something in your chest constrict. He deals with the condom in silence, then stands there for a moment, not looking at you.

Not looking away either.

Just existing in the space between action and consequence.

"The more contact we have," he says finally, "the higher the tolerance threshold becomes."

You know this. You both know this.

"Which means more frequent contact." You finish the logical progression. "Higher dosage. Escalating dependency."

"Yes."

One word.

But millons of them in its meaning.

The weight of seventeen timelines. Seventeen cycles of this exact pattern—contact, escalation, desperation, loss.

He finally looks at you.

"This was..." He stops. Swallows. "Inadvisable."

Not wrong. Not regrettable.

Inadvisable.

"The team dynamics—"

"I understand."

You do. You both do.

This isn't about morality or protocol or professional boundaries. It's about mathematics. About the simple, unavoidable fact that every touch makes the next touch more necessary. Every moment of relief accelerates the timeline toward complete dependency.

And you can't afford that.

Not with the missions. Not with a resistance network that depends on both of you maintaining operational capability.

Not with CHRONOS actively hunting for you.

"Hide this." His gesture encompasses the mark on your neck—the visible proof of what just happened. "High collar. Concealer. Whatever it takes."

You nod.

He takes a step back. Then another.

The distance feels wrong in a way your body recognizes even if your mind understands the necessity. Like a circuit being broken. Like withdrawal starting before the high has fully faded.

"Ten minutes," he says over his shoulder. "Then we resume spatial perception training."

The clinical phrasing should help. Should create the professional distance you both need.

It doesn't.

But you nod anyway, and he turns toward the door, leaving.

You're left alone in the training room, naked, marked, with the ghost of his touch still burning across every nerve ending.

And the knowledge—quiet, inevitable, certain—that this is exactly how it starts.

Every timeline.

Every reset.

The same pattern, looping like an infinity symbol.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡

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© jungkoode 2025

Your morning didn’t begin the way it usually did — not with your alarm, also not with your boyfriend’s grumpy groan about it being too early.

Instead, it started with a soft, startled “oof” beside you… followed by a loud, vibrating purr and an indignant little mrrrow.

“Good morning to you too, Tang-ah,” Yoongi rasped, his voice thick with sleep and fond exasperation. “You trying to assassinate me before breakfast?”

You blinked blearily, still half cocooned in blankets, and reached out blindly from your warm nest of sheets. Your fingers met sleek fur almost immediately. You threaded them through it, slow and lazy, and Tang’s purring deepened into something that felt like it could power a small engine.

The cat was perched triumphantly on Yoongi’s lower stomach, kneading with determined little paws like he was working dough.

You smiled into the pillow and shuffled closer to Yoongi’s warmth, draping yourself partly over his side.

“Told you he could open doors now,” you murmured sleepily. “Our boy is a genius, aren’t you, Tangie? Smartest in the whole house.”

You scratched under Tang’s chin, and he tipped his head back dramatically, soaking up the attention like royalty. His paws continued their rhythmic kneading, entirely unapologetic.

Yoongi’s quiet chuckle vibrated through his chest beneath you. You rolled onto your back to stretch, immediately regretting the movement when Tang transferred his full weight onto you with zero hesitation, absolutely baited into it by your oh so loving boyfriend.

“Yoon,” you protested weakly as the cat settled squarely on your chest like he’d claimed new territory.

“What?” Yoongi shot back, already throwing the blankets off himself. “He was making those biscuits on my bladder. I was two seconds from pissing myself. It was survival. All is fair in cat parenting my love”

He swung his legs out of bed, shuffling toward the ensuite with a sigh and stretch. “You deal with him. He’s your son now.”

You snorted softly and relented, bringing both hands up to scratch behind Tang’s ears. He immediately began kneading again, this time with far too much enthusiasm and absolutely no respect for personal space.

“Ow, that was my nipple!,” you muttered fondly as his paws pressed into your chest. “You have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

Tang answered by purring louder and kneading harder.

From the bathroom, Yoongi’s voice floated back, amused. “He learned that from you.”

You laughed quietly, carding your fingers through Tang’s fur as sunlight began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in warmth. The sheets were soft, the cat was smug, and the faint sound of Yoongi moving around the bathroom grounded everything in that gentle, lived-in way that made mornings feel nice.

You closed your eyes again with a contented sigh, trusting in the universal law of cats — once they had decided you were boring, they would move on to their next conquest. Sure enough, Tang abandoned you within seconds, hopping down from the bed with a purposeful flick of his tail.

“Off to commit crimes, my child” you murmured. “Probably going to scam your grandmother out of treats for breakfast, huh?.”

If you had to bet, he was already halfway down the hall, rehearsing his most pitiful meow.

The mattress dipped beside you again and before you could react, strong arms wrapped around your waist and dragged you backward. You squealed softly as Yoongi pulled you flush against his chest, his warmth enveloping you. He nipped playfully at your shoulder before pressing slow kisses there instead, his lips lingering against your skin.

“Hey,” you laughed breathlessly.

His hand slipped beneath your sleep shirt, warm palm settling just under your chest. The contact made you chuckle, half from surprise, half from the familiar comfort of him.

“Hhmm?” he hummed innocently into your neck.

“Oh nothing,” you said lightly, nudging his wrist with your fingers. “Just thinking your son learned that move from you.”

Yoongi’s face lit up with a wicked little grin as he lifted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. He buried his face back into your neck, planting another kiss there, slower this time.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ll behave.”

You felt the words more than heard them.

His hand stilled, resting comfortably instead of wandering, and his voice softened when he asked, “What are your plans for today?”

You groaned a dramatic little sound then rolled onto your side so you could face him. “I have to edit the photos from the Allen wedding, make a start on putting together their album and slideshow… and I’ve also got some emails I’ve been pretending don’t exist.”

You cupped his cheek and kissed him, slow and lingering. “I should probably start editing soon, but what about you, my love? Off to the studio to be a musical genius and lyrical mastermind?”

You grinned when his cheeks flushed pink immediately.

“Hajima,” he muttered, scrunching his nose before the shy smile returned. But then his expression shifted — the teasing softness fading into something more thoughtful. His brows knit slightly as he hesitated.

“I will be… for a bit,” he said carefully. “But… I was also thinking I might go live today.”

You tilted your head. “Live?”

“Yeah,” he nodded faintly. “Maybe when I’m home… or maybe at the studio.”

His voice was quieter now, less certain. He stared at the pillow for a moment before glancing back at you.

“With one of the boys?” you prompted gently.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “By myself.”

Your heart tightened at that. You could see it now — the nerves tucked beneath his calm, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly against the sheets. It wasn’t fear of ARMY. Never them. It was the weight of time, the vulnerability of showing himself again alone, without the comfort of his six brothers, after so long.

You smiled and ran your thumb slowly across his cheek, grounding him. “You know they’ve missed you.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just… haven’t done it like that in a while.”

His eyes lifted to yours, searching.

“Baby,” you whispered with a small grin, “you don’t have to stay long. You could just say hi, show them you’re alive and still handsome.”

He snorted. “Handsome?”

“Devastatingly,” you corrected.

That finally earned you a real smile, slow and fond. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Will you watch?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “I’ll even be the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat.”

He kissed you then with a chuckle, gentle and grateful, his arms tightening around you as sunlight crept higher across the bed and the quiet hum of the house wrapped around you both.

Somewhere down the hall, Tang yowled dramatically.

You both sighed.

“See?” you murmured. “Already practicing for his drama debut.”

Breakfast was a quick, lazy affair — toast, sliced fruit, and a few stolen kisses before you finally sent him out the door. You watched Yoongi tug his jacket on, hair still soft and a little wild from sleep, before you pressed one last kiss to his lips and waved him off.

“Don’t forget to eat,” you called after him.

“I won’t forget, and don’t try to act like you're not as bad” he shot back with a grin.

The door clicked shut, leaving the apartment wrapped in a peaceful quiet. Almost immediately, soft paws thudded down the hallway behind you.

You smiled. “Of course you’re coming too.”

Tang followed you like a shadow into your office. You pushed the door open and crossed straight to the window, pulling the blinds up and letting the honeyed morning light spill across the room. Dust motes danced in it, turning the space warm and alive.

“Okay, Tang,” you murmured as you set your coffee beside your laptop and dropped into your chair. “Mumma needs to lock the fuck in on these photos.”

He jumped onto the desk with a soft thump and headbutted your chin in agreement.

Before booting up your laptop, you took a second to glance around the room — and your gaze softened when it landed on your favorite photo frame. Yoongi’s gummy smile was frozen there forever, joy written all over his face as he watched his brother marry the love of his life. You’d taken it without thinking, just another candid moment from the wedding… never knowing it would be the moment that quietly tied your lives together.

That was how you and Yoongi had met — photographing his brother’s wedding.

But that is a story for another day.

You opened your software and spent the first hour answering inquiries and booking new weddings, then finally pulled up the album you planned to work on today. The newlyweds filled your screen — the groom looking at his bride like she’d hung the moon, eyes bright with awe as they cut the cake.

Your chest warmed.

“Definitely going in the album, huh, Tang-ah,” you mused.

Your sentence was punctuated by a solid headbutt to your jaw.

“Violent agreement. Got it.”

You lost track of time after that, sinking into your editing flow — adjusting contrast, fiddling around with grayscale,  softening colors, cropping just right. The only interruptions were the soft click of your mouse, the faint hum of the apartment, and the steady ping of your phone as Yoongi sent updates from the studio.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : This song we’re working on… it’s so good.

You smiled instantly.

Y/N: Send me a snippet!

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Nope. you have to wait like everyone else, baby.

You scoffed aloud, already picturing the smug grin he’d be wearing.

Y/N: Even though I’m sleeping with one of the producers?? rude. What kind of non-perks are these Min!!! 

You hit send with a shake of your head, imagining the fond eye-roll he’d give his phone.

Eventually, your stomach betrayed you with an unmistakable growl.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Lunch time i guess, damn.”

It took about five seconds to decide ‘absolutely not’ to cooking. You grabbed your phone, opened the food delivery app, and ordered gimbap and another coffee for yourself — then added a second order for Yoongi to be delivered to the studio without even thinking about it.

You plucked a few strawberries from the fridge to tide yourself over and padded out into the living room, stretching your back out with a groan.

“I really need to fix my posture,” you scolded yourself. “I sit like a shrimp.”

Tang followed, tail flicking as you collapsed onto the couch and scrolled through Netflix, not really watching anything.

A little bit later your mouth full of food your phone buzzed again.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Thank you, for the coffee and gimbap my love.

Your lips curved immediately.

Y/N: you’re welcome baby, I even ordered the americano decaf for you and your old man stomach, oh sweet love of my life.

A pause.

Then—

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Old man?! I am four months older than you…

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Great now JK is calling me old man I hate you.

You laughed.

Y/N: No you don’t.

You were left on read.

You shook your head fondly, setting your phone down as Tang hopped up beside you and curled into your thigh.

“Bubs?” you told him. “Your dad is dramatic.”

Tang blinked slowly.

The apartment stayed quiet, warm with sunlight and the faint promise of delivery bags and new music somewhere across the city.

By the time you finally surfaced from your editing software again, your eyes felt dry and your shoulders ached in that familiar I’ve been sitting too long way. A decent portion of the album was finished, the rest of the photos neatly tagged and waiting for tomorrow. You saved everything with a satisfied hum and pushed your chair back just as—

Tang suddenly shot out of the room like he’d been fired from a cannon.

You grinned instantly.

The electronic lock disengaged with its familiar chirp, followed by a soft, fond voice from the hallway.

“Yeah, Tang-ah… Dad’s home.”

The loudest, most content meow Tang had made all day rang through the apartment, followed by frantic little paws skidding across the floor.

“Y/N, I’m home!”

“In my office, sweetheart,” you called back, glancing at the clock.

Fuck.

Had it really gotten that late?

You rolled your shoulders, wincing, just as warm hands settled on them and began kneading gently. A startled breath left you before melting into a soft sigh.

“And you have the nerve to get on my ass about my posture,” Yoongi murmured by your ear.

You hummed and reached back, fingers sliding into his long dark hair. You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m merely helping out the elderly.”

You barely had time to snicker before he pinched your hip lightly.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered, affection thick in his voice.

You turned in your chair fully to face him, as he leaned against your desk while Tang circled his ankles like a tiny bodyguard. Yoongi launched into stories from the studio — how everyone was buzzing because the album finally sounded finished, how Hobi had been utterly clowned by Jimin, Jungkook, and Jin for getting confused over the Super Tuna dance.

“Oh, they’ll never let him live that down,” you laughed. “Hobi’s gonna be out for blood next practice.”

“Exactly why I’m skipping it,” Yoongi said with a grin.

Then he hesitated.

You saw it immediately — the way his shoulders lifted slightly, the way his fingers flexed against the desk.

“Um… do you mind if I use the media room and go live?”

You didn’t even blink. “Baby, it’s your house too. You don’t have to ask.”

His shoulders dropped in relief.

“If we bring Tang in here,” you added. “I’ll keep him occupied. I’ll just shut the door and we can be quiet as a mouse, we will watch on my phone while I finish these last edits.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly. “You’re gonna do great.”

His lips curved against yours, that shy little smile you loved.

“Your glasses are still on the nightstand, by the way!” you called as he headed for the hall.

He lifted a hand in a wave without turning back.

Tang immediately tried to follow him.

“Oh no you don’t,” you said, scooping the cat up mid-betrayal. “Your dad has a very important celebrity thing to do.”

Tang yowled in protest as you shut the door.

You settled back into your chair with the cat in your lap, phone already in hand as you reopened your editing software. Through the closed media room door, you heard faint movement — the scrape of a chair, the soft click of a lamp.

A moment later, the Weverse notification lit up your screen.

쇼가 is live

Your heart fluttered as you tapped into Weverse, propping your phone against your now-empty coffee cup. The screen loaded and—

God.

God he looked so soft it almost hurt.

Dark hair still fluffy from the day, falling gently around his face, the black shirt fitting him criminally well. For a second he just sat there, blinking at the camera, clearly trying to convince himself this was a normal thing to do again.

Then he frowned.

Squinted.

Lifted the phone closer to his face.

“…Ah.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks ached.

He muttered something about his eyesight, fiddled with his hair, then leaned out of frame.

“I’ll be right back.”

You sighed fondly into the quiet office, hearing him move down the hallway picturing his little grandpa shuffle as he searched for his glasses.

“I told you where they were, idiot.” You whispered fondly

On screen, he came back wearing them, immediately looking more put-together and somehow even softer.

He talked about the cold weather first — the safe topic — brushing his bangs back, glancing nervously at the comments, squinting again.

“Why can’t I see the words very well?”

You scoffed quietly. “Old man.”

Comforted by the sound of his deep voice filling the apartment, you turned back to your editing. You adjusted contrast on a photo of the bridal party, smiled at how perfectly the sun caught the bride’s veil, and glanced over at Tang just to be sure.

He was sprawled across his cat tower like a loaf of burnt bread, tail flicking lazily.

“Good,” you whispered. “Stay.”

You dove back into your work, slipping into that familiar focused trance. Yoongi’s voice hummed in the background as he thanked ARMY for waiting, said he’d missed them, promised music soon.

You were so close to finishing.

Then—

“Mrrrow.”

Your heart dropped.

You snapped your head up.

The cat tower was empty.

You whipped around to the office door.

Now opened a fraction.

…Which meant he was surely already in the hallway.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

You froze in your chair, mind racing. You couldn’t go after him — not without making noise, not without being heard. You risked a glance at your phone just in time to see Yoongi’s expression change.

First: surprise.

Next: resignation.

Finally: pure fondness.

He looked and scoffed like a man who knew exactly what was happening, and accepted it.

“Tang,” he called gently.

Your stomach flipped.

“Mrrrow.”

“Yes. Today,” Yoongi said with a sigh. “Yes, Tang. Come on air today.”

You stared in horror as your cat was lifted into frame like a furry offering to the internet. You watched as Min Yoongi, world renowned artist, producer and rapper. Introduced your cat to the world with the most endeared smile, like he was the proudest millennial cat dad alive.

“This is Tang,” he said, smiling as Tang immediately demanded tummy rubs. “He’s… very loud.”

Tang rewarded him by screaming.

Yoongi chuckled and scratched under his chin. Then he frowned slightly and began patting Tang’s neck.

“Wait… where is your bell?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

No.

He disappeared off screen for half a second and reappeared holding it.

That stupid bell. So stupid it was adorable.

The tiny, ridiculous, baby chick-shaped bell you had bought at three in the morning because it was cute, yellow and absolutely unnecessary, and that alone made it necessary.

He fastened it back around Tang’s neck proudly.

“There,” he said, smiling like he’d accomplished something great.

Your heart fluttered painfully as he explained how he had originally wanted two cats — one named Sol and one Tang — but couldn’t. How Tang’s dad had been a street cat. How Tang could open doors. How smart he was.

You sank back into your chair, watching the screen with a hand still over your mouth.

Tang fussed in Yoongi’s arms, tail swishing, meowing indignantly. Yoongi answered every sound with hums and a little smile, rubbing his belly, patting his back.

Then came the butt pats.

Firm. Proud. Repetitive.

Tang melted into it instantly demanding more.

The rest of the live passed like a blur — Yoongi talking about music, Tang interrupting, Yoongi telling ARMY even more things about that menace of a beautiful cat.

You watched the whole thing from your desk, heart warm, eyes soft, knowing you would never tease him about this…

…Out loud, anyway.

When the live finally ended, you didn’t move right away.

You just stared at the black screen for a second and whispered:

“I love you, you ridiculous man.”

From down the hall, you heard:

“Mrrrow.”

And then Yoongi’s voice:

“Don’t try and act innocent now Tang-ah.”

Moving on instinct alone, you slipped out of your office and padded down the hallway, apology already forming on your lips.

“Yoon— baby, I am so sorry,” you said softly, poking your head into the media room with your hands clasped in front of you. “I only looked away for a second to fix the contrast on this picture and—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

He was already smiling.

Tang was curled up in his lap like he’d been there all along, a black ball of fur rising and falling with slow, satisfied breaths. A deep purr vibrated through the quiet room, loud enough that you felt it before you fully heard it.

“He just missed his dad,” Yoongi added gently, running his hand down Tang’s back.

Your chest tightened.

“I should’ve noticed him opening the door,” you said, stepping fully inside and lowering yourself beside him on the couch. “I really am sorry.”

Yoongi shook his head. “He… actually helped calm my nerves.” He glanced at you then, eyes soft as they traced your face. “So it worked out.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning into him. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat, for what it’s worth.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and slid your fingers into Tang’s fur, scratching lightly behind his ear.

Yoongi’s body shook with silent laughter, his arm coming around you automatically.

“Traitor,” he murmured fondly.

For a moment, you just stayed there — the three of you tucked into the quiet aftermath of something that had felt big something vulnerable and somehow small all at once.

You thought, not for the first time, that life couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

A boyfriend who loved you deeply.

A cat who loved you both loudly.

And a home that felt warm in every sense of the word.

Tang shifted slightly, stretching one paw out experimentally until it rested against your leg, as if testing whether he could still charm you too.

Your heart melted.

“Look at him,” you whispered. “He’s deciding if I’m worthy.”

“He is very selective,” Yoongi agreed solemnly.

You smiled into his shoulder, eyes drifting shut.

What you couldn’t know — what you had no way of knowing yet — was that hidden away in the safe at Genius Lab was a small velvet ring box. Waiting patiently. Quietly. Full of promises to make life even sweeter.

But that is a story for another day.

For now, you had this moment.

⠀ix.but here i blur into you - before & always. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!yoongi, visions of maybes. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!jungkook, the game of certainty. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!namjoon, the foundation of love. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!hoseok, between ribbons and gold. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!jimin, all the light in your heart. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!seokjin, always leveling up. ⠀⠀⠀childhood-friend!taehyung, closer to the beginning.

⠀x.softer than the stars - secrets of you. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!yoongi, drops of hearts. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!jungkook, promise of feathers & you. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!namjoon, all the heartfelt hope. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!hoseok, the loss of loneliness. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!jimin, stars in the bright sky. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!seokjin, the definition of you. ⠀⠀⠀best-friend!taehyung, tenderness at the fingertips.

⠀xi.where the sun meets wildflowers - i am there. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!yoongi, classes of love poems. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!jungkook, a lesson on devotion. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!namjoon, flowers of knowledge. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!hoseok, semesters of passion. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!jimin, to be added. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!seokjin, to be added. ⠀⠀⠀highschool-sweetheart!taehyung, to be added.

⠀xii.all love is an attempt to live - to be added.

One would think after however many centuries (millennia? does it even matter when one stopped counting somewhere around timeline 337 after you figured out pulses existed and explained them like they were the most obvious thing in the world?), he’d have experienced every flavor of suffering the universe could devise.

Turns out there’s always room for innovation.

The headache’s worse this time. Exponentially worse, which doesn’t make sense because exponential growth should plateau eventually, right? Physics should intervene. Reality should say enough.

But apparently withdrawal doesn’t give a fuck about physics or reality or his desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this reset would hurt less than the last sixteen.

He blinks at the pod’s ceiling.

Curved polymer panels. LED strips embedded in the isolation seal. The persistent hum of Jin’s cobbled-together life support system—half stolen CHRONOS medical tech, half underground resistance engineering, fully excessive in its thoroughness.

There are tubes in his mouth. Nose too. He’s pretty sure Jin’s shoved tubes into every viable orifice and invented a few new ones just to be thorough. Electromagnetic stabilization bands wrap his wrists, his chest, probably his ankles though he can’t quite feel those yet.

The whole setup screams ‘prepared for catastrophic system failure’, which would be touching if it wasn’t so goddamn insulting.

Part of him—the leader part, the one that’s supposed to be grateful and magnanimous—wants to thank Jin for his foresight.

The other part—the one that’s been awake for three seconds and already wants to go back to unconsciousness—wants to ask Jin when exactly he lost faith that this timeline would be different.

He’s gonna do both.

If Jin doesn’t lecture him to death first.

“Finally awake.”

Yoongi doesn’t move.

Because moving requires effort, and effort requires acknowledging he’s conscious, and acknowledging consciousness means Jin gets to do his whole ‘I-told-you-so’ routine that Yoongi has heard in seventeen different variations across seventeen identical fuckups.

If he stays very still, maybe his eyeballs just opened on their own. Involuntary muscle spasms. Happens all the time in coma patients, right?

“Stop faking unconsciousness.” Jin’s voice carries that particular brand of exasperation reserved for people who’ve known each other too long. “Your heart rate spiked when you woke up.”

Shit.

“You’re brilliant with temporal mechanics,” Jin continues, and Yoongi can hear him moving closer—the shuffle of lab coat, the soft beep of monitoring equipment that wasn’t designed for this but works anyway because Jin’s good at improvising. “Absolute genius at timeline manipulation. But you’re still horrible at playing dead.”

Yoongi shoves the tube out of his mouth with more force than necessary.

It catches on his teeth, scrapes the back of his throat, and he chokes on the sudden influx of air that tastes like recycled oxygen and medical-grade disappointment.

“Didn’t ask for your opinion,” he rasps.

“No, you asked for seventeen rounds of the same self-destructive bullshit.” Jin appears in his peripheral vision through the pod’s transparent side panel, arms crossed, looking like he hasn’t slept since the last timeline. Maybe longer. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Fantastic.” Yoongi’s voice sounds like he gargled gravel. “Never better. Might take up competitive withdrawal as a hobby.”

“Funny.” Jin doesn’t sound amused. He sounds like he’s one smartass comment away from strangling Yoongi with medical tubing. “On a scale of one to ten—”

“A thousand.”

“That’s not how scales work.”

“Then stop asking stupid questions.” Yoongi finally turns his head—mistake, massive mistake, the world tilts sideways and his brain sloshes around like it’s liquid—and glares at Jin through the pod’s polymer wall. “How long was I out?”

“37 pulses. So 15 hours, give or take—if CHRONOS didn’t manipulate anything.”

“Mission?”

“Successful. Harrison’s research data secured. No casualties.”

The relief that floods through him has weight, makes his chest feel less tight despite the tubes and the bands and the general sense that his body’s been through a temporal blender.

“Good.”

“Good,” Jin repeats, and something in his tone shifts. Hardens. “You collapsed in the middle of an active extraction zone. She teleported you both here without even knowing what she was doing, and Jimin—”

“But I didn’t die.”

“You didn’t die,” Jin confirms, and there’s something sharp lodged in those words. Relief, maybe. Fury, definitely. Probably both fighting for dominance. “Congratulations on that bare minimum achievement.”

“Thanks. Very proud of myself.”

“You should be. Most people don’t survive seventeen timelines of compounded cellular addiction without medical intervention.” Jin leans closer to the pod’s control panel, and Yoongi can see the exhaustion carved into his features like someone took a scalpel to them. “Which brings us to the part where you let me actually help you instead of white-knuckling through withdrawal like a martyr with a death wish.”

“Can’t die, remember?” Yoongi’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “Wouldn’t even get that relief.”

“I’m aware.” Jin’s jaw tightens. “Trust me, the irony of treating someone who’s biologically incapable of dying from the thing that’s killing them is not lost on me.”

Yoongi wants to laugh, but his ribs hurt and his head’s still doing that pounding thing, so he settles for a grimace that might charitably be called a smile.

“So what’s the damage report?”

“The usual. Neurotransmitter depletion, synaptic misfiring, temporal signature fluctuations that made our equipment think we were being invaded by a small army.” Jin taps something on a holographic display projected above the pod. “Your cellular receptors are screaming for contact. Early stages, but building fast.”

There it is.

The want.

Not the normal kind—not the soul-deep ache of loving someone across impossible distances, not the yearning that comes from watching you exist in a reality where you don’t remember him.

That’s old pain, familiar pain, the kind he’s learned to carry like a skeleton.

This is different.

This is physical. Chemical. A tingling need that sits just under his skin like static electricity, making everything feel wrong, too tight, not enough.

It’s manageable right now, barely noticeable under the headache and the general sense that his body’s staging a coup, but he knows how this goes.

Two weeks, maybe three if he’s lucky, before the craving becomes unbearable.

A month before he’s climbing the walls.

Six weeks before his temporal control starts fracturing at the edges, time bending around his desperation like light around a black hole.

“So we manage it,” Jin continues, and his voice drops into that careful register that means he’s about to suggest something Yoongi won’t like. “Small touches. Controlled exposure. We’ve done this before—”

“No.”

“Yoongi—”

“I said no.” He forces himself to look at Jin, to meet his eyes through the polymer with enough conviction that the argument dies before it starts. “I’m staying away from her for as long as I possibly can.”

Jin’s expression cycles through several emotions too fast to catalog.

Frustration. Disbelief. Something that might be resigned acceptance.

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s final.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way. The longer you avoid contact, the worse the crash when it inevitably happens. It’ll still end up with you and her and the lounge room smelling like—”

“Then I’ll deal with the crash.” Yoongi interrupts. “I’m not ruining her chances again.”

“Her chances at what? Existing in blissful ignorance while you fall apart?”

“Her chances at a timeline where she doesn’t spend every waking moment managing my dependencies.” The words taste bitter. “She deserves better than being my walking fix.”

Jin stares at him for a long moment, and something in his expression softens.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Noted.”

“A self-sacrificing idiot with martyr tendencies.”

“Also noted.”

Jin runs both hands through his hair, and Yoongi notices how much grayer it’s gotten.

Temporal stress, probably.

Or just stress-stress.

Hard to tell the difference anymore.

“You’re being—” Jin cuts himself off, jaw working.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Raw.

“I’m a memory scientist, Yoongi, not a doctor. I learned how to stop your seizures from Namjoon’s stolen medical files. I figured out neurotransmitter dosing through trial and error because we can’t exactly smuggle in doctors without CHRONOS noticing the temporal signatures, and anyone with the clearance to treat you would also have the clearance to report you.”

“Which is why I need someone I can trust.” He replies. “Which is you. And you’re doing great.”

“I’m doing the minimum.” Jin’s voice cracks slightly. “Which is why you need to let me actually implement proper treatment protocols instead of pretending you can willpower your way through cellular addiction.”

“Treatment dulls my abilities.”

“Negligibly—”

“Any amount is too much.” Yoongi finally manages to shift in the pod, ignoring how the world sways and his stomach threatens revolt. “I’m actively maintaining this HQ as a temporal blind spot, Seokjin. Every pulse. If I slip for even a moment—”

“You’ve been doing that for timelines. Plural. Your temporal abilities have expanded into territory that makes CHRONOS’s detection grids look like children’s toys.” Jin leans against the pod’s exterior, voice dropping. “You maintain the blind spot naturally now. Like breathing. Your power scale and your control over it is frankly terrifying, so let me help you.”

“No.”

“Yoongi—”

“When you have power this massive, you have responsibility this massive.” Yoongi meets his eyes, holds the contact until Jin looks away first. “A single percentage point of reduced control could mean the difference between this HQ staying hidden and CHRONOS finding us. I can’t—I won’t—risk everyone here because I’m too weak to handle withdrawal.”

The silence stretches.

Jin breaks it with something between a sigh and a groan, the sound of someone who’s had this argument seventeen times and lost every single one.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m smart.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“Also smart.”

“At least—” Jin’s voice takes on a pleading edge that makes Yoongi’s chest tighten. “At least let me regulate your neural chemistry. Small doses, just enough to take the edge off.”

“No.”

“Yoongi.”

“I said no, Seokjin.”

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” Jin’s voice climbs, and there’s something sharp underneath—not quite anger, more like desperation wrapped in exasperation. “The cellular dependency is already reactivated. Your receptors are firing. In two weeks you’re going to be feeling—”

“Feeling what?”

The words come out flat. Cold.

Jin stops mid-sentence, mouth still open on whatever medical terminology he was about to throw like it would make a difference.

Yoongi shifts against the pod’s padding, and the tubes pull at his skin in ways that make everything worse.

The headache’s still there, pounding away like it’s got a personal vendetta, and underneath it all is that other thing.

“You want to talk about feeling?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Really?”

“Yoongi—”

“It feels like I wanna crawl out of my fucking skin.” His voice tightens. “Peel it off in strips and burn it. Just to make the static stop.”

Jin goes still.

“Right now? It’s mild. Manageable. Just this—” Yoongi gestures vaguely at his chest, his arms, everywhere. “—tingling. Like my whole body’s asleep but I can still feel it. Every pulse. Every second she’s not in my line of sight, there’s this hollow spot right here—”

He presses his palm flat against his sternum, hard enough it hurts.

“—and it gets deeper. Every pulse, it caves in further. Like my chest is collapsing inward and there’s no bottom to it. Just keeps going and going until I can’t fucking breathe without feeling the absence.”

Jin’s jaw works. “Yoongi—”

“I’m not done.”

His hand drops. Curls into a fist against his thigh.

“That’s now. Two weeks from now? A month? I know exactly how this goes. I’ve lived it seventeen times, Seokjin. Seventeen.”

He spits the number like it’s poison.

“It starts with the tingling. Then the hollow feeling. Then it gets worse—my temperature spikes, can’t regulate it anymore. Start sweating through my clothes. Can’t sleep. Can’t think. Every thought loops back to her. ‘Where is she. What’s she doing. Does she need me. Is she safe’.”

Jin tries to interrupt. “That’s why we need to—”

“Then it gets worse.” Yoongi talks over him and doesn’t care. “Can’t maintain focus. Timeline calculations start slipping. Reality bleeds at the edges because my control’s fracturing. And the want—”

His voice cracks.

“—the want becomes this living thing under my skin. Not emotional want. Physical. Cellular. Every nerve ending screaming for contact. Her hands. Her skin. The quantum transfer that’ll make it stop.”

He’s breathing hard now, and he knows Jin can see it—the slight tremor in his hands, the way his pupils are too dilated, the flush climbing up his neck.

“And you know what the worst part is? I know where it ends. I’ve been there. Multiple times.”

“Yoongi, you need to—”

“It ends with me needing her bare hands on me every waking moment. Her nails down my back just to feel something real. Needing to be inside her, fucking her, just to get thirty minutes of relief before the craving starts again.”

Jin flinches.

“That’s the endgame, Seokjin. That’s where this goes if I don’t control it. So don’t—”

Yoongi’s voice climbs, louder, sharper.

“—don’t you dare lecture me about what I’m feeling or how the loop works or what I should do about it.”

“I’m trying to help you manage—”

“I don’t want your fucking management!”

The shout echoes off the lab walls.

Jin’s makeshift equipment hums nervously—research computers mixing with stolen medical monitors, temporal analysis screens next to IV drip regulators.

Something flickers—just for a second—in the LED panels overhead.

“I don’t want dampeners. I don’t want synthetic neurotransmitters. I don’t want any of your band-aid solutions that’ll just make me weaker when I need to be strongest.”

“You can’t just power through cellular addiction.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re being reckless—”

“I’m being a leader!” Yoongi’s fist slams against the pod’s interior wall, and the impact reverberates through the isolation chamber. “This is my body. My issue. My responsibility. Not yours. Not hers. Mine.”

“And what happens when you can’t maintain the blind spot anymore?” Jin’s voice rises to match his. “When your control slips because you’re too busy fighting withdrawal to focus? When CHRONOS finds us because you were too stubborn to accept help?”

“That won’t happen—”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know my limits—”

“Your limits change every timeline!” Jin’s hands clench at his sides. “Each reset makes it worse. You know this. I have the data. The progression accelerates—”

“Then I’ll adapt—”

“You can’t adapt your way out of biology!”

“I can—”

“No, you can’t! You’re not invincible, Yoongi. You’re not—”

“I’m all we have!”

The words hang there, raw and desperate.

“I’m all we have,” Yoongi repeats, quieter now but no less intense. “I’m the Time Anchor. I maintain the blind spot. I coordinate timeline jumps. I keep everyone here safe from CHRONOS detection. If I’m compromised—if my abilities are dulled by even a fraction—people die.”

“If you collapse from withdrawal, people die anyway.”

“I won’t collapse.”

“You don’t know—”

“I know!”

Yoongi’s voice cracks again, and something in the air shifts.

The equipment stops humming.

Not powered down—just frozen. Caught mid-cycle like reality itself decided to hold its breath.

Jin’s eyes go wide. “Yoongi—”

“I know exactly how much pain I can take.” His voice drops to something barely human. “I’ve had centuries to learn my threshold. And trust me when I say I’m nowhere near it yet.”

The temperature drops three degrees in two seconds.

“So you’re going to stop suggesting treatments that’ll weaken me.”

Another degree colder.

“You’re going to stop acting like I don’t understand my own body.”

The LED panels flicker.

Once.

Twice.

“And you’re going to accept that I’d rather claw my way through withdrawal than risk everyone here because I lose a shred of control over my abilities for five fucking seconds.”

Jin doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at him with something that might be fear or awe or exhausted recognition.

A beat of silence snaps him into focus.

Yoongi realizes what he’s done.

The room isn’t just cold—it’s temporally frozen. Not fully, but enough.

Every piece of equipment caught in a half-second loop, repeating the same microsecond of operation over and over.

The air itself feels thick, resistant to movement.

He exhales slowly, forces his control to release.

Reality snaps back. Equipment resumes its normal rhythm. Temperature stabilizes. The temporal weight lifts like someone opened a pressure valve.

Jin’s still staring.

“I’m fine,” Yoongi says, which is a lie and they both know it.

“That was—”

“Nothing. Just a slip.”

“That was your power spiking because you’re too unstable to—”

“I said I’m fine.”

Yoongi reaches for the tubes—all of them at once.

His right hand moves precisely through the pod’s internal access ports, touching the nasal cannula, the IV line, the monitoring cables.

His temporal control flows through the contact points.

The equipment doesn’t just disconnect—it reverts.

Molecular structures scroll backward through their manufacturing process. Plastic becomes petroleum becomes ancient organic matter. Metal becomes ore becomes elemental composition.

The tubes dissolve in his grip, breaking down into component atoms. whilst the entire reinforced containment shell crumples backward through its own existence until the entire thing simply drops out of the present moment.

One blink ago, Yoongi was sealed inside a CHRONOS-grade stasis pod.

Now he is standing in open air on the lab floor, surrounded by a faint ring of evaporating pre-matter.

The pod is gone.

Four seconds of timeline manipulation applied to localized matter.

Jin’s mouth falls open. “How—”

“Physics.”

His head’s still pounding. The tingling under his skin has gotten worse from the power usage.

But he stands anyway, locks his knees, and glares at Jin with every ounce of authority he’s got left.

“And before you panic,” he mutters, breath tight as he takes one slow step back, “I’m putting it back.”

He lifts his hand and reality folds inward. Matter streams forward in time, reconstructing itself along its original manufacturing path, and in less than two seconds the entire pod reassembles exactly where it had been—completely intact and spotless as if Jin had just finished building it five minutes ago.

Restored.

Rebuilt.

Empty.

So, in short, exactly how he needed it.

Jin just stares.

“I’m the one who taught you timeline theory, remember? Matter reversal is basic-level manipulation,” Yoongi sighs.

“That was at least fifty kilograms of equipment—”

“Fifty-three point two.” Yoongi moves past the pod, toward the lab’s main exit, each step measured despite how much effort it takes. “And I did it while experiencing active withdrawal symptoms. So maybe trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“Yoongi—”

“We’re done here.”

He reaches the door—the one that separates Jin’s lab from the rest of HQ, the one with triple-encrypted locks that Jin installed himself because someone needs proper workspace security.

His hand’s shaking slightly when it hits the panel, but the door opens anyway.

“Get some sleep, Jin. You look like shit.”

Then he’s out, moving through the corridor with purpose he doesn’t quite feel, leaving Jin standing in his lab full of mysteriously refurbished equipment and probably about seven new data points about temporal manipulation under physiological stress.

And somewhere three levels up, you exist—breathing, moving, unaware that every pulse you spend not touching him makes the hollow spot in his chest sink deeper.

But he’s the leader.

So he walks away.

Something soft and impossibly warm ghosts across your cheek.

Your eyes open—slow blink, then faster processing as the image resolves into fur and faint glow and a creature that shouldn't exist outside theoretical discussions about metaphysical manifestation.

A wolf.

Or the spirit of one, if your visual cortex isn't experiencing localized hallucination.

You sit up carefully, noting how the creature doesn't startle or retreat. Just watches you with eyes lit from within by a soft, translucent glow, head tilted in what your brain categorizes as curiosity.

The wolf nudges your arm with her muzzle.

A clear prompt. Invitation to interaction.

So you comply, extending your hand toward the ethereal fur—and your analytical centers stutter when your fingers make contact with warmth. Actual thermal sensation despite the fact that your hand phases partially through the spirit's form, your skin rendered translucent against the soft light.

Fascinating.

The texture registers as real—soft guard hairs over dense undercoat, the slight give of muscle beneath—even though the physics of the interaction violate every principle of solid matter contact.

You continue petting the wolf while cataloging the contradiction between sensory input and visual evidence.

"She's always been very fond of you, you know."

Your head snaps up.

Hoseok leans against the column with arms crossed, smile warm enough to make the natural detachment of your analytical processes feel almost inadequate. Behind him, Jimin stands before a long mirror, fingers working through pink hair with devoted attention.

"The wolf," Hoseok clarifies, pushing off the wall to move closer. "Kali. You named her, actually. Timeline 289, I think? Maybe 290."

Your hand stills mid-stroke. "I named her."

"Mhm. Said she reminded you of the Hindu goddess—destruction and creation, chaos and order." His expression softens further. "You've always had a thing for paradoxes."

Kali—because apparently that's her designation now—huffs and butts her head against your palm with more insistence.

"Why is she doing the whole tragic heroine thing, sleeping through the best part of the day?"Jimin's voice carries from the mirror, pitched just loud enough to ensure you hear the commentary.

He tilts his head, examining his reflection thoroughly before reaching for something that looks like cosmetic enhancement.

"It's 1:39 AM," you observe. "Hardly qualifies as day by standard temporal measurements."

"It's 1:39 AM and you've been unconscious since 10 PM like some kind of hibernating mammal." Jimin applies whatever product he's holding with efficiency. "Meanwhile, we have exactly twenty-one minutes until the 25th hour starts and Jungkook will not shut the fuck up about you experiencing it properly with the full team."

"Define 'properly.'"

"Conscious would be a start." Jimin turns from the mirror, and his eyes find you with the kind of assessment usually reserved for threat evaluation. "Dressed would be better. Actually participating instead of sleeping through freedom like it's a fucking nap opportunity would be ideal."

You process this while noting how Hoseok's smile gains an edge of fond exasperation.

"Jimin wants you to enjoy the 25th hour," Hoseok translates. "It's the only hour where we get to exist without surveillance, without fear, without any of the bullshit that makes being an Outlier a constant exercise in survival."

"Jungkook, not me. I spent three hours putting together cold weather outfits for everyone because the temperature drops during the hour and I refuse to let anyone look like a gremlin on my watch." Jimin's tone carries the particular sharpness of someone who takes fashion very seriously. "Self-care is resistance, and I intend to look good while resisting."

"That's very—"

"Is that Hobi's shirt."

The question lands with enough force to make Kali's ears flatten.

You glance down at the oversized grey t-shirt you're wearing, then back up at Jimin's face, which has shifted into something dangerously focused.

"I... didn't verify ownership before selecting sleepwear," you say carefully. "The fabric composition suggested comfort optimization for rest periods."

"The fabric composition." Jimin repeats each word slowly "You're wearing my boyfriend's shirt because of fabric composition."

Your analytical centers flag this as problematic but can't quite parse why the clothing origin matters when the functional purpose remains unchanged.

"I can remove it if the ownership designation creates issue—"

You reach for the hem, prepared to resolve the conflict through immediate action, and Jimin's hand shoots up in a gesture that carries enough threat to make your temporal signature spike.

"You take that off fully in front of me and I will tear a probability shard through your throat, miss girl."

You blink.

Process.

Recalibrate.

"Understood. Shirt remains on current wearer."

Hoseok moves before the tension can escalate further, closing the distance to wrap his arms around Jimin from behind. His mouth finds the curve of Jimin's neck in a manner that informs you this is most likely practiced de-escalation protocol.

“She didn’t know, Mochi,” Hoseok murmurs against pink hair as he stands behind him at the mirror. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know she didn’t mean anything, Fuyu.” Jimin’s voice carries residual irritation, but his shoulders relax fractionally into Hoseok’s embrace. “Because she doesn’t mean anything by most of what she does. Just processes the world like it’s a fucking equation.”

“I prefer equations to social ambiguity,” you offer. “Mathematical frameworks provide clearer operational parameters.”

“See?” Jimin gestures at you in the mirror while still pressed back against Hoseok’s chest. “Intellectually cunty even when she’s barely awake.”

Hoseok’s quiet laugh vibrates through Jimin’s spine, his chin hooked over Jimin’s shoulder. He presses a kiss to the pink hair just above his temple, the movement small and unhurried.

Jimin’s gaze drops to the reflection of the black scarf looped loosely around Hoseok’s neck.

His hands move with purpose.

He twists in Hoseok’s arms, turning to face him, lower back still bracketed by Hoseok’s hands.

“Give me this,” he says, fingers already curling into the soft fabric at Hoseok’s throat.

Hoseok doesn’t resist. If anything, his smile widens as Jimin slides the scarf up and over his head in one quick motion, then loops the scarf around his own neck instead, wrapping it twice, adjusting the drape until it sits just so. He smooths the ends down his chest with a little flourish, then turns his head toward you.

The look he gives you is difficult to forget.

A slow, pointed once-over, chin tilted, brows raised.

The scarf is his now. So is the man it smells like.

The territorial display is noted and cataloged alongside other observed behavioral patterns in their relationship dynamic.

Hoseok just huffs out a disbelieving laugh and steps in closer, arms coming up and around Jimin from the front this time. He hooks his hands behind Jimin’s shoulders, pulling him in until he rocks him gently side to side like it’s instinct.

“Ridiculous,” he murmurs, but the word is soaked in affection

Jimin lets himself be rocked for exactly three seconds before his hands slide up to rest over Hoseok’s biceps, fingers curling there, keeping him in place.

“I want to see Agent Min.”

The sentence leaves your mouth before you’ve fully decided to say it.

Both their heads snap toward you in sync—58.2 degrees rotation, executed in 0.3 seconds. Hoseok turns with Jimin still in his arms, angling them so they face you together.

Jimin scoffs. “Trust me. We know.”

“It’s best if you don’t see each other right now,” Hoseok says gently, though his arms stay locked around Jimin like he’s subconsciously preventing forward motion. “He’s still recovering from—”

“Cellular withdrawal,” you interrupt. “Jin explained the mechanism. I understand the complications.”

“Understanding complications and respecting medical boundaries are different skill sets,” Jimin mutters. “Apparently you only got one.”

“My presence could actually assist with symptomatic management,” you continue, applying logic like it’s a viable weapon against their objections. “Small doses of contact reduce acute withdrawal stress. Prolonged separation increases cascade risk. The mathematical optimization clearly favors controlled exposure over complete avoidance.”

Jimin stares at you.

“Did you just—” He cuts himself off, groaning, and drops his face into Hoseok’s shoulder like he’s trying to suffocate himself on purpose. “Nope. I’m out. I refuse to be awake for this level of intellectual cunt energy. I need a fucking ziller before I commit an actual crime.”

He peels himself out of Hoseok’s arms—hands sliding down Hoseok’s forearms, a little squeeze at his wrists before he steps away. Then crosses to the dresser with brisk, efficient strides, yanking open the decorative case on top like it personally offended him.

He plucks out a golden crystalline stick, twirls it once between his fingers, then slides it between his teeth with the ease of established habit. Quick inhale, crystal tip flaring faintly.

“Okay.” He exhales, shoulders loosening a fraction. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, miss girl.”

He points the ziller at you like a tiny, glittering weapon.

“Get dressed. I put an outfit on the chair. I might not like you, but you’re not going out there in my boyfriend’s shirt and those prison-ass pants. You look like you’ve given up on life.”

“I was sleeping,” you say. “Fashion optimization seemed unnecessary for unconscious states.”

“Everything requires fashion optimization,” he snaps back immediately. “Breathing requires fashion optimization.”

He takes another pull from the ziller, then turns toward Hoseok, energy shifting softer on contact. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“Fuyu, I’ll see you there,” he says, voice dropping into something disgustingly fond. Free hand lifts, blowing Hoseok a quick kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Hoseok catches it with exaggerated seriousness, pressing his palm to his chest. “I’ll be right behind you, baby.”

“You better,” Jimin mutters, but his eyes are warm.

He heads for the door, already half checked out of the conversation. At the threshold, he pauses, glancing back at you with a look that’s all sharp edges and zero patience.

“Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Don’t make me come back up here and personally drag your statistically overactive brain to the lounge.”

Then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor.

You’re left sitting on the bed with Kali’s spirit form still pressed against your side and Hoseok’s fond smile making the space feel warmer.

"He really does mean well," Hoseok says gently. "In his own... very Jimin way."

"His method of communication lacks standard diplomatic protocols," you observe while moving toward the chair where clothing has been arranged with obvious care.

Dark tactical jacket. Thermal underlayers. Pants that actually fit proper proportions rather than the generic sizing you'd selected earlier. Everything coordinated in a way that suggests both aesthetic consideration and functional purpose.

"Yeah, well. Jimin's relationship with you is complicated." Hoseok settles back against the column, watching you examine the outfit. "But he wouldn't have spent three hours making sure you'd be comfortable and warm if he didn't care on some level."

You process this while noting the contradiction between Jimin's verbal hostility and his behavioral investment in your wellbeing.

When you lift the jacket, something rattles in the right pocket.

Your fingers find smooth crystalline shapes—zillers, you recognize now. Multiple varieties based on tactile assessment. The left pocket yields small tablets that your limited pharmacological knowledge categorizes as likely recreational substances.

Jimin prepared these for you. Provided options for whatever experience you might want during the 25th hour despite his stated dislike of your presence.

"See?" Hoseok's voice carries quiet satisfaction. "Complicated."

You examine the golden ziller—the same type Jimin just took—and the analytical part of your brain that never quite shuts down begins calculating the metabolic effects of crystallized temporal compounds on neural chemistry.

But underneath that clinical assessment, something softer recognizes the gesture for what it actually represents.

Care, however reluctantly given.

"I should dress," you say finally, setting the jacket aside to reach for the thermal layers.

Kali stands, stretches, then dissolves into dust-like particles that drift toward the ceiling like inverse snow.

"She'll be around during the hour," Hoseok explains, moving off the wall. "All our Kairos get stronger when time stops. More solid, more responsive. You'll probably see her hunting with her pack."

"She has a pack?"

"Three others. You named them too, but—" He catches himself, smile turning slightly sad. "That's probably information overload territory. We can cover it during the hour if you want."

You nod, appreciating the boundary even as curiosity demands more data.

Hoseok moves toward the door, pausing in the same spot Jimin occupied moments before.

"Take your time getting ready. We've got eighteen minutes still." His expression warms again. "And try not to let Jimin's sass get to you. He's just protective of what little freedom we get. Wants everything to be perfect."

"Including outfit coordination."

"Especially outfit coordination." Hoseok's laugh follows him into the hallway. "See you in a few."

You're left alone with expensive clothing and recreational substances and the lingering warmth where a spirit wolf pressed against your side.

The thermal layers slide on without resistance. The pants fit better than anything you've worn in recent memory. The jacket settles across your shoulders with the perfect weight distribution.

And in the pockets, Jimin's reluctant care rattles with each movement like a secret he'd deny if confronted.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch vibrates twice against your wrist—the neural interface activating automatically.

You don't check it immediately. Too focused on securing the jacket's closure, ensuring the zillers in your pocket won't rattle during movement. The vibration pattern suggests group communication rather than individual message, but your attention remains on practical preparation.

Another vibration. More insistent.

Finally, you let your consciousness connect to the neural interface—thought-based navigation requiring no physical interaction with the device. The screen materializes in your visual cortex, transparent overlay across your normal perception.

[Resistance Comms Channel: #main_ops]

[JUNGKOOK]: >[VIDEO ATTACHED: 0:08s]

The footage loads—him in what appears to be the common area, grinning at the camera with manic energy while pouring RedSurge into a glass already containing something that glows faintly blue. Neon Rift, your limited pharmacological knowledge supplies. Then he adds crystalline powder—Sparks based on the effervescent reaction.

“Watch me create enlightenment in liquid form.” He changes to frontal camera, lifting his eyebrows. “This is either genius or a really entertaining way to die.”

The video cuts off.

[JIN]: >[IMAGE ATTACHED]

A blurry image—motion-captured chaos showing Taehyung's black-clad form chasing Jungkook through the common area, furniture knocked aside.

[JIN]: >𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

[NAMJOON]: > 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝟺𝟽 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚎,𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜

[TAEHYUNG]: >𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢. 𝙼𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚜.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢

[JIMIN]: >𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞

[HOSEOK]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚜

[JIMIN]: >𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 [JIMIN]: >𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢

[NAMJOON]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚢𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚒𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝙹𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝,𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚖𝚎 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚒’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝙼𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜

[JIN]: >𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜. [JIN]: >𝚒 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

[TAEHYUNG]: >𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙿𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔. 𝙲𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚈𝙰𝙻 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎!!!

[TAEHYUNG]: >𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝙸’𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎.

[JIMIN]: >𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟸𝟻𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗,𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝

You blink, realizing he's referring to you.

Your consciousness focuses on composing your message—the neural interface translating thought to text.

[YOU]: >𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜. 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

The chat goes silent.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝙾𝙼𝙶 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚘𝚖𝚐 𝚘𝚖𝚐 𝚘𝚖𝚐 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙷𝙴 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙺𝚂

[YOONGI]: >𝙷𝚒.

Your heart rate spikes at the single word.

Agent Min.

[JIMIN]: >𝚘𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂

[HOSEOK]: >𝙹𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗

[JIMIN]: >𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟺𝟽 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜

[JIN]: >𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜.

[JIMIN]: >𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝

[YOU]: >𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Direct. Efficient. No semantic ambiguity.

[YOONGI]: >𝙱𝚞𝚜𝚢.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚢.

[YOONGI]: >𝙸’𝚖 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎.

Your analytical mind immediately catalogs the evasion pattern—deflecting through acknowledgment while refusing to provide sufficient data.

[YOU]: >𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐.

[YOONGI]: >𝙰𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕.

Something in your chest tightens at the condescension embedded in those four words. The particular tone—not quite mockery, not quite affection, but something that makes your pulse accelerate in ways you can't quantify.

[YOU]: >𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

[YOONGI]: >𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝟹.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝟸,𝟺𝟶𝟶 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

[YOONGI]: >𝙽𝚘.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙳

[JIMIN]: >𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎

[YOU]: >𝚁𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛.

[YOONGI]: >𝚂𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜, 𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚗𝚘.

[YOU]: >𝚂𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

[YOONGI]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜.

You frown.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

[YOONGI]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

[YOU]: >𝙹𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚖. 𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍.

[JIN]: >𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑.

[JIMIN]: >𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙺 𝚈𝙾𝚄

[YOONGI]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝙽𝚘𝚖𝚊.

[TAEHYUNG]: >𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙽𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐.

[HOSEOK]: >𝚃𝚊𝚎’𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕

[YOU]: >𝙽𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

[YOONGI]: >𝙼𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝.

[YOONGI]: >𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍.

[YOU]: >𝙲𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌. 𝚈𝚘𝚞,𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝.

[YOONGI]: >𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Something shifts in your approach—his condescension triggering reciprocal response patterns.

[YOU]: >𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍, 𝚗𝚘. 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗,𝚝, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝙾𝙷 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃

[JIMIN]: >𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕

[YOU]: >𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢.

[YOONGI]: >𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚝.

[YOU]: >𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢? 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗? 𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗. [YOU]: >𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢.

[YOONGI]: >𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.

[YOU]: >𝙱𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝚅𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗,𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

[YOONGI]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕.

[YOU]: >𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝?

[YOONGI]: >𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

The word sits in your visual cortex while you process its implications. A tightness in your abdomen forms—curious sensation demanding analysis.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍.

[YOONGGI]: >𝚈𝚎𝚜.

[YOU]: >𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕?

[YOONGI]: >𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜.

[YOU]: >𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

[YOONGI]: >𝙼𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎, 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕.

The phrase lands with unexpected weight.

‘Smart girl’.

The heat in your lower abdomen spreads.

[YOU]: >𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚜.

[YOONGI]: >𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

[YOU]: >𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎.

[YOONGI]: >𝙾𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛.

[YOU]: >𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚢.

[YOONGI]: >𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎.

[YOU]: >𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜?

[YOONGI]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝.

[YOU]: >𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 ‘𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝’ 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝.

A sharper spike—definitely irritation now, threaded with something that feels suspiciously like arousal.

Your analytical centers flag the sensation as anomalous but can’t identify the source.

[YOONGI]: >𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

[YOU]: >𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘.

3 seconds of silence.

[YOONGI]: >𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘.

[YOU]: >𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜? 𝙾𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐?

[YOONGI]: >𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐.

[YOU]: >𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜?

[YOONGI]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝙽𝚘𝚖𝚊. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

[YOONGI]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛. 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝙸’𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚕’𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

[YOONGI]: >𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎.

[YOU]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐. [YOU]: > ’𝚂𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚢.’

Silence for exactly four seconds while something warm and sharp floods your awareness—surprise, recognition, want so intense it makes your core temperature spike.

And also—not entirely yours.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚂𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙱𝙾𝚈 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃

[JIMIN]: >𝚘𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚍

[YOU]: >𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

[YOONGI]: >𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎. 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝟷.𝟹 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎.

[JIMIN]: >𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

[HOSEOK]: >𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

[JIMIN]: >𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 [JIMIN]: >𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙱𝙻𝙴𝙼 [JIMIN]: >𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚜 [JIMIN]: >𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚢𝚞

[JIN]: >𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙸,𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝.

[JIMIN]: >𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝,𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗 [JIMIN]: >𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

[NAMJOON]: >𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚎. [NAMJOON]: >[EMOJI: laughing face]

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝙻𝙼𝙰𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾𝙾 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 [JUNGKOOK]: >𝚁𝙸𝙿 𝚓𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢

[JIN]: >𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝟸𝟼𝟻 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘. [JIN]: >𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚜. 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍.

[YOONGI]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

[YOU]: >𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗,𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝟶.𝟾-𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚒.

[YOONGI]: >𝙲𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

[YOU]: >𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕: 𝟶.𝟶𝟶𝟶𝟹%. 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

[YOONGI]: >𝙽𝚘.

[YOU]: >𝙵𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎.

[JIMIN]: >𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

[HOSEOK]: >𝙼𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚒

[JIMIN]: >𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 [JIMIN]: >𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟷𝟾𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝙲𝙷𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙾𝚂 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚍

[NAMJOON]: >𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊. 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍.

[HOSEOK]: >𝚈/𝙽 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢? 𝙹𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗,𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙

[YOU]: >𝙰𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗

[JIMIN]: >𝚍𝚘 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚖 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢

[YOU]: >𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍.

[YOONGI]: >𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊. 𝚂𝚘𝚘𝚗.

The finality in his last message is not bizarre—you’ve seen how Agent Min behaves when leadership commands—but it still spurs a wave of warmth through you.

[YOU]: >𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

[YOONGI]: >𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

[YOONGI]: >𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚗.

[YOU]: >𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚘.

[JUNGKOOK]: >𝙳𝙰𝙼𝙽

[JIMIN]: >𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚣𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

[HOSEOK]: >𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢

[JIMIN]: >𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁

[NAMJOON]: >𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊. 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎.

[HOSEOK]: >𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

The chat dissolves from your visual cortex, but phantom sensations linger—borrowed arousal mixing with your own, heat building in places you're learning to recognize as significant.

You move toward the door, Jimin's carefully selected outfit settling against your skin with warmth that doesn't quite account for the temperature climbing in your chest.

The corridor awaits.

And somewhere in this facility, so does Min.

Upon entry, it is unmistakable, the particular tang that coats chemical enhancers.

You step through the doorway, tactical boots making zero sound on the plush carpet—standard stealth protocol that feels less like training and more like muscle memory.

Kali materializes in front of you immediately—the spirit wolf pressing her muzzle against your palm in greeting. But when your fingers pass through her fur, there's barely any resistance. Translucent. Ethereal.

Not like before.

When your eyes flick up, the room is a chaotic intersection of personalities.

A massive bear—translucent and shimmering with pale light—sprawls across the rug like cargo transport. It’s huge, easily two and a half meters wide and four meters long, taking up a significant portion of the common area.

And on top of it, stretched out belly-down with his full weight, is Jimin.

He’s no longing wearing the black scarf he stole from his boyfriend, but rather, it sits on the bear’s chest. You’d wager it’s because of the thermal waves oozing off the animal. A fascinating concept, truly.

His arms are spread wide, one draped over his head, the other dangling off the bear’s side. His legs are splayed out, face pressed into the creature’s fur, eyes closed in what looks like genuine bliss. The translucent glow of the bear makes Jimin look like he’s floating on liquid light.

Hoseok sits beside him on the massive form, one hand braced behind him for support, the other slipped under Jimin’s shirt—slow, soothing circles rubbing along his spine.

Namjoon sits in the armchair, one hand typing on the laptop, rubbing his temples with the other. There's a large bird—an eagle, translucent like the bear but less solid—perched on the back of his chair, watching the room with sharp, glowing eyes.

Jin is at the kitchenette, staring at the coffee machine like he's trying to intimidate it into brewing faster.

Jungkook is vibrating. Literally. He's upside down on the recliner, legs over the headrest, eyes blown wide, seemingly having a silent, telepathic screaming match with Taehyung, who is leaning against the far wall, staring right back at him with the long-suffering expression of a man managing a toddler on a sugar high.

And then there's Agent Min.

Yoongi.

He’s standing by the reinforced window—as far from the center of the room as structurally possible without exiting it. Back rigid. Shoulders set.

Your brain processes stutter against the sight.

A window?

Underground?

The actual world beyond it should be nothing but blackness—you’re subsurface, embedded in a temporal pocket with no physical access to the surface.

And yet… there’s a reflection. A ghosted image of what’s happening aboveground, projected not onto the window but across it—stitched into the pocket’s boundary field, probably, showing real-time activity topside.

A psychological stabilizer, so that even buried underground inside a temporal blind spot, the facility doesn’t feel like a sealed tomb.

Maybe that’s why he’s standing there, wearing the gloves.

Black leather, tight fit, covering every millimeter of skin that might accidentally brush against yours.

Your analytical centers catalog the barrier immediately. Defensive measure. Physical firewall.

You scan the room for optimal positioning.

Your eyes land on the large, deep black velvet sectional just beyond where Hoseok and Jimin are sprawled.

It pulls at you.

Not logically—it's just furniture, foam and fabric stretched over a wooden frame—but your body orients toward it with magnetic inevitability. There's a gravitational well centering on that specific cushion arrangement. A phantom data set suggesting that this location offers optimal comfort, tactical visibility, and… something else.

Something visceral.

You start walking toward it, Kali padding alongside you with barely-there paws.

Yoongi turns from the window. His eyes track your movement, land on your trajectory, and for exactly 0.4 seconds, his expression fractures.

He takes a step away from the seating area, pressing himself closer to the cold glass of the window, jaw tight.

"You're here," Jimin says without opening his eyes, voice muffled against the bear's translucent fur. "And you're actually dressed. Miracles happen."

You pause near the massive bear, noting how your hand passes through Kali with minimal sensation but the bear in front of you looks... denser. More present.

"Why is this one more solid?" you ask.

Hoseok glances down at you with a soft smile. "Focusing my power. Dubu needs to be comfortable for Mochi."

"Dubu?"

"The bear," Jimin mumbles, still face-down. "I named him. Very soft. Very good."

You reach out, tentative, and touch the bear's flank.

Your hand meets resistance. Not full solidity, but enough to feel the texture of fur, the warmth of a living creature, even though you can see right through it.

"Oh," you say. "You're using all your manifestation energy on one construct."

"For maximum cuddle efficiency," Jimin confirms, sighing contentedly.

Hoseok's expression softens further, fingers tracing idle patterns on Jimin's back. "Mochi, you're heavy."

Jimin's eyes snap open just enough to glare. Then, in clear retaliation, he burrows deeper into the bear's fur, nuzzling down with exaggerated pressure, spreading his weight even more.

"Suffer then."

Hoseok laughs—quiet and fond—before shifting to lie down beside Jimin on top of Dubu, wrapping an arm around his waist and tangling their legs together. The bear doesn't even shift under the combined weight, just continues its steady, ethereal breathing.

"You're really ridiculous," Hoseok murmurs against Jimin's hair.

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Fortunately," Jimin corrects, eyes closing again.

You continue toward the couch, noting the way the translucent eagle ruffles its feathers from Namjoon's chair.

“That’s Ruckus,” Jungkook calls out from the recliner. “Named him myself. Cool, right?”

“Aerodynamically incongruent,” you say. “But thematically accurate.”

Jungkook gasps, offended. “Wow. Okay. Taehyung, tell her it’s a cool name.”

“It’s a terrible name,” Taehyung says from the wall without breaking stare.

Jungkook immediately twists around to argue, already halfway into a rant about branding and emotional impact.

You let the debate pull his attention away as you reach into the pocket of the jacket Jimin selected. Your fingers brush against the crystalline sticks.

"Ten minutes to the hour," Jimin says without moving from his position on Dubu. "If you're dosing, do it now. Shit hits better when the chemicals are already working before time stops."

You pull out the gold ziller—thin metallic rod, crystalline tip catching the ambient light.

You bring it to your lips, placing it horizontally between them like you've seen others do. Press your tongue to the crystals experimentally.

Nothing happens.

You wait three seconds. Still nothing.

Jimin makes a pained sound—somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

He props himself up on one elbow, squinting at you. "Oh my god. No. Stop."

You look at him. "The activation mechanism appears nonfunctional."

"The activation mechanism is fine. Your technique is shit." He clicks his tongue, gesturing you closer with one hand while the other remains buried in Dubu's fur. "Come here. I can't watch you fumble with that like a reptile."

You approach, and Jimin fishes his own gold ziller from his pocket without fully sitting up.

"Look. Between the teeth, not just resting on your tongue. You need friction and heat. Suck air through your mouth—gently, don't be a vacuum—so the crystal heats up faster. Then it dissolves right."

He demonstrates, sliding the ziller between his molars, lips closed around it. He inhales through his mouth with a sharp pull, and the crystal tip glows faintly.

Pulls it out to speak. "Like that. Not whatever the fuck you were doing."

You adjust your grip, slide the ziller between your left molars.

The fit feels... correct.

Your jaw knows exactly how much pressure to apply. Your tongue curls around the hexagonal rod without conscious thought, positioning it at the precise angle for optimal heat transfer.

You inhale sharply through your mouth.

The crystal warms instantly, flooding your oral cavity with a taste that isn't quite flavor—static electricity and champagne and something metallic that makes your temporal awareness spike.

"Better," Jimin says, watching you with narrowed eyes. Then his expression shifts. "And there it is. Left molars."

You pause mid-inhale. "Is that significant?"

"You always do that." He takes another hit from his own ziller. "Every single time. Left side. Exact same placement."

"Comfort optimization," you say around the rod, the buzz already starting to hum at the base of your skull.

"Sure." Jimin's smile is sharp before he settles back down onto Dubu, dismissing you with a lazy wave. "Comfort."

You turn toward the couch, running your hand over the black velvet as you approach.

Then at Yoongi, who is watching you with his arms crossed, hands tucked securely into his armpits as if even the gloves aren't safety enough.

He's looking at the ziller in your mouth. Then at the couch. Then at the floor.

His thermal signature is rising again.

"Agent Min," you say, holding the ziller between your fingers "Why are you maintaining maximum distance from the primary seating area?"

Yoongi doesn't look up. "Good vantage point."

"Incorrect. The couch offers superior sightlines to both entry points." You gesture to the velvet cushions. "Also, ergonomic support is superior to the wall."

"I'm fine where I am."

"You're rubbing your neck," you observe. "Sign of tension. The couch would alleviate—"

"I'm not sitting on the couch, Noma."

The rejection is sharp. Too sharp for a discussion about furniture.

You pause, processing the data.

The gravitational pull you feel toward the velvet.

His active avoidance of the same object.

The way his eyes darkened when you stepped toward it.

The specific angle of the cushions.

The memory doesn't arrive as visual data, it arrives as sound.

A phantom acoustic signature that bypasses your temporal lobe entirely, vibrating through bone memory instead.

«Creak-whine-creak.

Polymer frame stress. Velvet upholstery compression. Rhythmic oscillation frequency: 2.3 cycles per second

Creak-whine-creak.»

Your analytical mind tries to place the sound pattern—structural engineering, weight distribution algorithms—but your body recognizes it before the calculation completes.

The couch.

That couch.

«Thud.

Your thighs pressed flat against your belly. Knees somewhere near your ears. The pressure of broad palms—bare palms—on the backs of your knees, folding you, holding you open while—

“Hhah—hah—hah—”

Breathing pattern analysis: 4.2-second cycle, shallow inhale, audible exhale. Hypoxia indicators present. Elevated heart rate: 148 BPM estimated.

The breathing isn't yours.

But it is.

Mint.

Everything tastes like mint—his mouth, his skin, the air between you both. It overwhelms your sensory processing, threatens to short-circuit every analytical center in your brain.

His hips drive forward and the wetness makes that sound—the slick, obscene whisper of skin on skin, the soft schlick of him moving through you. Your body takes him completely, and the stretch is perfect, is necessary, is—

A whimper escapes your throat.

He enjoys that, from the way his fingers tighten on your knees and golden sparks bloom where his fingertips touch. They dance across your thighs like fireflies, warm and electric and pleasure hits so sharply your climax nearly jumps the queue.

The couch creaks again—a quick, intense pattern now, synced to his thrusts. In, out, deep, deeper. Your breath comes in fractured gasps that aren't quite moans. His breathing mirrors yours—ragged, controlled, fighting for precision even as his control fractures.

Wet noises.

You’re generating enough arousal that the auditory signature becomes undeniable. That sticky, obscene sound of saturation coating both of you, dripping onto the velvet beneath. His chest presses against yours and the friction builds, builds, builds—

A soft kiss to your collarbone. His mouth opens against your skin and he breathes your name like it's the only word that matters.»

The memory fragments, collapses back into static.

You're standing in the common area, ziller buzzing against your molars, and the only sound is your own breathing—too fast, matching a rhythm that doesn't exist in this timeline.

Your thighs are pressed together.

Not because you commanded them to.

Because they remember being folded against your belly while he—

"Oh," you say.

The room goes quiet. Even Jungkook stops vibrating. Hoseok pauses mid-movement, hand stilling on Jimin's back.

You look at Yoongi.

He's staring at you, eyes wide, like he knows exactly what calculation just finished running in your head and he's desperately trying to telepathically will you not to say it.

"Is it because we've had sex on it?"

Yoongi chokes.

It's a violent, visceral sound—he inhales his own saliva, coughs, doubles over, and hacks like his lungs are trying to escape his chest.

"Oh my god," Jimin groans into Dubu's fur, voice muffled. "Why. Why do I have ears?"

Hoseok slaps his own thigh, letting out a bark of laughter. Dubu's form ripples with the vibration of Hoseok's amusement.

Namjoon bites his lip, looking down at the screen with intense, shaking concentration, shoulders trembling.

Jin sighs, a long, weary sound from the kitchenette. "Every timeline. Every timeline it's the black couch. I should have burned it."

"I knew it!" Jungkook gasps, righting himself on the recliner. "Tae, I told you! I told you that stain wasn't coffee!"

"That stain was coffee," Yoongi rasps between coughs, glaring at Jungkook with watering eyes. "I revert the couch back every single time. It's pristine."

Taehyung, still leaning with one knee bent at the wall, just closes his eyes and leans his head back. "Please stop talking."

Yoongi is still coughing, one hand braced against the wall, face flushing a dark, mortified red. He waves a gloved hand in the air—a gesture that could mean ’stop’, ’help’, or ’I'm going to kill all of you’.

"Was that inaccurate?" you ask, genuinely confused by the chaotic reaction. "The physiological response suggests accuracy."

"It was very accurate," Jimin moans, still face-down on Dubu. "That's the problem. Nobody wants to visualize the mechanics of... that."

"Why?" You tilt your head, the ziller clicking against your teeth. "Copulation is a normalized biological function. And given the statistical probability of our interaction across seventeen timelines, the likelihood of sexual activity occurring in common areas is—"

"Noma," Yoongi wheezes, voice strangled. "Stop."

"I'm merely establishing the data points."

"You're establishing my migraine," Yoongi rasps, straightening up. He rubs his throat with his gloved hand, eyes watering. He still refuses to look at the couch. "We are not discussing sexual history in the debriefing area."

"It's a lounge," you correct. "And if the location triggers avoidance behaviors due to previous intimate activities, perhaps we should relocate to a neutral zone."

"There are no neutral zones," Jin calls out helpfully. "You two have christened every surface in this facility at least twice."

Yoongi glares at Jin with lethal intensity. "Seokjin."

"Hey, just speaking the truth," Jin says, finally pouring his coffee. "And the truth is, we need a new couch. Even if you time-scrub it."

"I like the couch," you say, running a hand over the velvet armrest. "The texture provides positive tactile feedback."

Yoongi makes a strangled noise in his throat and turns fully toward the window, pinching the bridge of his nose, shoulders hunched.

"Three minutes to the hour," Namjoon announces, voice steady despite the amusement dancing in his eyes. "Dose up, everyone."

Jungkook scrambles off the recliner, popping a ziller into his mouth with none of Jimin's finesse. "Tae, interface with me. I wanna see if I can loop the buzz."

Taehyung sighs loudly, looking at Jungkook with a mix of exhaustion and fondness. "If you vomit in my mind again, I'm disconnecting you."

"It was one time!"

"It was in color, Jungkook."

You look back at Yoongi. He's still facing the window, but you can see his reflection in the glass. He's watching you.

You slide the ziller to the other side of your mouth, biting down gently.

"So," you say, voice dropping to a lower register that cuts through the team's chatter. "Just how often was it? Percentage-wise?"

Yoongi's shoulders tense. In the reflection, his eyes meet yours.

Dark.

Hungry.

Terrified.

"Don't ask questions you're not ready to remember the answers to," he says, voice low and rough.

"I'm ready for data."

He turns around slowly. The gloves flex as he clenches his fists.

"It wasn't data," he says, and the raw honesty in his tone silences the room again. "It was inevitable."

The ziller buzzes harder against your tongue, or maybe that's just your blood singing.

"Inevitable," you repeat.

"Every time," he confirms. "No matter how hard I try to stop it."

"Okay!" Jimin claps his hands loudly without lifting his head from Dubu. "That's enough! The tension is literally making my skin break out. Everyone shut up. The clock is ticking."

You check your Chrono-Sync Watch.

1:59:55.

1:59:56.

1:59:57.

1:59:58.

1:59:59.

The tick of the second hand never hits the hour mark, but reality… exhales.

All the sounds cease immediately. The air pressure in the room drops too, and suddenly, the space feels dense, thick with the awareness of Kairos.

Kali solidifies instantly—fur shifting from ghostly transparency to dense, touchable reality. She throws her head back and howls, a sound that you feel in your chest rather than hear with your ears. Three other wolves materialize fully around her, shaking themselves out like they've just woken from deep sleep.

Dubu remains exactly as he was—still translucent, still massive, still supporting both Jimin and Hoseok's combined weight with steady, ethereal breathing.

The eagle's wings snap out with sudden force, feathers becoming solid and real. The powerful downstroke catches Namjoon square in the back of the head.

"Ow!" Namjoon jerks forward, hand flying to his skull. "Ruckus—careful, you're real now!"

The eagle screeches—triumphant, excited—and does a victory loop around Namjoon's chair.

"Sorry!" Hoseok calls out, wincing. "He gets excited when the hour hits!"

"Well, reign him in or I'll swat at him," Namjoon grumbles, rubbing his head. "I'm working."

"So stop working?" Jimin suggests from his position on Dubu, voice lazy. "It's the 25th hour."

"Some of us take operational security seriously—"

"Oi, you wanna hurt me?" Hoseok interrupts, sitting up slightly on Dubu. "Go ahead. Swat him. See what happens."

Namjoon pauses, hand still raised, then slowly lowers it. "Point taken."

"That's what I thought." Hoseok settles back down, arm draped over Jimin.

Jungkook lets out a whoop of pure, unadulterated joy.

"Finally!"

He pushes off the recliner, and six brilliant constructs of pure white light erupt from his shoulders—not quite wings, more like liquid ribbons that can shift and morph at will. He spins, and the light follows his movement like silk in water.

He sends a playful ribbon of light toward Taehyung.

Taehyung sighs, but it's affectionate. He raises a hand, and his void tendrils uncoil from the shadows—black, dense, light-absorbing. They catch Jungkook's ribbon with effortless precision, the darkness swallowing the brightness into something that looks like a miniature galaxy.

"Stop trying to blind me," Taehyung says, but he's smiling. Actually smiling.

"Stop being so slow!" Jungkook laughs, darting around the room, constructs rippling through.

Jimin shifts on Dubu, and crystal shards begin to materialize around him—sharp, glittering fragments that orbit lazily, catching and reflecting Jungkook's light show.

"God," Jimin breathes, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. "Silence. Actual, blessed silence."

Namjoon remains focused on whatever crucial information has caught his attention, geometrical blue swirls forming patterns around him.

Jin is already at the kitchenette. Silver-white electricity patterns—his Kairos—dance along the countertops and up the walls, occasionally flickering with colored sparks that look suspiciously like fragmented memories given form.

He's making coffee, because apparently even when time stops, caffeine remains essential.

You look around, fascinated.

The world outside the window is frozen—birds caught in mid-flight, traffic suspended in motionless streams of red and white lights.

But inside, everything is vibrant, alive, and moving.

It's chaos.

It's beautiful.

Your gaze finds Yoongi.

He hasn't moved from the window, but the tension in his frame has eased fractionally. The gloves are still on, but he's no longer gripping his own arms.

Instead, he's focused on his right hand.

Hovering above his palm is a small, perfect sphere of golden temporal energy. It rotates slowly, defying gravity. Tiny, delicate tendrils—microscopic compared to the ones you saw in the cave—spiral out from it, weaving complex patterns in the air.

He's constructing something. Or maybe just playing.

It looks like clockwork made of light. Gears turning within gears, slipping through dimensions you can't quite perceive.

He catches you watching.

For a moment, he doesn't look away. The golden light from his Kairos reflects in his dark eyes, making them burn.

He flicks a finger, and the little golden sphere drifts toward you.

It floats across the room, passing through Jungkook's morphing light ribbons and dodging a playful snap from one of Hoseok's wolves. It stops right in front of your face.

You reach out, hesitant.

The sphere dissolves into a shower of golden sparks that feel like warm rain against your skin.

"Showy," you murmur, but you're smiling.

Yoongi's mouth quirks up at the corner. Just a fraction. A micro-expression of amusement that feels like a victory.

"Technique," he mouths back.

Something in your chest responds—automatic, involuntary.

Two crystalline golden tendrils spiral out from your shoulders without conscious thought, counter-clockwise rotation making them distinctly different from Yoongi's clockwise temporal threads.

They feel solid, heavy in a good way, like extra limbs you've always meant to have.

You stare at them, startled.

Jin glances over from the kitchenette, a soft smile crossing his face. "Still comes naturally to you."

"I didn't—"

"Happens every time." He pours coffee into a second mug, sliding it across the counter. "Your Kairos can actually grab things. Spatial manipulation, remember?"

You look at your crystalline tendrils, then at the mug.

One reaches out—smooth, instinctive—and wraps around the ceramic. Lifts it. Brings it to you without spilling a drop.

"Nice," Namjoon says, then jerks forward as Ruckus dive-bombs past his head. "Seriously?"

"He's celebrating," Hoseok calls out, grinning. "Can't help it."

"Control your bird or I'm launching him out the window."

"You mean that sardonically," Hoseok counters, scratching behind Kali's ears, who’s now atop Dubu as well. The wolf's tail wags, solid and real. "I don’t want to feel free fall, thanks."

Namjoon deadpans. "Right."

"Mhm." Hoseok's grin widens. "So maybe don't threaten my eagle."

"Intention matters anyway," Jin says, electricity crackling along his fingertips as he picks up his own mug. "With Kairos, I mean."

"Oh, like this!" Jungkook drops from where he's been floating near the ceiling, grinning.

Before anyone can respond, he lashes one of his morphing light ribbons straight through Taehyung's chest.

The light passes through completely.

Taehyung doesn't flinch. Just turns his head slowly, expression flat. "Really."

"See?" Jungkook withdraws the construct, bouncing on his feet. "No damage. I wasn't trying to hurt him, so nothing happens."

"That's why you don't fuck around," Jimin adds from his position on Dubu, eyes still closed. His crystal shards spin a little faster, glittering. "Kairos are sensitive as hell. Someone touches yours wrong? You're gonna feel it."

"Exactly," Taehyung says, giving Jungkook a pointed look. "They're part of your nervous system. Touch them with bad intent and it's not just annoying—it hurts."

Jungkook has the decency to look slightly sheepish. "I know, I know. I was being careful."

"You were being reckless," Taehyung corrects, but there's no real heat in it.

Everyone seems a lot more free than what you are used to seeing.

Jungkook floats back up to the ceiling, morphing his light ribbons into increasingly wild shapes. Taehyung's void tendrils create dark spirals that swallow the brightness. Jimin's crystal shards catch the light, throwing rainbow refractions across the walls. Jin's electricity dances along every metal surface. Namjoon's geometric constructs hover around him like a protective cage of data.

Hoseok's wolves prowl, Ruckus circles overhead with victorious screeches, and Dubu breathes steadily beneath Jimin and Hoseok's combined weight.

And Yoongi...

Yoongi is watching you, golden temporal threads weaving impossible patterns in the air around his gloved hands.

You understand now why Jimin called it freedom.

Until—

Namjoon's typing stops.

The silence that follows isn't the comfortable silence of the 25th hour.

It's heavy.

Namjoon's geometric constructs freeze in mid-air, turning from soft blue to alert red.

"Guys."

The single word snaps the atmosphere.

Jungkook drops from mid-air, landing on his feet. His light ribbons vanish instantly.

Taehyung turns, void tendrils retracting into tight defensive coils.

Hoseok sits up, extricating himself from Jimin. The wolves move to flank him, suddenly alert.

Yoongi closes his hand, extinguishing the golden clockwork instantly. He steps away from the window, moving toward the center of the room.

Jin sets his coffee down, electricity patterns flickering with agitation.

You lower your own mug, ziller buzzing between your fingers.

Namjoon turns the laptop around. His face is grim, illuminated by the harsh red glow of the screen.

"We have a problem."

He looks at Yoongi, then at you, then encompasses the whole room with a gaze that carries the weight of negative news.

"Safe House 4 just went dark. CHRONOS raid," Namjoon mutters.

"Who was in House 4?" Hoseok asks, voice tight. Kali presses against your leg.

Namjoon hesitates.

"The new recruits," he says quietly. "And the supply cache for the next reset."

Yoongi's gloved hands curl into fists at his sides.

"Status?"

"Unknown," Namjoon says. "But the signal cut mid-transmission. Which means they didn't just find it."

He looks up, eyes crinkled with worry.

"They knew exactly where to look."

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡

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© jungkoode 2025

you hesitate. outside, another set of sirens cuts through the air, sharp and quick, before fading into the distance. your fingers twitch.

it’s not much. just a little extra, just enough to cover groceries, maybe a bus fare or two, just something to make the week less suffocating. the cash feels thin between your fingers, and you take it. you slip the bills into your pocket, smooth the rest of the stack, close the register like nothing happened.

then you turn off the lights, flip the sign to closed, and step outside.

the night air is sharp, colder than you expected. the dry cleaner’s door creaks as you pull it shut, the lock stiff under your fingers. you don’t linger.

your pockets feel heavier than they should, the stolen cash a quiet weight against your leg.

the extra money seoyun gave you is already gone. spent on a new phone, something cheap that works. the screen glows faintly in your palm as you check the time, the edges still too smooth, too unfamiliar.

you walk quickly, keeping your head down, weaving through empty sidewalks and flickering streetlights.

the train station isn’t far. the platform is half-empty when you get there, just a few scattered figures waiting, some slouched on benches, others standing close to the edge, watching the dark tracks below.

you step up to the machine, fingers cold as you push the stolen bills into the slot. the machine hums, prints out your ticket, and then spits out a few coins in change. you take it all, slip it into your pocket, and step back.

the overhead speakers crackle, an announcement cutting through the static. your train is coming.

you exhale, shoulders tense, watching as headlights flicker in the distance, cutting through the dark. you sit down on the edge of the bench, phone dim against your palm. the train rumbles somewhere in the distance, the sound of steel against steel dragging closer.

you open your messages. jungkook’s name sits at the top of the thread, bright and familiar. unread texts. missed calls. you scroll up, scanning through his usual worries—are you eating, are you safe, call me when you get off work. the last message is shorter.

take care.

you stare at it for a moment longer than you mean to, thumb hovering above the screen. then you tap the heart. not a real answer, not even close, but it’s all you’ve got in you.

you scroll back down, swipe to the next thread. the ajumma’s nephew. the contact is just saved as granny lee’s kid, from when you didn’t know his name and never bothered to change it. you haven’t messaged him since he left town.

you hesitate, thumb resting over the keyboard, then you type.

shop’s closed. no trouble. register’s fine.

you send it before you can second-guess, then lock the screen and slip the phone back into your pocket.

the cold settles into your clothes, biting at your hands and neck. the train screeches into the station a moment later, lights blinding as it rolls past, slowing to a stop. you stand, ticket in hand, and step forward.

no one looks at you. no one stops you.

you board, you sit, and you try not to think about the weight in your pocket, or the way you didn’t flinch when you took it.

you don’t look like someone who just stole. you don’t look like someone who lies. you just look tired.

the doors close. the train jerks forward, and you lean your head against the window and watch the dark blur past.

you try to catch up on the sleep you’ve missed, head against the cool window and your arms folded tight across your chest. your eyes fall closed more than once, heavy, but they never stay that way. every time you start to drift, something pulls you back. a sharp screech of brakes, the conductor’s voice over the intercom, the sound of someone coughing too close. your body stays tense, even as your mind begs for rest.

the train slows again, jerking just enough to make your stomach twist. you open your eyes, blinking hard as the overhead lights buzz back into focus.

your stop.

you stand, legs stiff from sitting too long, and step off the train. the platform here is busier—too bright, too loud, too many people. you have to side-step quickly to avoid colliding with a man dragging a suitcase behind him, then again to avoid a group of teenagers laughing too loud as they pass.

you keep your head down, weaving through the crowd, the weight of the day clinging to your shoulders like damp cloth. you’re not far from home now. the walk from the train station to your apartment is short. maybe ten minutes. fifteen if you drag your feet. tonight, you don’t.

you pull your hood over your head, the fabric soft against your ears, muffling the sounds of the city. your hands disappear into your pockets, fingers curling tight around loose change and the edges of your phone, and your boots scuff against the pavement.

you pass the same shuttered corner store, the same rusted bike chained to the same bent signpost. a cat darts across the street up ahead, slipping into the shadows before you catch more than a flick of its tail. the air smells like cold metal and someone’s burned-out dinner.

you climb the steps, fingers numb as you reach into your pocket for your keys, but when you reach your door, you freeze. the handle is slightly turned, not latched. your key stops just short of the lock.

the door is already unlocked.

your stomach twists, throat tightening around the sudden rush of panic. you step back without thinking, heart in your mouth, listening. but there’s nothing. no footsteps. no voices. just the soft hum of your fridge through the wall, the creak of the building settling under the weight of winter air.

your hand closes around the knob and you push the door open, slow.

the first thing you see is the flicker of soft yellow light from the overhead fixture. then the cheap bowl from the corner store, full of something steaming, resting in the center of your table.

and across from it, seated like she’s always belonged there, is seoyun. she smiles, wide and easy.

“there you are,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the table. “i made dinner.”

you don’t move, don’t speak, and seoyun just keeps smiling.

“you were late home today,” she says.

your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. you step inside slowly, shutting it behind you without taking your eyes off her.

“i’m taking a new route home,” you say. your voice sounds steadier than you expect, but there’s a tremor in your hands you can’t quite hide. “avoiding the minibuses.”

seoyun hums at that. she reaches for the bowl and gives it a small stir with the spoon she took from your drawer. “smart girl.”

you don’t sit. you’re still trying to understand how she got in, still trying to decide what this is. whether it’s a warning or a test. whether it’s something worse.

“hope you like soup,” she says, gently. “i didn’t have much to work with.”

your stomach turns. you don’t think it’s about the soup.

before you can answer—before you can lie, or run, or throw the soup straight off the table—you hear movement. a creak in the floorboards, then footsteps, coming from the hallway. your hallway. you turn just as he appears.

the man from the bathhouse, and the alley, and the counter.

he rounds the corner like he’s done it a hundred times before, shoulders relaxed, hands wiping something off on the leg of his jeans. water, maybe. seems he’s just washed his hands. you don’t want to know what he was trying to clean off.

he doesn’t look surprised to see you. you, on the other hand, feel like the floor’s tilting beneath your feet.

he glances at seoyun, then at you, and his expression doesn’t shift. “you didn’t tell her yet?” he asks, voice low. seoyun gives a tight smile, folding her hands back in her lap.

“was waiting for the right moment.”

you look between them, your pulse thrumming in your ears, your thoughts moving too fast to hold onto. he leans against your doorframe, one foot crossed over the other.

“seems like now’s as good a time as any.” no one’s smiling anymore.

seoyun folds her hands together and tilts her head, that familiar amused glint in her eyes. she gestures toward him. "i have a favour to ask," she says, voice soft but edged with something unyielding. “my favourite investor, agust, has a job that needs doing. couldn’t think of anyone else to handle it, except for my favourite employee.”

you scoff, a short, incredulous sound escaping before you can catch it. your mind races with questions, with the sudden collision of names and demands. “investor?” you ask, disbelief coloring your tone. “what kind of job are we even talking about?”

seoyun doesn’t meet your gaze as she slides off the table chair, her movements deliberate. she steps closer, the scent of detergent and stale smoke mingling in the small space. "it's nothing you haven't handled before," she replies, the corners of her mouth twitching in a half-smile. “just something that needs a careful touch.”

you shake your head, anger and exasperation bubbling beneath the surface. “and you think i'm up for it?”

her eyes finally meet yours, cool and unflinching. “you’re good at what you do,” she says, as if stating a simple fact. “i trust you to get it done.”

the silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid. outside, the city hums softly, oblivious to the exchange inside your cramped apartment. you glance toward the door, toward the lingering presence of the man from the hallway, but your focus snaps back to seoyun.

“i’m just trying to get through the night,” you mutter, voice low.

she laughs, a short, dry sound that doesn't reach her eyes. “i know,” she says, almost kindly, “but sometimes even just getting through the night means doing the hard work.”

you cross your arms, the weight of her words settling on you. the name agust, the job. you scoff again, more to yourself this time, though the sound is lost in the dim light.

“fine,” you say eventually, your tone resigned yet edged with a hint of challenge. “what’s the job?”

agust speaks up this time. “here,” he says, and he tosses a bag onto the dining room table with a dull thud.

you flinch before you can help it, eyes snapping to the worn black canvas lumping in the center of your only table, still cluttered with a half-warm bowl of soup you never touched.

he nods toward it. “go on. open it.”

your fingers hesitate for half a second before you reach forward, tugging at the zipper. the bag opens with a soft scrape of metal.

inside are clothes. neatly folded, surprisingly clean and but marked with faint stains—dried blood, maybe oil, maybe both. button-downs, slacks, one expensive-looking coat.

you blink.

“i need them dry cleaned,” agust says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

your brows pull together, confused. your brain, still caught somewhere between what is this and why are you in my apartment, stumbles over the simplicity of it. that’s it? you glance up, incredulous.

seoyun snorts before you can say anything. she brings a hand up to cover her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter. she fails.

agust’s mouth quirks into something resembling a smirk. “what?” he says. “were you expecting a body?”

you scoff again, sharper this time, stepping back from the table like the clothes might bite. you don’t answer, mostly because you don’t know what you were expecting. but you know it wasn’t this.

agust shrugs, already moving toward the door. “drop them off when they’re clean.”

you watch as he disappears into the hallway again, the echo of his boots fading behind him.

seoyun follows with one last glance back, still smiling. "thanks, sweetheart." then she’s gone too, and you’re left with a bag of clothes and a headache.

you stare at the bag for a long time, long after the two of them have left.

not because you’re still confused, you’re not. not anymore. just tired, fighting off the oncoming headache that blooms behind your eyes while trying to figure out what the hell to do with what’s been dumped on you.

the bag sits on your table, the zipper still half-open from when you checked it. the soup beside it has already gone cold, untouched.

eventually, you drag the bag closer.

the clothes spill out one layer at a time. button-downs, undershirts, pressed slacks that probably cost more than your month’s rent. you smooth a sleeve on instinct, fingers brushing over faint ridges in the fabric. stitching, some sort of symbol or crest.

your stomach twists.

you pick up another shirt, hold it to the dim kitchen light. a small tear near the cuff, the kind that comes from something sharp catching on fabric.

the coat at the bottom of the pile is heavier. when you shake it out, something clinks softly inside the lining.

your fingers skim the collar. a patch of faint discoloration blooms near the shoulder, brownish. you don’t need to smell it to know what it was before it dried.

“jesus…” you whisper, but the word barely makes it out.

you fold the coat carefully, even though your hands shake. you tell yourself it’s just a job, just laundry. just another thing to get through so the next day can come. each piece is a story you don’t want to read.

you tell yourself you’re going to fold the coat and put it away, done looking and noticing things that were never meant for you.

but your hands don’t listen.

you hesitate, fingers hovering over the inner coat lining where you’d heard that soft clink earlier.

you shouldn’t, you know you shouldn’t, but you pinch the seam anyway, feeling for the shift of weight. there—near the inside pocket. something solid.

your breath stirs the silence as you dig two fingers inside, pushing past the lining until they brush against cool metal.

you pull it out slowly.

a pocket knife.

small and sleek, expensive looking. custom made, definitely. smaller, but no less dangerous.

the handle glints under the weak kitchen bulb, polished black with a thin engraved line running the length of it. a symbol, maybe. a crest. you don’t recognize it, but you know enough to understand it matters.

you turn it over in your palm. it’s heavier than it looks.

you shouldn’t have it. you shouldn’t even be touching it. and yet, your fingers curl around the knife like you’ve already made the choice.

sell it later, maybe. or keep it, maybe.

something you shouldn’t have, but something that would matter more to you than it ever will to him.

you glance toward your apartment door, half expecting someone to be standing there, watching. but it stays closed, the room still silent.

slowly, quietly, you slip the knife into your pocket.

you hate cheap lights.

they buzz and they flicker and they make everything look jaundiced and yellow.

the bathhouse office has one of those lights, and right now it’s stuttering overhead, casting seoyun’s face in that nauseous yellow as she counts out another stack of bills.

she hums under her breath, tapping each bundle of cash against the desk before tucking it into the metal box she keeps half-hidden beneath the counter. the flickering light hits her nails, making them glint like small, lacquered knives.

you stand in the doorway, mop handle still damp in your grip, sweat cooling on your back from hours of work you haven’t been paid for yet.

“how goes it?” she asks halfheartedly without looking up.

“light’s dying,” you murmur, kissing your teeth.

seoyun snorts. “oh, sweetheart. everything in here is dying.”

the bulb buzzes overhead, flickers twice, then steadies just enough to make the shadows under her eyes deepen.

she finally looks up at you, smile sharp and eyes unreadable. “done mopping?”

you nod.

she slides the last neat bundle into the cash box and snaps it shut with a metallic click. the sound echoes in the cramped room.

“good,” she says. “we might have company later. big night.”

you don’t ask, you don’t want to know what big night means.

seoyun doesn’t stop looking at you, sharp and assessing, cutting clean through the space between you.

your pulse ticks in your throat.

then her gaze drops, slow, to your shirt.

“new clothes?” she asks.

your fingers tense around the mop handle. “no.”

she hums, unconvinced. “looks good on you,” she says, tipping her chin toward you. “little nicer than what you usually wear.”

your pulse thuds once, hard.

“must’ve been a good sale,” she adds, voice warm in that way that isn’t warm at all.

you swallow. “yeah.”

her smile widens, not threatening, but knowing. far too knowing.

and you know what she’s seeing.

the slight lift in your pockets some nights, the extra attention you give the locker rooms during the day. the habit you didn’t think anyone noticed, slipping things into one pile, taking them home in another. pinching.

just small things. petty, small things that won’t be missed. enough to sell to pawn shops that don’t ask questions. enough to make the week hurt less. she shouldn’t know. you were careful, so careful.

she keeps studying you, tapping her nail against the metal box.

tap. tap. tap.

“fits you well,” she says eventually. “good cut. nice fabric.”

your throat feels tight. “guess i got lucky.”

“you do that,” she hums. “you get lucky more often than people think.”

your grip on the mop handle tightens. there it is, the accusation she isn’t saying. the warning she hasn’t given. the edge of something sharp under all that easy tone.

but then, she waves a hand, dismissive and bored.

“don’t look so tense,” she says. “i don’t care where you shop.”

the tension snaps inside you so suddenly you almost sway.

she doesn’t know. or she does, and she’s choosing not to care. or she cares, just not enough to make a problem of it.

“thanks,” you manage, voice steady enough to pass.

seoyun hums again, already flipping the cash box closed, already done with you. “just keep showing up on time,” she says. “and don’t bring me drama.”

your fingers curl tighter around the mop handle. the knife in your pocket presses warm against your thigh.

“wasn’t planning to.”

“good girl,” she murmurs, and the cheap light flickers overhead as if in agreement.

she doesn’t look at your shirt again. doesn’t glance at your pockets, or check the racks or the logs.

and yet the whole time she speaks, her eyes never fully leave you.

you hadn’t wanted to make a habit of it. god, you really hadn’t. you valued living an honest life, even if it was a difficult one. honesty was the one thing you still had, the one thing you could cling to without it slipping away.

it was just supposed to be one time, a little extra cash so you could keep yourself fed.

but that one time opened a flood gate, because you realised how easy it was to just pinch the little things. extra things, small things.

the worn silver band someone forgot in a locker after a late-night soak, a note or two crumpled at the bottom of a pocket. just enough to get you some nice things you’d had to abstain from to keep afloat.

the knife, however, burns a hole in your pocket.

you’d walked into the pawn shop that day with all the intent to sell it, but the minute your fingers closed around the metal, something froze you in place. you’d held the knife tighter, turning it over in your palm, feeling the weight the way the handle fit too perfectly between your fingers. it thrummed under your touch, some instinct you couldn’t name whispering don’t.

you stood there too long. long enough for the clerk to finally glance up and open his mouth to ask what you wanted.

you never let him speak.

you slipped the knife back into your pocket, nodded stiffly, and walked right back out into the cold air.

you don’t know why you did it, you don’t know what stopped you. all you know is that you couldn’t sell it.

and now the knife stays with you, heavy and cold, a secret pressed hard against your thigh.

yoongi had encountered a plethora of people in his line of work.

he’d met every variation. slick talkers, desperate ones, idiots who stole from the wrong pocket, professionals who thought they could outfox him. people who lied with tears in their eyes. people who begged. people who swore loyalty in the same breath they planned betrayal.

he’d never met someone quite so shameless as you, though. shameless in the quiet way. not bold, not cocky. just… blatantly unaware of how dangerous it was to take what wasn’t yours—to take from him.

he’d taken the clothes you cleaned, and he’d even left a tip for your hard work. a decent one. crisp bills folded clean on the counter for you and your efforts.

a few days later, he’s prepping for the deal. the deal. the one the serpents had been chasing with the fangs for years now.

the warehouse is cold, metal echoing under each step as he circles the table laid out with documents, coded slips, sealed envelopes—everything that needs to change hands tonight. nothing can afford to be missing. nothing can be out of place.

he checks each item with the same deliberate precision he uses for everything. papers. phone. burner. keys.

then the coat.

he lifts it by the collar, fingers slipping into the inner lining.

empty.

he checks again, slower this time.

nothing.

his jaw flexes. the knife should be here. the knife always stays here. he never moves it unless he needs it for a meet, and this one needs it. proof of identity, a token only a handful of people are trusted to carry.

he slips a hand down the other side of the lining, checking even though he already knows.

still nothing.

a long exhale pushes through his nose, not quite a sigh. something closer to annoyance, something sharp and unkind that cuts clean.

“of course,” he mutters.

shameless. or stupid. he isn’t sure which one concerns him more.

he folds the coat quietly, methodically, sets it back down on the table, and stands still for a moment, calculating.

the deal needs that knife. and you have it.

his fingers drum once against the table, then he reaches for his keys.

you’re not hard to find. you’re exactly where he expects you to be.

yoongi steps through the front door without a sound, and you don’t notice him at first, too focused on the stubborn stain near the wall.

he watches you for a moment. long enough for the door to shut behind him and the air to shift.

then, “you take something of mine?”

you freeze. the mop stops mid-stroke and your fingers tighten around the handle. a slow, cold spike threads down your spine.

you turn only your head at first, cautious, like movement might provoke something. yoongi stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable in the flickering bathhouse light.

“no,” you say—too fast, too sharp.

his brow lifts the slightest fraction.

then he moves, each step measured until he’s close enough that the heat of him pushes into your space you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

“you sure?” he asks.

you swallow. “i didn’t take anything.”

yoongi exhales through his nose, a quiet, humorless sound, and then he’s stepping forward. his hand closes around your wrist, the one holding the mop, and he yanks you forward just enough to break your balance. your back hits the wall with a soft, stunned thud, tiles cold through your thin shirt.

the mop handle clatters to the floor and your breath catches.

he isn’t rough, not really, but he’s unyielding. one hand planted beside your head on the wall, the other still wrapped around your wrist, keeping you still.

“don’t lie to me,” he says quietly.

his voice is calm, deceptively so, but his eyes? sharp, focused, dragging over your face as though scanning for every twitch—every flinch, every tell.

“i said,” you manage, “i didn’t take anything.”

his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, your shameless, lying mouth, enough to make your stomach twist, then lifts again.

“then why’s my knife missing?”

your breath stops. “yoongi—” you start.

“don’t.” his grip on your wrist tightens, just enough to remind you he’s stronger than he looks. “don’t pretend you don’t know what i’m talking about.”

his face is inches from yours now, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint smoke clinging to him, see the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“you’re either bold,” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly, “or stupid.”

your throat works around a swallow.

“which one are you?” he asks.

yoongi’s breath drags slow across your cheek, his hand sliding from your wrist to your jaw, thumb pressing just beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward him.

not gentle, not cruel. just… deciding.

“i need it,” he says, voice dropping low, quiet enough that it vibrates more than it sounds. “the knife. it isn’t decoration. it isn’t sentimental. it’s proof.”

“proof for who?” you whisper, swallowing hard.

“certain circles,” he says. and the words sit heavy. “you’re not stupid you know the type. circles that don’t forgive mistakes.”

your stomach knots.

he leans in closer, one forearm braced against the wall beside your head, the other hand still at your jaw, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“you walk around this city blind,” he murmurs, voice tightening. “pretending you don’t know how thin the ice is under your feet. pretending you can take things and walk away.”

“yoongi—”

“if word gets out that you stole it,” he says, cutting you off softly, “you’re done.”

the words hit like a blade.

“they’ll think i let you,” he continues, eyes boring into yours. “or worse, that you meant to sell it. trade it. pass it off to the wrong hands.”

his thumb presses harder against your chin, not enough to bruise, but enough to lock your jaw, keep your eyes on him.

“and if they think that?” he says. “you’ve signed your own death warrant.”

his hand slides from your jaw to your throat. not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing lightly over your pulse.

“this was stupid,” he murmurs. “even for you.”

your throat tightens under his palm. “i don’t have it.”

yoongi’s eyes narrow, just the smallest, lethal shift. his thumb presses once against your pulse, a silent don’t insult me.

“don’t,” he murmurs. “don’t lie to me again.”

“i’m not lying.”

“you are.”

“yoongi—”

“i’m not stupid.”

the way he says it is quiet, almost conversational, but it cuts sharper than anything he’s holding you with. his fingers tighten just slightly at your throat, “where is it?”

your heart stutters and your mouth dries,your palms sweating against the tile. “i pawned it,” you say.

the lie snaps out fast, instinctive and stupid, but it’s the first thing your brain throws out, and you latch onto it like a lifeline.

something shifts in him. he stills, completely.

his hand falls from your throat. his other arm uncurls from the wall and he steps back a single pace.

fuck. fuck!

it’s the only word in his head. it’s in the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flick away from you for the first time since he walked in, the way his fingers curl into his palm like he needs to ground himself before he does something reckless.

pawning it? pawning that? that isn’t shameless. it’s suicidal.

you expect yelling. maybe a threat. maybe for him to grab you again. but instead yoongi drags a hand over his face, stopping at his mouth, thumb pressed against his lip—thinking through every possible outcome and hating all of them.

he breathes out, low and rough. “…fuck.”

you don’t move, you don’t dare.

the mop lies discarded on the floor between you both and the bathhouse hums with sick yellow light. your pulse still hammers in your throat where his hand had been.

yoongi finally looks at you again, and it isn’t fury you see. just recognition of just how deeply fucked this is.

“you really pawned it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, hollow.

you nod, small and quick and terrified.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i pawned it.”

the words sound too small in the echo of the bathhouse, too thin against the buzz of the dying light.

as if to prove you mean it, you shove a hand into each pocket and flip them inside out—empty fabric turning limp and useless, hanging open under the flicker.

“see?” you manage. “i don’t have anything.”

yoongi doesn’t move.

he just stares at you. that unreadable stillness again, except now it’s worse—there’s weight behind it. pressure. a calculation happening behind his eyes that you wish you couldn’t feel.

then, low, “you’re not going back to your apartment.”

your breath catches. “what?”

“not until i’ve gone through it.” his tone doesn’t shift, doesn’t rise. it’s terrifying in its quiet. “wall to wall. every drawer, every crack, every floorboard.”

you shake your head. “you can’t—”

“i can.” he cuts in, stepping closer again. “and i will.”

his shadow stretches across the tiles, folding into yours. he’s calm now—too calm, the kind that comes right before something worse.

“if that knife’s in there,” he says, voice flat, “i’ll find it. and if it’s not—” he exhales once, slow, deliberate—“then i’ll decide what happens next.”

you swallow, throat tight, hands still frozen mid-air.

he tilts his head, gaze steady, unblinking.

“either way,” yoongi murmurs, “you’re not leaving this place until i know for sure.”

seoyun’s here now.

she’s sitting cross-legged on the bath house couch, smoking. babysitting—her word, not yours. she said it when she showed up. said it again when she took your phone, your keys, and told you to “sit tight.”

she brought company too.

the other two—his people—stay posted near the window and the door, both of them too at ease for men who don’t belong here. you think one’s name is namjoon. the other, jin. they’d introduced themselves with soft smiles and polite nods.

you hadn’t fought it, there was no point. because yoongi’s in your apartment. because he’s tearing it apart.

you can hear the dull thud of drawers above you, the scrape of furniture against the floor, the sound of metal hitting metal. steady and methodical.

he’s been at it for forty-five minutes.

you know you didn’t pawn the knife. he doesn’t, but you do. it’s in the dry cleaner’s, still sitting in the cash drawer where you shoved it the night seoyun almost called you out, wrapped in an old receipt and tucked under a row of clipped bills. out of sight, out of mind. forgotten until now.

“you really pissed off some very bad men, sweetheart,” seoyun says, smirking.

you don’t answer. you can still hear muffled movement from the bedroom—drawers opening, a dull thud against the wall, yoongi’s voice low and sharp behind the closed door.

seoyun laughs, head tipping back. “he’s been sweating over this deal for months. months. and you? you manage to ruin it in seconds.” she lets out another laugh, brighter, meaner. “god, that’s talent.”

namjoon looks up from the window, one brow raised, but doesn’t say anything. jin just smirks faintly, scrolling through his phone, pretending not to listen.

seoyun stretches, smoke curling past her fingers. “don’t look so scared. i’m not gonna sell you out. i don’t work for the serpents. never did.” she grins at your silence, eyes glinting through the haze. “but i have to admit, watching him come undone over a girl who can’t keep her hands to herself? that’s a first.”

you shift in your seat. the sound of another door slamming makes you flinch.

yoongi hits the bottom step like a crack of thunder.

the whole room seems to shift around the sound—the floorboards, the air, the quiet. seoyun goes still mid-laugh, one brow lifting as he slams the door open, face drawn tight and sleeves rolled up past his elbows. there’s dust on his hands, on the front of his shirt, a streak of white paint along his wrist from the wall he’s just torn open.

you barely have time to stand before he’s on you.

his hand closes around your collar, dragging you half out of the chair, breath knocking out of you with the motion.

“what fucking shop?” yoongi snarls.

you blink up at him, vision stuttering on the edges. “w-what—”

“don’t play dumb.” his voice drops, quieter but sharper for it. “you said you pawned it. where?”

his eyes are glassy with anger, the kind that burns too cold to show on his face. he’s breathing hard, jaw locked

“yoongi,” seoyun hums, almost amused again, “take a breath.”

he doesn’t hear her. his knuckles tighten in your collar until you feel the fabric bite into your skin.

“which. fucking. shop.”

your hands come up uselessly against his chest. “i—i don’t remember—”

“don’t lie to me.” his voice cracks low, deadly steady. “you remember everything else, don’t you? you remember taking it. hiding it. so where is it?”

your mouth opens, nothing comes out. you can feel your pulse hammering against the inside of your throat.

yoongi jerks you closer until your faces nearly touch, his eyes drilling into yours. “shop name,” he repeats. “say it.”

you can’t, you know you can’t. because there isn’t one.

yoongi stares for another long, unbearable second, then releases you with a shove that sends you stumbling back into the chair.

his breath drags ragged through his teeth. his hands curl once at his sides before he drags them down over his face.

“fuck,” he mutters again. cracked and defeated.

then he turns, and the doorframe shudders as he slams his fist into it on the way out.

yoongi sits at the far end of the table, elbows on his knees, hands clasped hard enough to hurt. the low light of the warehouse throws everyone in slices of shadow, the air heavy with the scent of smoke, oil, and wet concrete.

they’re all here—the ones who matter most tonight. namjoon at his left, calm as ever. jin by the door, arms crossed. jimin off to the side, murmuring under his breath. taehyung’s leaning back in his chair, boots up on the table, expression unreadable. hoseok out, trying to salvage everything.

the knife should be there, center of the table, between the dossiers and the money. instead, there’s nothing.

yoongi drags smoke through his teeth and exhales slow.

“we’ve got forty-eight hours,” namjoon says. “the fangs won’t wait past that.”

“they won’t have to,” yoongi mutters.

he doesn’t look up. his head’s pounding, from the noise, from the light—from the fact that everything is balanced on one stupid, stolen piece of metal.

taehyung clicks his tongue. “so what’s the play, hyung? we go looking for it, or we start digging a grave?”

jimin shoots him a look. “don’t be an ass.”

“i’m being realistic.” taehyung shrugs, all lazy muscle and dead tone. “we can’t show up empty-handed. that knife’s proof of hold, of loyalty. no knife, no deal. no deal, we’re cut off.”

“i know what it is,” yoongi says, flat.

taehyung studies him a moment, then leans forward, grin thin. “then maybe it’s time we cut our losses. throw her to them.”

the room stills. the words hang there, casual but sharp.

“enemy of my enemy,” taehyung continues, tapping a finger against the table. “they get their sacrifice, we get a clean slate. everyone wins.”

yoongi lifts his gaze. there’s no expression on his face, but the temperature in the room drops anyway.

“you’d trade her for a deal?” jungkook asks quietly.

taehyung smirks. “i’d trade anyone if it kept us alive.”

yoongi snuffs out the cigarette on the table’s edge, grinding the ember down until it dies with a faint hiss.

when he speaks, his voice is steady again, too steady.

“no one’s touching her.”

taehyung raises a brow. “since when do you—”

“since i said so.”

the silence after that is thick enough to choke on.

“our one rule,” he says, voice low, “is that we don’t kill.”

the words come out measured. they’ve been said before—on rooftops, in alleys, after long nights where blood was easier than reason. it’s the one rule he’s managed to keep clean.

jimin looks at him from across the table, arms crossed, expression somewhere between sympathy and disbelief. “we wouldn’t be the ones killing her,” he says quietly.

yoongi’s gaze snaps up.

jimin doesn’t flinch. “taehyung’s not wrong,” he continues. “if you hand her over, the fangs handle the rest. she’s the thief. they’ll make an example, and we get distance. technically—” he gestures with two fingers “—no blood on our hands.”

the silence that follows is heavy. somewhere, water drips from the ceiling; the sound feels loud enough to echo.

yoongi’s jaw works. “technically,” he repeats, the word dry, venom-soft. “you think that matters when she’s the one paying for my mistake?”

“she’s not yours to protect,” taehyung mutters.

yoongi’s stare cuts across the table, sharp and cold. “doesn’t change the rule.”

the warehouse door groans open, and hoseok steps through, the cold clinging to him like smoke. there’s dust on his jacket, sweat along his hairline, and frustration rolling off him in quiet waves.

“every shop,” he says, voice clipped, exhausted. “pawn, antique, backdoor dealers, fences. i checked them all.”

yoongi looks up slowly. “and?”

hoseok shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “whoever had it doesn’t anymore. and nobody’s seen anything that matches the description.”

the words settle hard in the space between them.

no knife. no proof. no deal.

yoongi drags a hand over his face, the sound rough against the silence that follows. he doesn’t swear this time. he just sits back, head tipping against the wall behind him.

namjoon leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice even. “then we play it differently. we can give up a thief without saying who. call it a pickpocket, some no-name who ran off with a souvenir. sure, it makes us look sloppy, but it’s good enough.”

yoongi’s eyes flick toward him. “and when the bounty hits?” he asks. “nameless or not, they’ll find her eventually. especially with the crows sitting fence. being team serpents isn’t exactly good business right now.”

the room goes still again. taehyung shifts in his chair. hoseok looks between them, silent.

“then we don’t give her up,” namjoon says finally. “not yet. we lock her down instead. safe house, out of reach. she doesn’t have to die. she can help us find the knife, and we get the heat off our backs until we do.”

yoongi’s stare lingers on him, long enough that the air starts to hum with something unspoken. then he exhales, the sound closer to a growl than a breath.

“done deal,” he mutters.

and that’s it. decision made. no vote, no argument.

you’re officially their mess. his mess.

Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”

You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.

The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.

And then there’s Yoongi.

He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.

You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.

It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”

That’s it. The thread is tied.

For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.

And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.

After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.

Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.

A new group chat.

Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].

Taehyung: ooooh new friend

Jin: more people to roast me, great

Yoongi: …

Yoongi: who let her in here

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:

the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.

And just like that, it’s on.

From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.

You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.

It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.

And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.

It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.

At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.

Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.

He leans closer, murmurs just for you:

“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”

You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.

Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.

It becomes a pattern:

You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.

He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.

The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.

In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.

Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.

Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.

You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.

You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.

Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.

At least, until it isn’t.

It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.

Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.

So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.

But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.

A date.

“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.

You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”

You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.

The silence feels heavier than it should.

You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.

But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.

And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.

When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.

But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.

You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.

Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.

The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.

You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.

It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.

Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.

“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.

“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”

The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.

He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.

The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”

You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.

Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.

And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.

You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.

His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.

You thought Yoongi would be proud.

But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.

Not Yoongi.

You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.

With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.

By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.

When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.

The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.

Your phone buzzes. One name.

yoon: How was the date?

You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?

You type:

you: it wasn’t… horrible.

Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:

you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.

There’s a pause. Then:

yoon: lmao

yoon: finally, some honesty

And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.

Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.

You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.

“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”

Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”

Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”

Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”

Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”

You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”

Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”

The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”

Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.

Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”

“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”

The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.

You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”

Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”

Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”

The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.

The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.

“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Jin throws his head back. “Again?”

Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”

Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”

Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”

The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.

Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.

Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.

He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”

You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”

His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”

The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”

Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”

The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.

You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”

That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”

The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.

“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”

Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”

Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”

Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.

But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”

Oh, he knows what he just did.

The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.

Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.

And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.

But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.

You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.

And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?

The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.

“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.

“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”

“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.

Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”

That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.

“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.

Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”

“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”

“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”

The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”

You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.

And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.

But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”

Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.

You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.

But inside?

Inside, he knows the truth.

He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.

Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.

If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.

And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.

On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.

Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.

But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”

You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.

Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.

If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.

It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.

yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?

You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.

you: For what?

yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.

you: Oh. That.

you: I’m not picking out anything special.

yoon: Why not.

you: Because it’s not that serious.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.

yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.

you: You sound like Hobi.

yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.

Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.

you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?

yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.

You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.

you: That hoodie is a classic.

yoon: It’s fucking tragic.

You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.

The Birthday Party

Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.

“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”

You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”

The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.

It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd — everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.

Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”

“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”

You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words — pick something that makes you feel good — and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.

As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.

“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”

Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.

Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.

The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people — people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.

It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.

You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is — the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.

Your Yoongi.

Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”

“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”

Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”

Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”

Hoseok grins, “Yeah, Y/N! You’re killin’ it, girl!”

You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.

Still no sign of him. What the fuck.

And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.

How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”

He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.

And then—

“Birthday girl!”

The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.

Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”

You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”

“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”

You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”

“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”

You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.

“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”

Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.

Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.

Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?

You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“There’s my birthday girl.”

Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”

Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”

You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”

“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”

Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.

Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”

Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.

That was fucking weird.

The night spins forward in a blur.

You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.

It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.

Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.

You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.

Yoongi.

He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.

Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.

And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.

Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.

Because you see him—and then you see her.

She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.

Yoongi is looking at you.

But he’s talking to her.

His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.

He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.

Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”

You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”

“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”

“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”

You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.

Ignore him. Ignore that.

The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.

Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”

You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”

He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”

“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.

You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.

Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.

He’s still looking.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”

Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.

“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.

“To surviving Jimin’s planning,” Namjoon adds dryly.

“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.

“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”

“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.

You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.

“Again,” Jimin threatens.

“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”

“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.

You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.

Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.

You do not look.

You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.

“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.

At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.

“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.

You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.

Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.

You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”

“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”

Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”

You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.

“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.

You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?

She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”

“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”

You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”

Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.

“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”

The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”

“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”

You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”

She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.

You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.

Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.

You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.

You won’t look.

“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”

“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.

Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—

—and then you stop.

Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.

You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.

“Hey.”

It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.

Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.

His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”

A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.

He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.

“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”

“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”

It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.

“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.

You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”

“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”

“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”

His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”

You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”

Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.

Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”

You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”

“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.

Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”

He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.

“Dance with me,” he says.

You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.

You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”

It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.

He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.

“Okay,” he says, and steps back.

You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.

Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”

You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.

You don’t look back up at the balcony.

You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.

You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.

You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.

You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.

The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.

Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.

Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:

“Y/N.”

Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.

You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”

He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”

He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.

“Try again.”

“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”

Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”

“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you.”

“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”