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WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 03

˗ˏˋmiki ˎˊ˗

Butterflies are stupid and his couch is stupidly comfy—so much so, sleeping there feels more like home than anything you've experienced in five years of careful independence.

next | index

—chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: instant ramen as currency, professional artistic collaboration that feels decidedly unprofessional, Hoseok in glasses (devastating), meet Miki the cat-succubus, vulnerable positioning and careful touches, falling asleep during work sessions, Momo's official seal of approval, and the dangerous comfort of being understood by someone who used to know all your secrets.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

It's finally here!!! I know, I know. This one took a minute. I sat with this chapter longer than usual because I really wanted to get the tone right—specifically the dialogue. There's this particular ache I was trying to translate, that bittersweet flavor of a reunion that almost feels like comfort, but doesn't quite fit right anymore because too much time has passed and neither of you are the same.

I wanted you to feel that dissonance she's sitting in—the "yes, but no, but… yes?"—that weirdly intimate kind of safety that feels dangerous when nothing's felt safe for the last five years. You know that unsettling familiarity when someone you used to know just was part of your life by default, and now you're seeing them again… changed? Sharper, older, realer. And suddenly you catch yourself wondering, if we'd met now instead of then, would things be different? Would romantic interest be on the table?

And you don't even realize you're mourning a version of you that never got to find out. That timeline that's already gone. She's not thinking that outright—narration never says it, because limited POV—but the vibe is there. She feels it. You feel it. I feel it. We are all just crawling around inside that ambiguous grief together.

Honestly, I think I did a good job (if I do say so myself) at making it uncomfortable in a way that forces you to just… sit with it. Am I a masochist for liking that? Probably. But also, this is literally my 10th slowburn. You're still here. Who's the real masochist. Be honest.

Unless this is your first story of mine—in that case, welcome. Come in. Sit down. The train to slow burn hell has already departed, and you're in excellent company. Ask for the peanut cookies. They slap. (Unless you have an allergy, in which case please do not. Or do. But also, I'm legally absolved of any consequences because you clicked past the author's notes and content warnings, which is basically a pact of zero liability. Sorry bestie.)

Anyway. Once again I've derailed. Shocking absolutely no one.

Also? That whole conversation about Miki? The ancient ones know exactly what I'm doing. You've seen the blueprint before. For the new readers: nothing in Kiki Nation exists without intention. Let that marinate. Digest it. There will be a pop quiz in your feelings later.

And finally… Momo. Sleeping on Y/N’s bag? That moment of being chosen by something small and vulnerable that doesn’t trust easily? Yeah, sit with that too. Sometimes acceptance comes from the most unexpected sources, and sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight.

That's all for now. See you in the next one. May Osaka's neon lights guide you forward. Mwah.

—read on

wattpad

ao3

The ramen packets are sweating in your hands.

You're standing outside Hoseok's door like some kind of convenience store offering sacrifice, holding two packs of instant noodles because showing up empty-handed felt weird but bringing actual food felt too much like you were trying.

The ramen splits the difference perfectly—practical, cheap, and just thoughtful enough to avoid looking like you care.

Which you don't.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift the noodle packets to check the screen. The message thread from today stares back at you, a digital paper trail of your questionable decision-making skills.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:23 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:47 AM): 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:48 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:15 PM): 𝟽. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (2:16 PM): 𝙼𝚎? 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍? 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:20 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 PM): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛? 𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:35 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:36 PM): 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠! ＼(^o^)／

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:37 PM): 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:38 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜! 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:39 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:40 PM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎! 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:42 PM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You'd been replying between peptide copy edits, because apparently writing compelling marketing copy about anti-aging molecules is exactly as mind-numbing as it sounds. Davidson had spent the entire afternoon explaining the importance of 'consumer-centric biochemical messaging,' which is just corporate speak for 'make science sound sexy without actually explaining anything.'

At least you'd made a friend today. Sort of.

Yuki from accounting had appeared at your desk around lunch with a cup of coffee and a conspiratorial whisper about how Davidson once spent forty minutes in a meeting discussing the 'synergistic potential of collaborative ideation platforms'—which turned out to mean 'maybe we should use email more.'

She'd lingered by your cubicle, making dry observations about the office dynamics while you pretended to work on peptide enthusiasm, and for twenty minutes you'd felt almost normal. Like maybe you could actually exist in this corporate hellscape without losing your entire mind.

But now you're here, standing in front of Hoseok's door with instant ramen and a stomach full of butterflies that you're aggressively ignoring.

Because butterflies are stupid.

And this is just… helping an old friend with a work project. Very professional. Very normal. The kind of thing adults do for each other without making it weird.

Except your hands are definitely shaking slightly, and you can't decide if it's nerves or caffeine withdrawal, and the butterflies are doing some kind of interpretive dance routine in your chest that feels distinctly non-professional.

You shift the ramen packets again, plastic crinkling in the hallway silence.

Someone's cooking curry behind one of the other doors, and the building's ancient elevator is making that grinding sound that suggests it's one mechanical failure away from trapping someone between floors.

Normal Tuesday evening. Normal friend visit. Normal absolutely-not-a-big-deal modeling session for your childhood friend's pornographic manga.

God, when you put it like that, it sounds even worse.

You raise your hand to knock, then pause.

Because once you knock, this becomes real.

Once that door opens, you're officially Y/N-who-poses-for-hentai instead of Y/N-who-just-moved-to-Osaka-and-happened-to-reconnect-with-an-old-friend.

The ramen packets are getting warm from your death grip.

Through the thin walls, you can hear movement inside the apartment—footsteps, something being dragged across the floor, what sounds like Hoseok talking to himself in rapid Japanese.

Probably setting up his 'very professional workspace' with the same level of organization he applied to everything else in his life, which is to say, chaotic good at best.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (6:58 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛? 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎.

Shit.

You knock before you can change your mind, three sharp raps that echo through the narrow corridor.

The movement inside stops immediately, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and what might be Hoseok tripping over something.

"Coming!" his voice calls through the door, muffled but distinctly flustered. "Just a second! Don't leave!"

The 'don't leave' hits differently than it should, like he's genuinely worried you might bolt.

Which is ridiculous, because you're here, aren't you? Standing in his hallway with convenience store dinner like some kind of domestic goddess of questionable life choices.

Although, to be fair, bolting is exactly what every rational part of your brain is suggesting right now.

The door opens, and there's Hoseok—hair messy like he's been running his hands through it, wearing paint-splattered sweatpants and a washed out t-shirt that's seen better days, grinning at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all week.

"Capy!" He's slightly out of breath, eyes bright with what looks like genuine excitement. "You actually came!"

"I said I would." You hold up the ramen packets like evidence. "I brought dinner."

His grin somehow gets wider. "She brings food! She stays! She might actually be the perfect woman!"

"Don't push it, Ott."

But the butterflies are doing something complicated in your chest at the way he's looking at you—like you showing up with instant ramen is somehow the most wonderful surprise in the world.

Which is ridiculous.

But also kind of nice.

Which is dangerous.

"Well," you say, because standing in the hallway analyzing your feelings about his expression is definitely not what you're here for, "are you going to let me in, or should I just model in the corridor for your neighbors' entertainment?"

"Right, yeah, come in." He steps back, gesturing you inside with unnecessary flourish. "Welcome to my professional artistic studio."

You step past him and immediately forget how to function like a normal human being.

Because apparently, while you weren't paying attention yesterday through your alcohol-induced haze, Jung Hoseok went and got... attractive.

Not that he wasn't before. He was always decent-looking in that gangly, hyperactive way that made middle school girls giggle and write his name in their notebooks.

But this is different. This is grown-up attractive. This is the kind of attractive that makes you forget why you came here in the first place.

The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're his favorite. His t-shirt is faded black with some band logo you can't quite make out—Radiohead, maybe?—stretched across shoulders that are definitely broader than they were at seventeen.

But it's his hair that really gets you.

You hadn't noticed yesterday. Too focused on the shock of seeing him again, the surreal experience of Jung Hoseok existing in your new reality.

But now, standing in the warm light of his apartment, you can see that he's grown it out. It curls slightly at the nape of his neck, longer than he ever wore it in school, and it's not the black you remember.

It's brown now. Cinnamon, almost. Like he's been spending time in the sun, or dyeing it, or just letting time change him in ways you weren't around to witness.

And he's wearing glasses.

Black, rectangular frames that perch on his nose like they belong there, even though you're pretty sure they didn't exist five years ago. They should look ridiculous. Sixteen-year-old you would have laughed yourself sick seeing Jung Hoseok in glasses. Called him a nerd, stolen them off his face, made some comment about four-eyes.

Instead, you're staring.

Like an idiot.

Because somehow, impossibly, they suit him. Frame his face in a way that makes his eyes look wider, more serious. Less like the hyper kid who used to climb trees to impress you and more like...

Well. Like a man who draws pornographic manga for a living and just invited you over to pose for him.

Fuck.

"You're staring at my face," he says, and there's amusement in his voice that makes heat creep up your neck.

"I'm staring at your glasses," you correct, because admitting you were staring at his face feels too much like admitting something else entirely. "When did you get glasses?"

"Oh, these?" He reaches up and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About two years ago. Turns out staring at tiny manga panels for twelve hours a day isn't great for your eyesight. Who knew?"

"You used to brag about having perfect vision."

"I used to brag about a lot of things." He squints at you without the glasses, and the gesture is so familiar—so purely Hoseok—that something twists in your chest. "Remember when I told everyone I could see individual leaves on trees from like a kilometer away?"

"You said you had hawk eyes. You made it your entire personality for like three months."

"Hey, I did have exceptional distance vision! I could spot your mom's car from six blocks away!"

"Because it was bright yellow and shaped like a brick. A blind person could have spotted it."

He laughs, that same too-loud sound that used to embarrass you in public. "Okay, fair point. But still. Peak visual acuity, right there."

"And now you can't see your own hand without assistance."

"I can see my hand just fine, thank you very much. It's the small print that gets me. And computer screens. And basically anything requiring detail work, which is unfortunately my entire career."

He slides the glasses back on, and you have to look away because the simple action shouldn't be that... noticeable.

"So," you say, holding up the ramen packets like a shield between you and whatever the hell your brain is doing right now. "Dinner?"

"Right. Food. Very important." But he doesn't move toward the kitchen immediately.

Instead, he stands there for a moment, looking at you looking at anything except him, and the silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.

You both blink.

The butterflies in your stomach decide this is an excellent time to reminder you of their existence, doing some kind of acrobatic routine that makes you want to press a hand to your chest and tell them to calm the fuck down.

You look away first, studying the manga stacks like they're the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck—a gesture so achingly familiar that you feel something crack in your chest.

"Kitchen's this way," he says, nodding toward the narrow galley. "Hope you're hungry. I may have accidentally forgotten to eat today. Time got away from me."

"Accidentally forgot to eat? How do you accidentally forget to eat?"

"Very easily when you're trying to perfect the angle of someone's... uh, shoulder blade. For artistic accuracy."

You trail behind him, checking the way he moves through his space—comfortable, loose-limbed, like he belongs here in a way you've never belonged anywhere.

"Shoulder blade," you repeat. "Sure."

"Hey, shoulder blades are surprisingly difficult to draw! There's all these muscles and the way the light hits them and—" He stops, glancing at you sideways. "You're going to mock me for caring about anatomical accuracy, aren't you?"

"I'm going to mock you for a lot of things, but anatomical accuracy isn't one of them."

"Wow. Actual respect for my craft. I'm touched, Capy. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"So," he says, nodding toward the kitchenette. "Hungry? We could eat first, before… You know. The thing."

"The thing?"

"The professional artistic collaboration thing."

"Just call it what it is, Ott."

"Fine. Before you pose for my dirty manga."

"Better."

You follow him to the kitchen area, which is basically just a counter with a hot plate and a sink the size of a soup bowl. He's already clearing space, moving art supplies and what appears to be a collection of empty coffee cans.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting you for dinner when I set up my sophisticated meal preparation station this morning."

"It's instant ramen, not a five-course meal."

"Still counts as hosting. I'm being very domestic right now. Very adult."

You hand him the ramen packets, trying not to notice how his fingers brush yours when he takes them.

"If this is your idea of domestic, I'm concerned for your future."

"Hey, I'll have you know I've kept myself alive for five years. That's basically domestic mastery."

"The bar is on the floor."

"And I'm stepping over it with grace and style."

He fills a pot with water, and you lean against the counter, watching him move around the tiny space.

It's weirdly… hypnotic, the way he navigates the cramped kitchen, the familiarity of someone who's learned to live alone.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

"Do they look stupid? Be honest."

You frown. "The glasses?"

He nods.

"They look..." You pause, because good is not a safe word here. "They look like glasses. On your face. Very glass-like."

"Wow, Capy. Such poetry. I'm moved."

"You asked for honesty, not flattery."

"I asked for honesty. You gave me evasion."

He's not wrong, but you're not about to admit that the glasses actually work for him. That they make him look more... mature? Professional? Like he could be someone who does important things instead of drawing cartoon people having sex.

The water starts boiling, and he drops in the ramen noodles in the pot like he's performing surgery. You watch him tear open the flavor packets, stirring everything together with a fork because apparently he doesn't own proper cooking utensils.

"Gourmet dining at its finest," he announces, dividing the noodles between two bowls. "Five-star presentation."

"Michelin would be impressed."

"They should be. This is my signature dish."

You take your bowl and follow him to the low table, settling on the floor cushions he's apparently arranged for the occasion.

The ramen is exactly what you expected—salty, artificial, perfectly mediocre.

But there's something weirdly nice about eating it here, in his space, while he makes exaggerated sounds of appreciation like it's the best meal he's ever had.

"So," he says between bites, "how was day two of corporate hell?"

"Day two of wondering why I ever thought marketing was a good career choice. I spent three hours writing copy about peptides, and I still don't know what a peptide is."

"Sounds very important and scientific."

"It's anti-aging cream. Apparently peptides make your skin young forever, but only if you describe them with enough enthusiasm."

"And do you have enthusiasm for age-defying peptides?"

"I have enthusiasm for paychecks. The peptides can go fuck themselves."

He laughs, nearly choking on his ramen.

"There's the Capy I remember. Always so passionate about skincare."

"I made a friend, though. Yuki from accounting. She seems normal, which is a minor miracle in that place."

"Normal how?"

"Normal like she also thinks Davidson is an idiot and doesn't pretend otherwise. Normal like she brought me coffee without making it weird. Normal like she might actually be tolerable to eat lunch with."

"Look at you, making friends. Very socially adjusted."

"Don't make it sound like an achievement. I'm a perfectly normal, likeable person."

"You're many things, Capy. Likeable is... debatable."

You kick him under the table. "Rude."

"Accurate."

"I'm charming and delightful."

"You're sharp and terrifying. It's not the same thing."

"Sharp and terrifying are excellent qualities."

"For intimidating coworkers and small children, maybe."

"And for keeping annoying childhood friends in line."

"Is that what you're doing? Keeping me in line?"

The question comes out lighter than it should, but there's something underneath it that makes you look up from your ramen.

He's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes your stomach do complicated things.

"Someone has to," you say, aiming for casual and missing by miles.

"Lucky me."

The way he says it makes the air in the tiny apartment feel thicker somehow. Like you're both suddenly aware that you're sitting on his floor, eating instant noodles, about to do something that definitely falls outside the bounds of normal friendship.

You focus very hard on your ramen.

"This is good," you lie, because the silence is getting dangerous.

"It's terrible," he corrects. "But it's cheap and it fills the void."

"Poetic."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Right. Speaking of which." You set down your chopsticks, trying to inject some professionalism into your voice. "How exactly does this... process work? The reference thing?"

He blinks, like he forgot why you're actually here.

"Oh. Right. The work thing."

"The work thing."

"Very professional work thing."

"Hoseok."

"Right." He runs a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching. "Basically, I just need to see how a real person would naturally position themselves in certain... scenarios. For accuracy."

"Scenarios."

"Character scenarios. Plot-relevant positioning."

"Uh-huh."

"Nothing weird! Just... you know. Natural body language. Realistic expressions. How someone would actually move in—"

"I get it, Ott. You need reference photos. You don't have to make it sound like a nature documentary."

"Reference sketches, actually. I don't do photos."

"Why not?"

He looks genuinely surprised by the question.

"Because sketching is more... interpretive? I can capture the feeling of a pose, not just the literal anatomy. Photos are too static."

"Huh."

"What huh?"

"Nothing. Just... that actually makes sense. From an artistic perspective."

"You sound shocked that I have artistic perspectives."

"I'm shocked that you explained it without making a single inappropriate joke."

"The night is young, Capy. Give me time."

And there it is—the grin that makes your chest do that annoying warm thing. The same grin that used to convince you to climb trees you couldn't get down from and steal candy from corner stores and lie to your parents about where you'd been all afternoon.

Dangerous then.

Dangerous now.

"So," you say, standing up and collecting the empty bowls before this gets any more domestic than it already has. "Show me this very professional workspace of yours."

He scrambles to his feet, glasses sliding down his nose before he catches them.

"Right. Work. Professional work space. Very legitimate artistic endeavor."

"It better be, Ott. Because if this is some elaborate scheme to get me naked, I'm going to murder you with your own art supplies."

"Noted," he says, grinning. "Death by paintbrush. Very avant-garde."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You follow him toward the work area (which is his bedroom), trying to ignore the way your pulse is picking up speed.

This is fine. This is normal. This is just you helping an old friend with a professional project.

Except nothing about this feels professional.

His bedroom is... not what you had expected.

You had been bracing yourself for some kind of stereotypical artist's den—paint-splattered walls, canvases stacked everywhere, maybe some pretentious black-and-white photographs of naked women he'd claim were 'artistic studies.'

Instead, it's surprisingly organized. Clean, even.

The bed is made, which is more than you can say for your own apartment most days. There's a proper desk setup against the window—not just a folding table, but an actual wooden desk with multiple drawers and a lamp that looks like it cost more than your monthly train pass. Art supplies are arranged in neat containers, pencils sorted by type, brushes standing at attention in glass jars.

"Wow," you say, because the alternative is standing there gaping like an idiot. "You actually clean."

"I'm a professional, Capy. I told you." He's moving around the space with that same easy familiarity, clearing some sketches off a chair. "Can't work in chaos. Well, I can, but it's not optimal for the creative process."

"The creative process," you repeat, settling into the chair he's indicated. "Right."

The desk is positioned so you're facing away from the bed, which is probably intentional. Less distracting that way. More professional.

Except now you can't stop thinking about the fact that his bed is right behind you, and that's somehow worse than if you could see it.

"So," he says, pulling out a thick portfolio from one of the desk drawers. "Meet Miki."

He opens the portfolio, and you're immediately confronted with...

Well. A lot of things at once.

The first thing you notice is that the art is actually good. Not just technically competent—though it clearly is—but genuinely engaging. The character designs are distinctive, the linework confident, the compositions dynamic in a way that draws your eye across the page.

The second thing you notice is that the main character is definitely not human.

"She has cat ears," you observe, because stating the obvious seems safer than processing the rest of what you're seeing.

"And a tail," Hoseok adds helpfully, flipping to a character sheet that shows the full design. "She's half-succubus, half-nekomata. It's a whole thing."

"A succubus." You lean closer, studying the character design. "Like, a sex demon."

"Technically, yes. But she's more complicated than that."

The character—Miki—is drawn in various poses and expressions across the page. She's definitely designed to be attractive, but there's something more nuanced in her face than typical anime girl proportions. Her eyes have an almost wolfish quality, but also a softness that makes you want to keep looking.

"She feeds on sexual energy," Hoseok continues, settling into his own chair and pulling out what looks like a script. "But unlike traditional succubi, she forms emotional attachments to her... food sources."

"Food sources."

"The people she feeds from. Usually it's supposed to be impersonal—take what you need, move on. But Miki keeps getting attached, which creates problems."

You flip through more pages, getting a sense of the story.

The art style is more sophisticated than you'd expected from hentai manga, with detailed backgrounds and character expressions that actually convey emotion beyond basic lust.

"So what's the conflict?" you ask, because despite yourself, you're curious. "She's a sex demon who catches feelings?"

"Basically. She's trying to figure out if she can have genuine relationships when her fundamental nature is predatory. Can someone love you if they know you literally need to feed off them to survive?"

There's something in his voice when he says it that makes you glance up at him. He's focused on organizing his drawing supplies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

"Heavy themes for porn," you comment.

"It's not just porn," he says, and there's a defensive edge to his tone. "I mean, yes, there are explicit scenes, but they serve the story. The sex isn't just gratuitous—it's integral to her character development."

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean to insult your artistic integrity."

"You did, but I'll forgive you." He grins, but it's a little strained. "The publisher likes it because it has crossover appeal. Female readers connect with the emotional stuff, male readers get the explicit content. Everyone wins."

You turn back to the portfolio, studying a page that shows Miki in what's clearly a more intimate scene. The positioning is definitely explicit, but there's something almost tender in the way it's drawn. The focus isn't just on the physical act, but on the characters' faces, their emotional connection.

"She's actually... kind of relatable," you admit reluctantly.

"Yeah?" His voice perks up with genuine interest. "How so?"

"The whole thing about being afraid someone will reject you if they see who you really are. That's pretty universal, isn't it?"

"That's exactly what I was going for." He leans forward, animated now. "She puts on this confident, seductive front, but underneath she's terrified that her true nature makes her unlovable. So she keeps people at a distance, even when she craves connection."

You study another page, this one showing Miki alone in what looks like a small apartment, curled up on a couch with an expression of profound loneliness.

"The cat thing," you say. "Why cats specifically?"

"Nekomata are traditionally shapeshifters in Japanese folklore. They can appear human but retain feline characteristics. It fits with her dual nature—she's caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either."

"And the succubus part?"

"Succubi are also shapeshifters, traditionally. They appear as whatever their target desires most. So Miki is constantly shifting, constantly adapting to what others want from her, but she's lost track of who she actually is."

You flip to another page, this one showing Miki moving her hands in what you guess is a… cat manner? If that makes sense?

"So where do I come in?" you ask. "What kind of reference do you need?"

Hoseok clears his throat, suddenly looking less confident. "Well, the thing is... I'm good at drawing male anatomy. I understand how men move, how they express emotion physically; and I so happen to have a dick—"

"I'll murder you."

"—but female anatomy, especially in... intimate situations... I struggle with making it look natural."

You narrow your eyes now. "Natural how?"

"Like, how would a real woman actually position herself in this scenario? What would her facial expression be? How would her body language change based on her emotional state?" He's talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "I can copy from photo references, but they're all posed, artificial. I need to see how someone would naturally move, respond, react."

You look back at the manga pages, blinking.

"You want me to pose like her. In these situations."

"Just for reference! Nothing weird, just... showing me how the anatomy would work, how the positioning would look realistic."

"Hoseok." You set the portfolio down, fixing him with a stare. "These are sex scenes."

"Well, yes, but—"

"You're asking me to pose for sex scenes."

"For reference! For art! It's completely professional!"

"Professional sex scene posing."

"It's not—okay, when you put it like that, it sounds weird, but it's really not. It's just figure drawing with more specific requirements."

You lean back in the chair, processing this.

On one hand, it's clearly ridiculous.

On the other hand, the art is genuinely good, and you can see how having realistic references would improve it.

And on the third hand—the hand you're trying very hard to ignore—there's something about the idea that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with artistic appreciation.

"What exactly would this involve?"

"Basic positioning, mostly. Like, if Miki is supposed to be in this pose," he points to a page showing the character in a suggestive but not explicitly sexual position, "I need to see how a real person would naturally hold themselves. Where the weight would distribute, how the muscles would engage, what the facial expression would actually look like."

"And the more... explicit stuff?"

He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in his pencil collection.

"We'd work up to that. Start with basic poses, see how it goes. Nothing you're not comfortable with."

"Comfortable with," you repeat. "Right."

There's a moment of silence where you both pretend to study the manga pages, but you're actually trying to figure out if this is the stupidest idea you've ever considered or just the most complicated.

"The character," you say finally. "Miki. She's supposed to be seductive, right? Confident?"

"On the surface, yeah. But under it all, she's vulnerable. Scared. She uses the seduction as a defense mechanism."

"Sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

You ignore the question, flipping through more pages.

The story is actually engaging, despite—or maybe because of—the explicit content. Miki's internal struggle feels genuine, her relationships complex and emotionally fraught.

"How long have you been working on this?" you ask.

"About eight months. It's supposed to be a twelve-chapter series, and I'm on chapter six now. The deadline pressure is getting intense."

"And you've been struggling with the female anatomy this whole time?"

"Getting worse, actually. The later chapters are more... intimate. More complex emotionally and physically. I keep getting stuck on scenes that should be straightforward."

You study a page showing Miki in what's clearly a moment of distress.

"She's not what I expected," you admit.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Generic anime girl with cat ears? Typical male fantasy bullshit?"

"And instead?"

"Instead she's..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "She's actually a character. With depth. With real problems that aren't just 'oh no, I'm so sexy and everyone wants me.'"

"That was the point. I wanted to create something that elevated the genre, you know? Something that used the explicit content to explore genuine emotional themes."

"And you think I can help with that?"

"I think you understand her," he says quietly. "The way you described her just now—you get what I'm trying to do with the character. That's what I need for the reference work. Not just someone who can hold a pose, but someone who understands the emotional context."

You look at him, really look at him, and see something you hadn't noticed before.

This isn't just a job for him.

This is work he cares about, work he's proud of, even if he's embarrassed by the genre.

"Okay," you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. The reference thing. But we start small, and if it gets weird, I'm out."

His face lights up with genuine relief and excitement. "Really? You'll actually do it?"

"Don't make me regret it, Ott."

"I won't. I promise. This is going to be so helpful, you have no idea."

"Yeah, well." You close the portfolio, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "Just remember—I'm doing this for art. For your artistic integrity and professional development."

"Absolutely. Completely professional."

"Good."

"Good."

You both sit there for a moment, the weight of what you've just agreed to settling between you.

"So," you say finally. "Where do we start?"

"Basic expressions first," Hoseok says, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil from his organized collection. "Just... be yourself, but think about Miki's emotional state."

"Be myself while thinking about a cat-succubus. Sure. That's totally normal."

"You know what I mean." He settles back in his chair, pencil poised. "She's guarded, right? Like she's always ready to run or fight. But she's also trying to appear confident."

You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of your own face.

"How exactly does one look like a confident cat-succubus?"

"Just... think about how you look when you're trying to convince someone you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."

The accuracy of that hits uncomfortably close to home. "Rude."

"Accurate," he corrects, already sketching. "Tilt your chin up slightly. Yeah, like that. But soften your eyes a bit—she's not actually angry, just defensive."

You adjust your expression, trying to find the balance between aloof and vulnerable.

It's weird, being studied this intently. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the paper, analyzing, cataloging.

"Good," he murmurs, pencil moving across the page. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Like you're daring someone to get too close while secretly hoping they will."

"I don't look like that."

"You absolutely look like that. You've been looking like that since we were sixteen."

"I have not—"

"Don't move," he says quickly. "That expression right there—that's perfect. The little frown, the way your eyebrows pull together. She does that when someone calls her out on something true."

You hold the pose, trying not to think about what it means that he can read your expressions so easily.

That he's been reading them for years, apparently.

"Okay, now hands," he says after a few minutes of sketching. "Miki's very tactile, but she's also careful about touch. Like she wants to reach out but stops herself."

"How do I pose that?"

"Lift your hand like you're going to touch something, but pull back at the last second. Like you changed your mind."

You raise your hand, extending it toward an imaginary object, then curl your fingers back slightly.

"More hesitation," he says, not looking up from his sketch. "Like you want something but you're afraid of what will happen if you actually take it."

You adjust the position, letting more uncertainty creep into the gesture.

"Perfect. Hold that."

The pencil scratches against paper, and you find yourself watching his face as he works.

His expression is completely focused, serious in a way you rarely see. Behind the glasses, his eyes are intent, studying the curve of your fingers, the angle of your wrist.

"You're actually good at this," you say quietly.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just... I don't know. Seeing you work is different than I expected."

"Different how?"

"More professional. More... real."

He glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

"What did you think it would be like?"

"I don't know. Messier? More chaotic? You were always so scattered in school."

"I grew up, Capy. People change."

There's something in his tone that makes you study his face more carefully.

"Do they?"

"Some things change. Some things don't."

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

"Okay," he says finally, setting down the pencil. "That's good for basic expressions. Now I need to see how you'd naturally position yourself in some of the more... interactive scenes."

"Interactive."

"Like, if Miki is supposed to be sitting close to someone, or reaching for them, or..." He trails off, flipping through the portfolio to find a specific page. "Here. This scene. She's supposed to be leaning toward her partner, but not quite touching. Intimate but hesitant."

You study the page. It's not explicitly sexual, but it's definitely suggestive—Miki positioned close to a male character, her body language indicating desire but also uncertainty.

"So I just... lean forward?"

"Yeah, but naturally. Like you would if you were actually in that situation."

You shift in your chair, leaning toward where an imaginary partner would be sitting.

It feels weird and stupid.

"It looks forced," Hoseok says, frowning at his sketch. "Like you're posing for a photo instead of actually wanting to be close to someone."

"Because I am posing for a photo. Essentially."

"Right, but... here." He sets down his pencil and stands up. "Can I show you?"

"Show me how?"

"The positioning. It'll be easier if I demonstrate."

Before you can fully process what he's suggesting, he's moving toward you, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that you can smell the citrusy notes of cologne that cling to him.

That has changed, too.

It's yuzu.

"Like this," he says, his voice quieter now. "If you were actually drawn to someone, you wouldn't just lean forward mechanically. You'd angle your whole body toward them."

His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching.

"Can I...?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and careful, adjusting your position.

"Turn slightly this way. Yeah, like that. And drop your shoulder a bit—you're holding tension here."

His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he adjusts your posture, and you both freeze.

It's barely contact. Just his thumb against the edge of your shirt, the barest hint of skin-to-skin touch.

But something electric shoots through you at the contact, making your breath catch.

"Sorry," he says quickly, but he doesn't immediately pull away. "I just—the positioning was—"

"It's fine," you manage, even though it's not fine at all.

It's the opposite of fine.

It's your childhood friend's hands on your shoulders and his face inches from yours and your heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"Better," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That's much more natural."

"Hoseok," you say, and his name comes out softer than you intended.

"Yeah?"

"You should probably..." You gesture vaguely at his hands, still resting on your shoulders.

"Right. Yeah. Professional distance."

Then he steps back, running a hand through his hair, and the spell breaks.

"That's the position," he says, settling back into his chair and picking up his pencil with hands that aren't quite steady. "Much better. More believable."

"Good," you say, trying to ignore the way your skin still feels warm where he touched you. "Professional artistic collaboration."

"Exactly. Very professional."

But when he starts sketching again, you notice the way his eyes linger on your face, the way his pencil moves more slowly across the paper.

This is fine, you tell yourself. This is just helping a friend with work.

The fact that your pulse is racing and your skin feels too warm and you keep thinking about the careful way he touched you—that's all completely irrelevant.

Professional.

Artistic.

Totally under control.

"Next pose?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

"Right," he says, flipping to another page. "This one's a bit more... close contact."

And despite everything you just told yourself about staying professional, you find yourself leaning forward slightly, curious to see what he'll ask for next.

Hoseok's couch is, begrudgingly, comfortable.

The next pose requires you to lie on your side, one arm stretched above your head, the other curved around an imaginary partner.

"This is for chapter five," Hoseok explains, flipping through his reference sheets. "Miki's supposed to be in this post-intimacy moment, maintaining some of her feline independence."

You settle onto the couch, adjusting your position until it feels natural. Which is a task in itself, because it's not precisely roomy despite being comfy, and your own disastrous bun (which you ended putting up after hair kept getting in the way) is making it impossible.

The cushions, luckily, are softer than you expected, worn in a way that suggests this is where he actually sleeps most nights rather than bothering with the futon.

"Turn your face toward me slightly," he says, pencil already moving. "Good. Now soften your expression—she's content but still guarded."

The pose is comfortable enough, but holding it for extended periods makes your shoulder ache. You shift slightly, trying to maintain the position while relieving the pressure.

"Sorry," Hoseok says, noticing your discomfort. "This one's taking longer than usual. The lighting is perfect right now, but I know it's not easy to hold."

"It's fine," you lie, because the alternative is admitting that lying on his couch in a pose that suggests post-coital intimacy is doing things to your pulse.

The apartment has settled into its evening rhythm.

The neighbors' TV provides a muffled soundtrack through the thin walls, and the vending machines outside cast a familiar glow through the window. The dining room light is dim enough to bathe you in relaxed shadows.

"Tell me about her," you say, partly to distract yourself from the growing ache in your shoulder, partly because you're genuinely curious. "Miki. What happens to her in the end?"

Hoseok's pencil pauses.

"I'm not sure yet. The editor wants a happy ending, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't know if that's realistic. Can someone like her actually find what she's looking for? Or is she always going to be caught between worlds?"

The tone he uses makes you study his face more carefully.

In the lamplight, his expression is more serious than usual, no hint of playfulness this time.

"What do you think she's looking for?" you ask.

"Someone who sees all of her. The monster and the person. Someone who isn't afraid of what she needs to survive."

His phrase hangs in the space between you, loaded with meaning that neither of you acknowledges directly.

"That doesn't sound impossible," you say quietly.

"Doesn't it?" He looks up from his sketch, meeting your eyes. "When your fundamental nature is to take from people, how do you build something real with them?"

You're both quiet for a moment.

"Maybe," you say finally, "it's not about changing what you are. Maybe it's about finding someone who understands what you need and chooses to give it anyway."

Hoseok stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he looks back down at his sketch, pencil moving with renewed focus.

"Hold that thought," he murmurs. "And that expression. That's exactly what I needed."

You maintain the pose, but your mind is elsewhere, turning over the conversation.

Because the way he talked about Miki felt less like discussing a fictional character and more like... something else entirely.

The evening promptly stretches on.

Hoseok works with unusual intensity, occasionally asking you to adjust your position or expression, but mostly just drawing with the kind of focus you remember from when you were kids and he'd disappear into his art for hours.

You find yourself relaxing into the couch, the warmth of the apartment and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper creating a surprisingly soothing atmosphere.

Your shoulder has stopped aching, or maybe you've just gotten used to it.

"Almost done," Hoseok says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's talking to himself more than to you.

The building settles around you with its familiar creaks and sighs. Someone's cooking curry in another unit, the smell drifting through the walls. A train passes in the distance, its whistle barely audible but somehow comforting.

Your eyelids are getting heavy.

The couch is stupidly more comfortable than your own bed back at the corporate housing, and there's something deeply peaceful about lying here while Hoseok works, the two of you existing in comfortable parallel focus.

"Just a few more minutes," he says softly, and you make a sound of acknowledgment that comes out more like a hum.

The last thing you're aware of is the gentle scratch of his pencil and the warm weight of sleep pulling you under.

You wake to silence and the unfamiliar sensation of something soft covering you.

The apartment is dark except for the glow from the vending machines outside, and it takes you a moment to remember where you are.

Hoseok's couch.

His blanket—the expensive one he splurged on—tucked carefully around your shoulders.

You sit up slowly, disoriented.

The dining room light is off, his art supplies put away.

No sign of Hoseok himself, though you can hear the soft sound of breathing from the direction of his futon.

Your phone shows 3:47 AM.

Shit.

You fell asleep during the pose session, and he just... let you sleep. Covered you with his blanket and went to bed without waking you.

The thoughtfulness of it makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

You fold the blanket carefully, setting it on the couch arm, and gather your things as quietly as possible. Your bag is on the floor by the door where you left it, but when you reach for it, you freeze.

Momo is curled up on top of it, a tiny ball of fur using your bag as a makeshift bed. She's never done that before—usually she stays in her cage or on Hoseok's shoulder, treating you with polite indifference at best.

But now she's chosen your bag as her sleeping spot, and when you gently move to pick up the strap, she doesn't scurry away. Instead, she opens one sleepy eye, looks at you with what might be recognition, and settles back into her nap.

You carefully extract your bag from under her, and she simply relocates to the floor, still unbothered by your presence.

It's a silly thing, really… But the way she chose specifically to sleep on that spot makes you absurdly feel like you're being accepted into the ecosystem of this tiny apartment.

Chosen.

You slip out as quietly as possible, closing the door with barely a click.

The hallway is empty, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end.

Your footsteps echo softly on the worn carpet as you make your way to the elevator, which thankfully decides to work at this ungodly hour.

Outside, Osaka at 4 AM is a different city entirely. The streets are mostly empty except for the occasional taxi and the dedicated salarymen stumbling home from late nights. The air is cooler, carrying the scent of rain that might come later.

You walk the seventeen minutes back to your corporate housing, your mind turning over the evening.

The conversation about Miki. The way Hoseok looked at you when you talked about finding someone who understands what you need. The careful way he'd covered you with his blanket.

And Momo, sleeping on your bag like you belong there.

By the time you reach your building, the sky is starting to lighten at the edges, that pale pre-dawn glow that means morning isn't far away.

You have three hours before you need to be awake for work, but you know you won't sleep.

Instead, you lie in your narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the weight of his blanket and the sound of his pencil on paper and the way he'd talked about Miki like she was a real person with real problems.

Like she was someone worth understanding.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:23 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎��𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:24 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You stare at the messages, something fluttering in your chest that you refuse to name.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:26 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:27 AM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:28 AM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:29 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

You reach up automatically, realizing your hair is loose around your shoulders. You'd had it up for the pose session, but it must have come undone while you slept.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:30 AM): 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:31 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:32 AM): 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙾𝚝𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.

You set your phone aside and close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Instead, you lie there thinking about the way he'd said 'sweet dreams' like he meant it, and the careful way he'd tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and the fact that Momo had chosen your bag as her sleeping spot.

Small things. Tiny gestures that probably don't mean anything.

But they feel like something anyway.

goal: 200 notes.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

—taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @hobis-sprite0218 @mcflurry-220 @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @impossiblecopoaffire @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[ddaenqqvantae]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 03

˗ˏˋmiki ˎˊ˗

Butterflies are stupid and his couch is stupidly comfy—so much so, sleeping there feels more like home than anything you've experienced in five years of careful independence.

next | index

—chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: instant ramen as currency, professional artistic collaboration that feels decidedly unprofessional, Hoseok in glasses (devastating), meet Miki the cat-succubus, vulnerable positioning and careful touches, falling asleep during work sessions, Momo's official seal of approval, and the dangerous comfort of being understood by someone who used to know all your secrets.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

It's finally here!!! I know, I know. This one took a minute. I sat with this chapter longer than usual because I really wanted to get the tone right—specifically the dialogue. There's this particular ache I was trying to translate, that bittersweet flavor of a reunion that almost feels like comfort, but doesn't quite fit right anymore because too much time has passed and neither of you are the same.

I wanted you to feel that dissonance she's sitting in—the "yes, but no, but… yes?"—that weirdly intimate kind of safety that feels dangerous when nothing's felt safe for the last five years. You know that unsettling familiarity when someone you used to know just was part of your life by default, and now you're seeing them again… changed? Sharper, older, realer. And suddenly you catch yourself wondering, if we'd met now instead of then, would things be different? Would romantic interest be on the table?

And you don't even realize you're mourning a version of you that never got to find out. That timeline that's already gone. She's not thinking that outright—narration never says it, because limited POV—but the vibe is there. She feels it. You feel it. I feel it. We are all just crawling around inside that ambiguous grief together.

Honestly, I think I did a good job (if I do say so myself) at making it uncomfortable in a way that forces you to just… sit with it. Am I a masochist for liking that? Probably. But also, this is literally my 10th slowburn. You're still here. Who's the real masochist. Be honest.

Unless this is your first story of mine—in that case, welcome. Come in. Sit down. The train to slow burn hell has already departed, and you're in excellent company. Ask for the peanut cookies. They slap. (Unless you have an allergy, in which case please do not. Or do. But also, I'm legally absolved of any consequences because you clicked past the author's notes and content warnings, which is basically a pact of zero liability. Sorry bestie.)

Anyway. Once again I've derailed. Shocking absolutely no one.

Also? That whole conversation about Miki? The ancient ones know exactly what I'm doing. You've seen the blueprint before. For the new readers: nothing in Kiki Nation exists without intention. Let that marinate. Digest it. There will be a pop quiz in your feelings later.

And finally… Momo. Sleeping on Y/N’s bag? That moment of being chosen by something small and vulnerable that doesn’t trust easily? Yeah, sit with that too. Sometimes acceptance comes from the most unexpected sources, and sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight.

That's all for now. See you in the next one. May Osaka's neon lights guide you forward. Mwah.

—read on

wattpad

ao3

The ramen packets are sweating in your hands.

You're standing outside Hoseok's door like some kind of convenience store offering sacrifice, holding two packs of instant noodles because showing up empty-handed felt weird but bringing actual food felt too much like you were trying.

The ramen splits the difference perfectly—practical, cheap, and just thoughtful enough to avoid looking like you care.

Which you don't.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift the noodle packets to check the screen. The message thread from today stares back at you, a digital paper trail of your questionable decision-making skills.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:23 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:47 AM): 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:48 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎���𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:15 PM): 𝟽. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (2:16 PM): 𝙼𝚎? 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍? 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:20 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 PM): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛? 𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:35 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:36 PM): 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠! ＼(^o^)／

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:37 PM): 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:38 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜! 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:39 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:40 PM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎! 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:42 PM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You'd been replying between peptide copy edits, because apparently writing compelling marketing copy about anti-aging molecules is exactly as mind-numbing as it sounds. Davidson had spent the entire afternoon explaining the importance of 'consumer-centric biochemical messaging,' which is just corporate speak for 'make science sound sexy without actually explaining anything.'

At least you'd made a friend today. Sort of.

Yuki from accounting had appeared at your desk around lunch with a cup of coffee and a conspiratorial whisper about how Davidson once spent forty minutes in a meeting discussing the 'synergistic potential of collaborative ideation platforms'—which turned out to mean 'maybe we should use email more.'

She'd lingered by your cubicle, making dry observations about the office dynamics while you pretended to work on peptide enthusiasm, and for twenty minutes you'd felt almost normal. Like maybe you could actually exist in this corporate hellscape without losing your entire mind.

But now you're here, standing in front of Hoseok's door with instant ramen and a stomach full of butterflies that you're aggressively ignoring.

Because butterflies are stupid.

And this is just… helping an old friend with a work project. Very professional. Very normal. The kind of thing adults do for each other without making it weird.

Except your hands are definitely shaking slightly, and you can't decide if it's nerves or caffeine withdrawal, and the butterflies are doing some kind of interpretive dance routine in your chest that feels distinctly non-professional.

You shift the ramen packets again, plastic crinkling in the hallway silence.

Someone's cooking curry behind one of the other doors, and the building's ancient elevator is making that grinding sound that suggests it's one mechanical failure away from trapping someone between floors.

Normal Tuesday evening. Normal friend visit. Normal absolutely-not-a-big-deal modeling session for your childhood friend's pornographic manga.

God, when you put it like that, it sounds even worse.

You raise your hand to knock, then pause.

Because once you knock, this becomes real.

Once that door opens, you're officially Y/N-who-poses-for-hentai instead of Y/N-who-just-moved-to-Osaka-and-happened-to-reconnect-with-an-old-friend.

The ramen packets are getting warm from your death grip.

Through the thin walls, you can hear movement inside the apartment—footsteps, something being dragged across the floor, what sounds like Hoseok talking to himself in rapid Japanese.

Probably setting up his 'very professional workspace' with the same level of organization he applied to everything else in his life, which is to say, chaotic good at best.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (6:58 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛? 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎.

Shit.

You knock before you can change your mind, three sharp raps that echo through the narrow corridor.

The movement inside stops immediately, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and what might be Hoseok tripping over something.

"Coming!" his voice calls through the door, muffled but distinctly flustered. "Just a second! Don't leave!"

The 'don't leave' hits differently than it should, like he's genuinely worried you might bolt.

Which is ridiculous, because you're here, aren't you? Standing in his hallway with convenience store dinner like some kind of domestic goddess of questionable life choices.

Although, to be fair, bolting is exactly what every rational part of your brain is suggesting right now.

The door opens, and there's Hoseok—hair messy like he's been running his hands through it, wearing paint-splattered sweatpants and a washed out t-shirt that's seen better days, grinning at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all week.

"Capy!" He's slightly out of breath, eyes bright with what looks like genuine excitement. "You actually came!"

"I said I would." You hold up the ramen packets like evidence. "I brought dinner."

His grin somehow gets wider. "She brings food! She stays! She might actually be the perfect woman!"

"Don't push it, Ott."

But the butterflies are doing something complicated in your chest at the way he's looking at you—like you showing up with instant ramen is somehow the most wonderful surprise in the world.

Which is ridiculous.

But also kind of nice.

Which is dangerous.

"Well," you say, because standing in the hallway analyzing your feelings about his expression is definitely not what you're here for, "are you going to let me in, or should I just model in the corridor for your neighbors' entertainment?"

"Right, yeah, come in." He steps back, gesturing you inside with unnecessary flourish. "Welcome to my professional artistic studio."

You step past him and immediately forget how to function like a normal human being.

Because apparently, while you weren't paying attention yesterday through your alcohol-induced haze, Jung Hoseok went and got... attractive.

Not that he wasn't before. He was always decent-looking in that gangly, hyperactive way that made middle school girls giggle and write his name in their notebooks.

But this is different. This is grown-up attractive. This is the kind of attractive that makes you forget why you came here in the first place.

The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're his favorite. His t-shirt is faded black with some band logo you can't quite make out—Radiohead, maybe?—stretched across shoulders that are definitely broader than they were at seventeen.

But it's his hair that really gets you.

You hadn't noticed yesterday. Too focused on the shock of seeing him again, the surreal experience of Jung Hoseok existing in your new reality.

But now, standing in the warm light of his apartment, you can see that he's grown it out. It curls slightly at the nape of his neck, longer than he ever wore it in school, and it's not the black you remember.

It's brown now. Cinnamon, almost. Like he's been spending time in the sun, or dyeing it, or just letting time change him in ways you weren't around to witness.

And he's wearing glasses.

Black, rectangular frames that perch on his nose like they belong there, even though you're pretty sure they didn't exist five years ago. They should look ridiculous. Sixteen-year-old you would have laughed yourself sick seeing Jung Hoseok in glasses. Called him a nerd, stolen them off his face, made some comment about four-eyes.

Instead, you're staring.

Like an idiot.

Because somehow, impossibly, they suit him. Frame his face in a way that makes his eyes look wider, more serious. Less like the hyper kid who used to climb trees to impress you and more like...

Well. Like a man who draws pornographic manga for a living and just invited you over to pose for him.

Fuck.

"You're staring at my face," he says, and there's amusement in his voice that makes heat creep up your neck.

"I'm staring at your glasses," you correct, because admitting you were staring at his face feels too much like admitting something else entirely. "When did you get glasses?"

"Oh, these?" He reaches up and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About two years ago. Turns out staring at tiny manga panels for twelve hours a day isn't great for your eyesight. Who knew?"

"You used to brag about having perfect vision."

"I used to brag about a lot of things." He squints at you without the glasses, and the gesture is so familiar—so purely Hoseok—that something twists in your chest. "Remember when I told everyone I could see individual leaves on trees from like a kilometer away?"

"You said you had hawk eyes. You made it your entire personality for like three months."

"Hey, I did have exceptional distance vision! I could spot your mom's car from six blocks away!"

"Because it was bright yellow and shaped like a brick. A blind person could have spotted it."

He laughs, that same too-loud sound that used to embarrass you in public. "Okay, fair point. But still. Peak visual acuity, right there."

"And now you can't see your own hand without assistance."

"I can see my hand just fine, thank you very much. It's the small print that gets me. And computer screens. And basically anything requiring detail work, which is unfortunately my entire career."

He slides the glasses back on, and you have to look away because the simple action shouldn't be that... noticeable.

"So," you say, holding up the ramen packets like a shield between you and whatever the hell your brain is doing right now. "Dinner?"

"Right. Food. Very important." But he doesn't move toward the kitchen immediately.

Instead, he stands there for a moment, looking at you looking at anything except him, and the silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.

You both blink.

The butterflies in your stomach decide this is an excellent time to reminder you of their existence, doing some kind of acrobatic routine that makes you want to press a hand to your chest and tell them to calm the fuck down.

You look away first, studying the manga stacks like they're the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck—a gesture so achingly familiar that you feel something crack in your chest.

"Kitchen's this way," he says, nodding toward the narrow galley. "Hope you're hungry. I may have accidentally forgotten to eat today. Time got away from me."

"Accidentally forgot to eat? How do you accidentally forget to eat?"

"Very easily when you're trying to perfect the angle of someone's... uh, shoulder blade. For artistic accuracy."

You trail behind him, checking the way he moves through his space—comfortable, loose-limbed, like he belongs here in a way you've never belonged anywhere.

"Shoulder blade," you repeat. "Sure."

"Hey, shoulder blades are surprisingly difficult to draw! There's all these muscles and the way the light hits them and—" He stops, glancing at you sideways. "You're going to mock me for caring about anatomical accuracy, aren't you?"

"I'm going to mock you for a lot of things, but anatomical accuracy isn't one of them."

"Wow. Actual respect for my craft. I'm touched, Capy. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"So," he says, nodding toward the kitchenette. "Hungry? We could eat first, before… You know. The thing."

"The thing?"

"The professional artistic collaboration thing."

"Just call it what it is, Ott."

"Fine. Before you pose for my dirty manga."

"Better."

You follow him to the kitchen area, which is basically just a counter with a hot plate and a sink the size of a soup bowl. He's already clearing space, moving art supplies and what appears to be a collection of empty coffee cans.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting you for dinner when I set up my sophisticated meal preparation station this morning."

"It's instant ramen, not a five-course meal."

"Still counts as hosting. I'm being very domestic right now. Very adult."

You hand him the ramen packets, trying not to notice how his fingers brush yours when he takes them.

"If this is your idea of domestic, I'm concerned for your future."

"Hey, I'll have you know I've kept myself alive for five years. That's basically domestic mastery."

"The bar is on the floor."

"And I'm stepping over it with grace and style."

He fills a pot with water, and you lean against the counter, watching him move around the tiny space.

It's weirdly… hypnotic, the way he navigates the cramped kitchen, the familiarity of someone who's learned to live alone.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

"Do they look stupid? Be honest."

You frown. "The glasses?"

He nods.

"They look..." You pause, because good is not a safe word here. "They look like glasses. On your face. Very glass-like."

"Wow, Capy. Such poetry. I'm moved."

"You asked for honesty, not flattery."

"I asked for honesty. You gave me evasion."

He's not wrong, but you're not about to admit that the glasses actually work for him. That they make him look more... mature? Professional? Like he could be someone who does important things instead of drawing cartoon people having sex.

The water starts boiling, and he drops in the ramen noodles in the pot like he's performing surgery. You watch him tear open the flavor packets, stirring everything together with a fork because apparently he doesn't own proper cooking utensils.

"Gourmet dining at its finest," he announces, dividing the noodles between two bowls. "Five-star presentation."

"Michelin would be impressed."

"They should be. This is my signature dish."

You take your bowl and follow him to the low table, settling on the floor cushions he's apparently arranged for the occasion.

The ramen is exactly what you expected—salty, artificial, perfectly mediocre.

But there's something weirdly nice about eating it here, in his space, while he makes exaggerated sounds of appreciation like it's the best meal he's ever had.

"So," he says between bites, "how was day two of corporate hell?"

"Day two of wondering why I ever thought marketing was a good career choice. I spent three hours writing copy about peptides, and I still don't know what a peptide is."

"Sounds very important and scientific."

"It's anti-aging cream. Apparently peptides make your skin young forever, but only if you describe them with enough enthusiasm."

"And do you have enthusiasm for age-defying peptides?"

"I have enthusiasm for paychecks. The peptides can go fuck themselves."

He laughs, nearly choking on his ramen.

"There's the Capy I remember. Always so passionate about skincare."

"I made a friend, though. Yuki from accounting. She seems normal, which is a minor miracle in that place."

"Normal how?"

"Normal like she also thinks Davidson is an idiot and doesn't pretend otherwise. Normal like she brought me coffee without making it weird. Normal like she might actually be tolerable to eat lunch with."

"Look at you, making friends. Very socially adjusted."

"Don't make it sound like an achievement. I'm a perfectly normal, likeable person."

"You're many things, Capy. Likeable is... debatable."

You kick him under the table. "Rude."

"Accurate."

"I'm charming and delightful."

"You're sharp and terrifying. It's not the same thing."

"Sharp and terrifying are excellent qualities."

"For intimidating coworkers and small children, maybe."

"And for keeping annoying childhood friends in line."

"Is that what you're doing? Keeping me in line?"

The question comes out lighter than it should, but there's something underneath it that makes you look up from your ramen.

He's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes your stomach do complicated things.

"Someone has to," you say, aiming for casual and missing by miles.

"Lucky me."

The way he says it makes the air in the tiny apartment feel thicker somehow. Like you're both suddenly aware that you're sitting on his floor, eating instant noodles, about to do something that definitely falls outside the bounds of normal friendship.

You focus very hard on your ramen.

"This is good," you lie, because the silence is getting dangerous.

"It's terrible," he corrects. "But it's cheap and it fills the void."

"Poetic."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Right. Speaking of which." You set down your chopsticks, trying to inject some professionalism into your voice. "How exactly does this... process work? The reference thing?"

He blinks, like he forgot why you're actually here.

"Oh. Right. The work thing."

"The work thing."

"Very professional work thing."

"Hoseok."

"Right." He runs a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching. "Basically, I just need to see how a real person would naturally position themselves in certain... scenarios. For accuracy."

"Scenarios."

"Character scenarios. Plot-relevant positioning."

"Uh-huh."

"Nothing weird! Just... you know. Natural body language. Realistic expressions. How someone would actually move in—"

"I get it, Ott. You need reference photos. You don't have to make it sound like a nature documentary."

"Reference sketches, actually. I don't do photos."

"Why not?"

He looks genuinely surprised by the question.

"Because sketching is more... interpretive? I can capture the feeling of a pose, not just the literal anatomy. Photos are too static."

"Huh."

"What huh?"

"Nothing. Just... that actually makes sense. From an artistic perspective."

"You sound shocked that I have artistic perspectives."

"I'm shocked that you explained it without making a single inappropriate joke."

"The night is young, Capy. Give me time."

And there it is—the grin that makes your chest do that annoying warm thing. The same grin that used to convince you to climb trees you couldn't get down from and steal candy from corner stores and lie to your parents about where you'd been all afternoon.

Dangerous then.

Dangerous now.

"So," you say, standing up and collecting the empty bowls before this gets any more domestic than it already has. "Show me this very professional workspace of yours."

He scrambles to his feet, glasses sliding down his nose before he catches them.

"Right. Work. Professional work space. Very legitimate artistic endeavor."

"It better be, Ott. Because if this is some elaborate scheme to get me naked, I'm going to murder you with your own art supplies."

"Noted," he says, grinning. "Death by paintbrush. Very avant-garde."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You follow him toward the work area (which is his bedroom), trying to ignore the way your pulse is picking up speed.

This is fine. This is normal. This is just you helping an old friend with a professional project.

Except nothing about this feels professional.

His bedroom is... not what you had expected.

You had been bracing yourself for some kind of stereotypical artist's den—paint-splattered walls, canvases stacked everywhere, maybe some pretentious black-and-white photographs of naked women he'd claim were 'artistic studies.'

Instead, it's surprisingly organized. Clean, even.

The bed is made, which is more than you can say for your own apartment most days. There's a proper desk setup against the window—not just a folding table, but an actual wooden desk with multiple drawers and a lamp that looks like it cost more than your monthly train pass. Art supplies are arranged in neat containers, pencils sorted by type, brushes standing at attention in glass jars.

"Wow," you say, because the alternative is standing there gaping like an idiot. "You actually clean."

"I'm a professional, Capy. I told you." He's moving around the space with that same easy familiarity, clearing some sketches off a chair. "Can't work in chaos. Well, I can, but it's not optimal for the creative process."

"The creative process," you repeat, settling into the chair he's indicated. "Right."

The desk is positioned so you're facing away from the bed, which is probably intentional. Less distracting that way. More professional.

Except now you can't stop thinking about the fact that his bed is right behind you, and that's somehow worse than if you could see it.

"So," he says, pulling out a thick portfolio from one of the desk drawers. "Meet Miki."

He opens the portfolio, and you're immediately confronted with...

Well. A lot of things at once.

The first thing you notice is that the art is actually good. Not just technically competent—though it clearly is—but genuinely engaging. The character designs are distinctive, the linework confident, the compositions dynamic in a way that draws your eye across the page.

The second thing you notice is that the main character is definitely not human.

"She has cat ears," you observe, because stating the obvious seems safer than processing the rest of what you're seeing.

"And a tail," Hoseok adds helpfully, flipping to a character sheet that shows the full design. "She's half-succubus, half-nekomata. It's a whole thing."

"A succubus." You lean closer, studying the character design. "Like, a sex demon."

"Technically, yes. But she's more complicated than that."

The character—Miki—is drawn in various poses and expressions across the page. She's definitely designed to be attractive, but there's something more nuanced in her face than typical anime girl proportions. Her eyes have an almost wolfish quality, but also a softness that makes you want to keep looking.

"She feeds on sexual energy," Hoseok continues, settling into his own chair and pulling out what looks like a script. "But unlike traditional succubi, she forms emotional attachments to her... food sources."

"Food sources."

"The people she feeds from. Usually it's supposed to be impersonal—take what you need, move on. But Miki keeps getting attached, which creates problems."

You flip through more pages, getting a sense of the story.

The art style is more sophisticated than you'd expected from hentai manga, with detailed backgrounds and character expressions that actually convey emotion beyond basic lust.

"So what's the conflict?" you ask, because despite yourself, you're curious. "She's a sex demon who catches feelings?"

"Basically. She's trying to figure out if she can have genuine relationships when her fundamental nature is predatory. Can someone love you if they know you literally need to feed off them to survive?"

There's something in his voice when he says it that makes you glance up at him. He's focused on organizing his drawing supplies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

"Heavy themes for porn," you comment.

"It's not just porn," he says, and there's a defensive edge to his tone. "I mean, yes, there are explicit scenes, but they serve the story. The sex isn't just gratuitous—it's integral to her character development."

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean to insult your artistic integrity."

"You did, but I'll forgive you." He grins, but it's a little strained. "The publisher likes it because it has crossover appeal. Female readers connect with the emotional stuff, male readers get the explicit content. Everyone wins."

You turn back to the portfolio, studying a page that shows Miki in what's clearly a more intimate scene. The positioning is definitely explicit, but there's something almost tender in the way it's drawn. The focus isn't just on the physical act, but on the characters' faces, their emotional connection.

"She's actually... kind of relatable," you admit reluctantly.

"Yeah?" His voice perks up with genuine interest. "How so?"

"The whole thing about being afraid someone will reject you if they see who you really are. That's pretty universal, isn't it?"

"That's exactly what I was going for." He leans forward, animated now. "She puts on this confident, seductive front, but underneath she's terrified that her true nature makes her unlovable. So she keeps people at a distance, even when she craves connection."

You study another page, this one showing Miki alone in what looks like a small apartment, curled up on a couch with an expression of profound loneliness.

"The cat thing," you say. "Why cats specifically?"

"Nekomata are traditionally shapeshifters in Japanese folklore. They can appear human but retain feline characteristics. It fits with her dual nature—she's caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either."

"And the succubus part?"

"Succubi are also shapeshifters, traditionally. They appear as whatever their target desires most. So Miki is constantly shifting, constantly adapting to what others want from her, but she's lost track of who she actually is."

You flip to another page, this one showing Miki moving her hands in what you guess is a… cat manner? If that makes sense?

"So where do I come in?" you ask. "What kind of reference do you need?"

Hoseok clears his throat, suddenly looking less confident. "Well, the thing is... I'm good at drawing male anatomy. I understand how men move, how they express emotion physically; and I so happen to have a dick—"

"I'll murder you."

"—but female anatomy, especially in... intimate situations... I struggle with making it look natural."

You narrow your eyes now. "Natural how?"

"Like, how would a real woman actually position herself in this scenario? What would her facial expression be? How would her body language change based on her emotional state?" He's talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "I can copy from photo references, but they're all posed, artificial. I need to see how someone would naturally move, respond, react."

You look back at the manga pages, blinking.

"You want me to pose like her. In these situations."

"Just for reference! Nothing weird, just... showing me how the anatomy would work, how the positioning would look realistic."

"Hoseok." You set the portfolio down, fixing him with a stare. "These are sex scenes."

"Well, yes, but—"

"You're asking me to pose for sex scenes."

"For reference! For art! It's completely professional!"

"Professional sex scene posing."

"It's not—okay, when you put it like that, it sounds weird, but it's really not. It's just figure drawing with more specific requirements."

You lean back in the chair, processing this.

On one hand, it's clearly ridiculous.

On the other hand, the art is genuinely good, and you can see how having realistic references would improve it.

And on the third hand—the hand you're trying very hard to ignore—there's something about the idea that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with artistic appreciation.

"What exactly would this involve?"

"Basic positioning, mostly. Like, if Miki is supposed to be in this pose," he points to a page showing the character in a suggestive but not explicitly sexual position, "I need to see how a real person would naturally hold themselves. Where the weight would distribute, how the muscles would engage, what the facial expression would actually look like."

"And the more... explicit stuff?"

He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in his pencil collection.

"We'd work up to that. Start with basic poses, see how it goes. Nothing you're not comfortable with."

"Comfortable with," you repeat. "Right."

There's a moment of silence where you both pretend to study the manga pages, but you're actually trying to figure out if this is the stupidest idea you've ever considered or just the most complicated.

"The character," you say finally. "Miki. She's supposed to be seductive, right? Confident?"

"On the surface, yeah. But under it all, she's vulnerable. Scared. She uses the seduction as a defense mechanism."

"Sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

You ignore the question, flipping through more pages.

The story is actually engaging, despite—or maybe because of—the explicit content. Miki's internal struggle feels genuine, her relationships complex and emotionally fraught.

"How long have you been working on this?" you ask.

"About eight months. It's supposed to be a twelve-chapter series, and I'm on chapter six now. The deadline pressure is getting intense."

"And you've been struggling with the female anatomy this whole time?"

"Getting worse, actually. The later chapters are more... intimate. More complex emotionally and physically. I keep getting stuck on scenes that should be straightforward."

You study a page showing Miki in what's clearly a moment of distress.

"She's not what I expected," you admit.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Generic anime girl with cat ears? Typical male fantasy bullshit?"

"And instead?"

"Instead she's..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "She's actually a character. With depth. With real problems that aren't just 'oh no, I'm so sexy and everyone wants me.'"

"That was the point. I wanted to create something that elevated the genre, you know? Something that used the explicit content to explore genuine emotional themes."

"And you think I can help with that?"

"I think you understand her," he says quietly. "The way you described her just now—you get what I'm trying to do with the character. That's what I need for the reference work. Not just someone who can hold a pose, but someone who understands the emotional context."

You look at him, really look at him, and see something you hadn't noticed before.

This isn't just a job for him.

This is work he cares about, work he's proud of, even if he's embarrassed by the genre.

"Okay," you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. The reference thing. But we start small, and if it gets weird, I'm out."

His face lights up with genuine relief and excitement. "Really? You'll actually do it?"

"Don't make me regret it, Ott."

"I won't. I promise. This is going to be so helpful, you have no idea."

"Yeah, well." You close the portfolio, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "Just remember—I'm doing this for art. For your artistic integrity and professional development."

"Absolutely. Completely professional."

"Good."

"Good."

You both sit there for a moment, the weight of what you've just agreed to settling between you.

"So," you say finally. "Where do we start?"

"Basic expressions first," Hoseok says, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil from his organized collection. "Just... be yourself, but think about Miki's emotional state."

"Be myself while thinking about a cat-succubus. Sure. That's totally normal."

"You know what I mean." He settles back in his chair, pencil poised. "She's guarded, right? Like she's always ready to run or fight. But she's also trying to appear confident."

You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of your own face.

"How exactly does one look like a confident cat-succubus?"

"Just... think about how you look when you're trying to convince someone you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."

The accuracy of that hits uncomfortably close to home. "Rude."

"Accurate," he corrects, already sketching. "Tilt your chin up slightly. Yeah, like that. But soften your eyes a bit—she's not actually angry, just defensive."

You adjust your expression, trying to find the balance between aloof and vulnerable.

It's weird, being studied this intently. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the paper, analyzing, cataloging.

"Good," he murmurs, pencil moving across the page. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Like you're daring someone to get too close while secretly hoping they will."

"I don't look like that."

"You absolutely look like that. You've been looking like that since we were sixteen."

"I have not—"

"Don't move," he says quickly. "That expression right there—that's perfect. The little frown, the way your eyebrows pull together. She does that when someone calls her out on something true."

You hold the pose, trying not to think about what it means that he can read your expressions so easily.

That he's been reading them for years, apparently.

"Okay, now hands," he says after a few minutes of sketching. "Miki's very tactile, but she's also careful about touch. Like she wants to reach out but stops herself."

"How do I pose that?"

"Lift your hand like you're going to touch something, but pull back at the last second. Like you changed your mind."

You raise your hand, extending it toward an imaginary object, then curl your fingers back slightly.

"More hesitation," he says, not looking up from his sketch. "Like you want something but you're afraid of what will happen if you actually take it."

You adjust the position, letting more uncertainty creep into the gesture.

"Perfect. Hold that."

The pencil scratches against paper, and you find yourself watching his face as he works.

His expression is completely focused, serious in a way you rarely see. Behind the glasses, his eyes are intent, studying the curve of your fingers, the angle of your wrist.

"You're actually good at this," you say quietly.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just... I don't know. Seeing you work is different than I expected."

"Different how?"

"More professional. More... real."

He glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

"What did you think it would be like?"

"I don't know. Messier? More chaotic? You were always so scattered in school."

"I grew up, Capy. People change."

There's something in his tone that makes you study his face more carefully.

"Do they?"

"Some things change. Some things don't."

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

"Okay," he says finally, setting down the pencil. "That's good for basic expressions. Now I need to see how you'd naturally position yourself in some of the more... interactive scenes."

"Interactive."

"Like, if Miki is supposed to be sitting close to someone, or reaching for them, or..." He trails off, flipping through the portfolio to find a specific page. "Here. This scene. She's supposed to be leaning toward her partner, but not quite touching. Intimate but hesitant."

You study the page. It's not explicitly sexual, but it's definitely suggestive—Miki positioned close to a male character, her body language indicating desire but also uncertainty.

"So I just... lean forward?"

"Yeah, but naturally. Like you would if you were actually in that situation."

You shift in your chair, leaning toward where an imaginary partner would be sitting.

It feels weird and stupid.

"It looks forced," Hoseok says, frowning at his sketch. "Like you're posing for a photo instead of actually wanting to be close to someone."

"Because I am posing for a photo. Essentially."

"Right, but... here." He sets down his pencil and stands up. "Can I show you?"

"Show me how?"

"The positioning. It'll be easier if I demonstrate."

Before you can fully process what he's suggesting, he's moving toward you, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that you can smell the citrusy notes of cologne that cling to him.

That has changed, too.

It's yuzu.

"Like this," he says, his voice quieter now. "If you were actually drawn to someone, you wouldn't just lean forward mechanically. You'd angle your whole body toward them."

His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching.

"Can I...?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and careful, adjusting your position.

"Turn slightly this way. Yeah, like that. And drop your shoulder a bit—you're holding tension here."

His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he adjusts your posture, and you both freeze.

It's barely contact. Just his thumb against the edge of your shirt, the barest hint of skin-to-skin touch.

But something electric shoots through you at the contact, making your breath catch.

"Sorry," he says quickly, but he doesn't immediately pull away. "I just—the positioning was—"

"It's fine," you manage, even though it's not fine at all.

It's the opposite of fine.

It's your childhood friend's hands on your shoulders and his face inches from yours and your heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"Better," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That's much more natural."

"Hoseok," you say, and his name comes out softer than you intended.

"Yeah?"

"You should probably..." You gesture vaguely at his hands, still resting on your shoulders.

"Right. Yeah. Professional distance."

Then he steps back, running a hand through his hair, and the spell breaks.

"That's the position," he says, settling back into his chair and picking up his pencil with hands that aren't quite steady. "Much better. More believable."

"Good," you say, trying to ignore the way your skin still feels warm where he touched you. "Professional artistic collaboration."

"Exactly. Very professional."

But when he starts sketching again, you notice the way his eyes linger on your face, the way his pencil moves more slowly across the paper.

This is fine, you tell yourself. This is just helping a friend with work.

The fact that your pulse is racing and your skin feels too warm and you keep thinking about the careful way he touched you—that's all completely irrelevant.

Professional.

Artistic.

Totally under control.

"Next pose?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

"Right," he says, flipping to another page. "This one's a bit more... close contact."

And despite everything you just told yourself about staying professional, you find yourself leaning forward slightly, curious to see what he'll ask for next.

Hoseok's couch is, begrudgingly, comfortable.

The next pose requires you to lie on your side, one arm stretched above your head, the other curved around an imaginary partner.

"This is for chapter five," Hoseok explains, flipping through his reference sheets. "Miki's supposed to be in this post-intimacy moment, maintaining some of her feline independence."

You settle onto the couch, adjusting your position until it feels natural. Which is a task in itself, because it's not precisely roomy despite being comfy, and your own disastrous bun (which you ended putting up after hair kept getting in the way) is making it impossible.

The cushions, luckily, are softer than you expected, worn in a way that suggests this is where he actually sleeps most nights rather than bothering with the futon.

"Turn your face toward me slightly," he says, pencil already moving. "Good. Now soften your expression—she's content but still guarded."

The pose is comfortable enough, but holding it for extended periods makes your shoulder ache. You shift slightly, trying to maintain the position while relieving the pressure.

"Sorry," Hoseok says, noticing your discomfort. "This one's taking longer than usual. The lighting is perfect right now, but I know it's not easy to hold."

"It's fine," you lie, because the alternative is admitting that lying on his couch in a pose that suggests post-coital intimacy is doing things to your pulse.

The apartment has settled into its evening rhythm.

The neighbors' TV provides a muffled soundtrack through the thin walls, and the vending machines outside cast a familiar glow through the window. The dining room light is dim enough to bathe you in relaxed shadows.

"Tell me about her," you say, partly to distract yourself from the growing ache in your shoulder, partly because you're genuinely curious. "Miki. What happens to her in the end?"

Hoseok's pencil pauses.

"I'm not sure yet. The editor wants a happy ending, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't know if that's realistic. Can someone like her actually find what she's looking for? Or is she always going to be caught between worlds?"

The tone he uses makes you study his face more carefully.

In the lamplight, his expression is more serious than usual, no hint of playfulness this time.

"What do you think she's looking for?" you ask.

"Someone who sees all of her. The monster and the person. Someone who isn't afraid of what she needs to survive."

His phrase hangs in the space between you, loaded with meaning that neither of you acknowledges directly.

"That doesn't sound impossible," you say quietly.

"Doesn't it?" He looks up from his sketch, meeting your eyes. "When your fundamental nature is to take from people, how do you build something real with them?"

You're both quiet for a moment.

"Maybe," you say finally, "it's not about changing what you are. Maybe it's about finding someone who understands what you need and chooses to give it anyway."

Hoseok stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he looks back down at his sketch, pencil moving with renewed focus.

"Hold that thought," he murmurs. "And that expression. That's exactly what I needed."

You maintain the pose, but your mind is elsewhere, turning over the conversation.

Because the way he talked about Miki felt less like discussing a fictional character and more like... something else entirely.

The evening promptly stretches on.

Hoseok works with unusual intensity, occasionally asking you to adjust your position or expression, but mostly just drawing with the kind of focus you remember from when you were kids and he'd disappear into his art for hours.

You find yourself relaxing into the couch, the warmth of the apartment and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper creating a surprisingly soothing atmosphere.

Your shoulder has stopped aching, or maybe you've just gotten used to it.

"Almost done," Hoseok says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's talking to himself more than to you.

The building settles around you with its familiar creaks and sighs. Someone's cooking curry in another unit, the smell drifting through the walls. A train passes in the distance, its whistle barely audible but somehow comforting.

Your eyelids are getting heavy.

The couch is stupidly more comfortable than your own bed back at the corporate housing, and there's something deeply peaceful about lying here while Hoseok works, the two of you existing in comfortable parallel focus.

"Just a few more minutes," he says softly, and you make a sound of acknowledgment that comes out more like a hum.

The last thing you're aware of is the gentle scratch of his pencil and the warm weight of sleep pulling you under.

You wake to silence and the unfamiliar sensation of something soft covering you.

The apartment is dark except for the glow from the vending machines outside, and it takes you a moment to remember where you are.

Hoseok's couch.

His blanket—the expensive one he splurged on—tucked carefully around your shoulders.

You sit up slowly, disoriented.

The dining room light is off, his art supplies put away.

No sign of Hoseok himself, though you can hear the soft sound of breathing from the direction of his futon.

Your phone shows 3:47 AM.

Shit.

You fell asleep during the pose session, and he just... let you sleep. Covered you with his blanket and went to bed without waking you.

The thoughtfulness of it makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

You fold the blanket carefully, setting it on the couch arm, and gather your things as quietly as possible. Your bag is on the floor by the door where you left it, but when you reach for it, you freeze.

Momo is curled up on top of it, a tiny ball of fur using your bag as a makeshift bed. She's never done that before—usually she stays in her cage or on Hoseok's shoulder, treating you with polite indifference at best.

But now she's chosen your bag as her sleeping spot, and when you gently move to pick up the strap, she doesn't scurry away. Instead, she opens one sleepy eye, looks at you with what might be recognition, and settles back into her nap.

You carefully extract your bag from under her, and she simply relocates to the floor, still unbothered by your presence.

It's a silly thing, really… But the way she chose specifically to sleep on that spot makes you absurdly feel like you're being accepted into the ecosystem of this tiny apartment.

Chosen.

You slip out as quietly as possible, closing the door with barely a click.

The hallway is empty, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end.

Your footsteps echo softly on the worn carpet as you make your way to the elevator, which thankfully decides to work at this ungodly hour.

Outside, Osaka at 4 AM is a different city entirely. The streets are mostly empty except for the occasional taxi and the dedicated salarymen stumbling home from late nights. The air is cooler, carrying the scent of rain that might come later.

You walk the seventeen minutes back to your corporate housing, your mind turning over the evening.

The conversation about Miki. The way Hoseok looked at you when you talked about finding someone who understands what you need. The careful way he'd covered you with his blanket.

And Momo, sleeping on your bag like you belong there.

By the time you reach your building, the sky is starting to lighten at the edges, that pale pre-dawn glow that means morning isn't far away.

You have three hours before you need to be awake for work, but you know you won't sleep.

Instead, you lie in your narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the weight of his blanket and the sound of his pencil on paper and the way he'd talked about Miki like she was a real person with real problems.

Like she was someone worth understanding.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:23 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:24 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You stare at the messages, something fluttering in your chest that you refuse to name.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:26 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:27 AM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:28 AM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:29 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

You reach up automatically, realizing your hair is loose around your shoulders. You'd had it up for the pose session, but it must have come undone while you slept.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:30 AM): 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:31 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:32 AM): 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙾𝚝𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.

You set your phone aside and close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Instead, you lie there thinking about the way he'd said 'sweet dreams' like he meant it, and the careful way he'd tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and the fact that Momo had chosen your bag as her sleeping spot.

Small things. Tiny gestures that probably don't mean anything.

But they feel like something anyway.

goal: 200 notes.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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[ddaenqqvantae]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 02

˗ˏˋcorporate hellscape & theoretical arrangements ˎˊ˗

"Despite every rational thought screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself agreeing to the most ridiculous professional arrangement in the history of professional arrangements."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7.5k

content: corporate hellscape survival, Dave Davidson (yes that's his real name), theoretical modeling arrangements that feel less theoretical by the minute, meeting Momo the sugar glider, apartment tours, domestic intimacy disguised as friendship, emotional whiplash, and Y/N making questionable life decisions while simultaneously insisting they're purely professional.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

Okay so first of all *turns microphone on, taps twice, clears throat aggressively* 🚨 WE HAVE AN OUTLINE FOR WGU, PEOPLE. I REPEAT. WE HAVE AN OUTLINE. 🚨

Which means this fic is now officially going to be 30 chapters long and highly likely somewhere between 200-250k+ words, so buckle your seatbelt, tighten your shoelaces, and kiss your emotionally stability goodbye. We're going full send.

This is wild because… I never outline. I’m not built like that. I am a write-by-the-vibes, stream-of-consciousness, playlist-induced fugue state kind of girl. I daydream entire scenes while brushing my teeth and then rearrange them mentally like a madman pinning red thread to a corkboard. The closest I’ve come to a “structure” before this is just knowing what general direction I want things to go—like I might know, “at some point they’ll kiss in the rain,” but no clue if that’s Chapter 5 or Chapter 17 or a hallucination I made up in REM sleep.

But now? Now I know what happens in every chapter. Not just plot beats, but character turns, internal shifts, thematic echoes. And y’all… it’s life-changing. It lets me plant narrative seeds that will grow into devastatingly beautiful emotional collapses later. Like, suddenly I feel like an actual architect instead of a raccoon with a pen. Still feral. But, you know. Feral with a floorplan.

And because I'm me, this story is now also structured into four volumes, because it needed to be arch-y like that. Big arc energy. Arcs that make you cry in the club. I genuinely think this might become my most emotionally textured fic—because I'm working with intent instead of just instinct. Both are good. But together? They go feral. Together they write this fic.

I love it so much. I love them so much.

NOW. About this chapter.

I absolutely love their interactions in here. The way Y/N is simultaneously trying to maintain professional distance while also being completely unable to resist Hoseok's chaos is so her. She's all "this is purely professional" while literally agreeing to the most unprofessional arrangement imaginable. And Hoseok! God, Hoseok in this chapter made my heart ache. The way he talks about his work—trying so hard to convince himself and everyone else that it has artistic merit while clearly struggling with what he's had to compromise to survive. There's this beautiful tension between his genuine artistic passion and the reality of what pays his bills. When he talks about wanting to draw "realistic" expressions and movements, you can see how much he actually cares about his craft, even when it's wrapped up in work he's ambivalent about.

The corporate office scenes were painful to write because they're so real. Dave Davidson (and yes, his parents really were that creative) represents everything soul-crushing about modern work culture. Y/N's first day is this perfect encapsulation of how foreign everything feels when you're trying to build a new life—not just the language barriers but the social dynamics, the unspoken rules, the way exhaustion seeps into everything when you're constantly translating your existence for other people.

But then we get to the izakaya scene and everything shifts. The alcohol loosens Y/N's defenses just enough for her to make this completely insane offer that sounds professional on the surface but is loaded with so much subtext. She tells herself it's just helping a friend with a work problem, but we all know there's so much more brewing underneath. The way she rationalizes it—"it's just work, it's professional, it's no different from life drawing class"—while simultaneously knowing she's crossing a line she can't uncross.

And Momo! Sweet little Momo who immediately sees through Y/N's bullshit and gives her the cold shoulder. There's something so perfect about Hoseok having this tiny, discerning creature who's protective of him. It adds this domestic layer to his character that makes him feel so much more real and vulnerable. Plus the way Y/N gets personally offended by being rejected by a sugar glider is peak Y/N behavior.

Next chapter we get to see this "professional arrangement" in action, and let me tell you, the tension is about to become unbearable. Y/N thinks she can maintain clinical distance while posing for intimate scenes. Hoseok thinks he can separate his artistic process from his growing feelings. They're both about to learn how wrong they are.

Thanks for reading, and prepare your emotions because we're just getting started.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

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ao3

Your alarm goes off at 6:30 AM sharp, dragging you from dreams about okonomiyaki and stupid orange beanies.

The corporate world of Osaka doesn't give a shit about your jet lag, your existential crisis, or the fact that you spent half the night staring at the ceiling wondering why Jung Hoseok draws porn for a living.

You stumble through your morning routine in the cramped bathroom, squinting at yourself in the mirror that's too small and positioned at the wrong height. Your reflection looks like it's been through a blender—hair doing its own thing, eyes puffy from restless sleep, and that general air of 'please don't perceive me' that seems to be your default setting these days.

The shower barely produces lukewarm water, and you're starting to understand why rent was so cheap. Everything in this apartment operates on the principle of 'technically functional but aggressively mediocre.'

You throw on your most professional-looking outfit—a navy blazer and matching pants that felt impressive in Sydney but now seem inadequate for whatever corporate hell awaits you. The fabric wrinkles the moment you sit down, because apparently even your clothes are nervous.

The commute to Umeda is a forty-minute journey that involves two train transfers and a ten-minute walk through streets that all look identical in the early morning light.

Everyone around you moves like they're on a mission or part of a James Bond movie (hard to tell, honestly)—briefcases and designer handbags clutched like weapons, faces set in expressions of determined politeness.

You study the other foreigners on the train—scattered among the sea of black-haired commuters like misplaced chess pieces. A few Western faces here and there, all wearing the same slightly overwhelmed expression you suspect is plastered across your own face.

The building housing Synergy International Marketing is a gleaming tower of glass and steel that probably looked cutting-edge in 1995 but now seems like it's trying too hard.

The lobby has that corporate smell—air freshener mixed with coffee and the faint anxiety sweat of people pretending they know what they're doing.

You present yourself to reception, where an immaculately dressed Japanese woman greets you with the kind of professional smile that reaches exactly nowhere near her eyes.

"Y/N-san? Welcome. Please wait here. Tanaka-san will escort you to orientation."

Tanaka-san turns out to be a harried-looking man in his forties who speaks English like he's translating every word in his head before letting it out.

He leads you through a maze of cubicles and conference rooms, explaining company policies in a tone that suggests he's given this speech approximately ten thousand times.

"International Communications Department is on seventh floor. Your desk will be in shared workspace with other English-speaking staff. Please maintain professional appearance and punctuality at all times."

The elevator ride up is silent except for generic jazz music that makes you want to throw yourself out a window.

The seventh floor is an open-plan nightmare of beige cubicles, warm lighting, and the aggressive clicking of keyboards.

It's honestly like someone took every stereotype about corporate offices and decided to make them reality.

Your desk is a small corner space next to a window that looks out onto another building approximately six feet away

The previous occupant has left behind a stress ball shaped like a hamburger and a coffee mug with 'I want to drown in coffee' printed on it in faded letters.

Inspiring.

"Your immediate supervisor is Davidson-san," Tanaka explains, gesturing toward a tall man with prematurely gray hair who's currently engaged in what appears to be a heated phone conversation in English. "He will explain your duties. Please make good impression."

Davidson finishes his call and approaches with the kind of smile that suggests he's simultaneously relieved to see you and already exhausted by your presence.

"You must be our new copywriter! Dave Davidson, department head. I know, I know, my parents were very creative." His handshake is firm but sweaty. "Ready to dive into the wonderful world of international marketing?"

Aaaand… That's how you spend the next three hours in meetings that could have been emails, learning about 'synergistic brand integration' and 'cross-cultural consumer engagement strategies.'

Your role, as it turns out, involves translating Japanese marketing concepts into English copy that doesn't sound like it was written by robots having a nervous breakdown.

Your colleagues are honestly a mixed bag—two other foreigners who look like they've been here long enough to develop thousand-yard stares, and several Japanese staff members who speak perfect English but seem perpetually confused by your presence.

Lunch is a sad bento box eaten at your desk while reviewing client briefs for companies you've never heard of selling products you don't understand.

The work itself isn't terrible, just mind-numbingly ordinary.

Write copy for a new line of beauty products. Edit brochures for a tech company. Make everything sound 'dynamic' and 'innovative' without actually saying anything meaningful.

Marketing, as it is.

By 3 PM, you're wondering if this is what death feels like—slow, bureaucratic, and accompanied by the sound of printers jamming.

Your phone buzzes with a message that makes several of your new colleagues glance over disapprovingly.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢? 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝? 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 ����𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝! (◕‿◕)

You glance around to make sure no one's watching before typing back:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙰𝚠𝚠𝚠 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝! (╥﹏╥)

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜! 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚛��𝚊𝚍𝚢! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑? 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛!

You look around the office—at Davidson explaining synergy to a potted plant, at your coworkers staring at their screens with the enthusiasm of people watching their own funerals.

It feels like watching dead insects.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟻:𝟹𝟶 𝚒𝚏 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢. 𝟼 𝚒𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 '𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗' 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝟼! 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚊 𝚑𝚊, 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍, 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝? (𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘!!)

You put your phone away and try to focus on the task at hand—writing compelling copy for a line of anti-aging moisturizers targeted at 'modern Japanese women who demand excellence.'

The irony isn't lost on you.

At exactly 6:07 PM, you escape the corporate hellscape and find Hoseok lounging in the lobby like he actually belongs there.

He's wearing ripped jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and that same orange beanie, looking like he wandered in from a completely different universe.

Several security guards eye him suspiciously.

"Capy!" He jumps up (and you want to slap him) from the leather chair he's been sprawled across. "You survived! I wasn't sure you would make it out alive."

"Barely," you mutter, adjusting your blazer. "This place is where souls go to die."

"Harsh. But accurate, probably." He looks you up and down with an expression you can't quite read. "You look very... professional. Like you could fire someone and feel nothing."

"Don't tempt me. I already have a list."

He laughs, falling into step beside you as you head toward the exit.

"That bad, huh?"

"I spent six hours learning about 'consumer-focused brand narratives' and I still don't know what that means. Also, my desk faces a wall."

"Sounds like you need alcohol and carbohydrates. Lucky for you, I know just the place."

You follow him out into the early evening chaos of Umeda, where salary men in identical dark suits stream past like schools of depressed fish.

The contrast between Hoseok's chaotic energy and the rigid corporate atmosphere is so stark it's almost funny.

Almost.

"So," he says as you navigate through the crowd, "tell me about your coworkers. Anyone interesting? Any office romances brewing? Workplace drama?"

"It's been one day, Ott. I barely learned where the bathroom is."

"Details, Capy! I need details! Is your boss hot? Is there office gossip? Do people eat lunch at their desks like sad robots?"

"Yes to the sad robot lunches. No to everything else." You side-step a group of tourists taking photos of street signs. "Although Davidson—that's my boss—seems like the type who has strong opinions about proper email formatting."

"Davidson? What kind of name is Davidson for a boss? He sounds like a middle management villain."

"Davidson Davidson, actually."

Hoseok stops walking entirely.

"You're joking."

"I am not joking. His parents named him Dave Davidson. He acknowledged the lack of creativity himself."

"That's the most tragic thing I've ever heard. No wonder you looked dead inside when I picked you up."

"I didn't look dead inside."

"Capy, you looked like someone had surgically removed your will to live. Which, honestly, is understandable after spending eight hours with a man named Dave Davidson."

You can't argue with that assessment.

He leads you to a small izakaya tucked between a convenience store and a shop selling nothing but different types of socks.

The interior is all dark wood and paper lanterns, with the kind of cramped seating that forces strangers to become uncomfortably intimate with each other's elbows.

"This place doesn't look like much," Hoseok says, sliding into a booth that's clearly designed for people smaller than either of you, "but they have the best karaage in the city, and the beer is cheap enough that you can afford to forget about Dave Davidson's existence."

"I can't get drunk. I have to work tomorrow."

"Who said anything about getting drunk? I said forgetting Dave Davidson exists. That only requires like, two beers, max."

The waitress appears—a woman who looks like she's been working here since the restaurant opened sometime in the Meiji era.

Hoseok jumps in, ordering in fluent Japanese that flows so naturally you almost forget he's half-Australian. 

His mom made sure he was bilingual from the start, but hearing it now, surrounded by the actual language and culture, makes you realize how much more connected to this place he is than you.

"What did you order?" you ask when she leaves.

"Food. Beer. Trust me."

"That's not an answer."

"It is now, Capy. Live a little."

You lean back against the booth, feeling some of the day's tension leave your shoulders.

The izakaya is warm and dim, filled with the comfortable buzz of people unwinding after work.

It's the first time all day you've felt like you could breathe properly.

"So," you say, "how's the porn business?"

Hoseok nearly chokes on the water he's sipping.

"Jesus, warn a guy before you just blurt that out."

"What? You brought it up yesterday. I'm just making conversation."

"It's... fine. Good, actually. I just finished a commission that's probably going to pay my rent for the next two months."

"What was it? Wait, do I want to know?"

He grins.

"Probably not. But I'll tell you anyway. It was a twelve-page story about a librarian who discovers that late-night study sessions can be... educational."

"Oh god."

"Hey, don't knock it! The characterization was surprisingly deep. She had a whole backstory about her graduate thesis on medieval literature. Very sophisticated stuff."

"You're defending the artistic merit of librarian porn to me."

"I'm defending the artistic merit of all my work. Just because it's explicit doesn't mean it lacks substance."

The food arrives—platters of fried chicken, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and enough beer to drown a horse.

Hoseok immediately starts dissecting the chicken with the precision of a surgeon.

"The thing is," he continues, apparently not done with his professional defense, "most hentai is garbage. No character development, ridiculous scenarios, anatomy that defies physics. But I try to make mine actually... realistic, you know? Like, what would these people actually be thinking? How would they really react?"

You take a long drink of beer.

"Realistic hentai. That's your niche."

"Mock all you want, but it's harder than you think. Especially drawing women. Like, actually making them look like real people instead of inflatable dolls with anatomically impossible proportions."

"I imagine that is challenging."

"It is! I spend hours looking at reference photos trying to get facial expressions right during…" He clears his throat. "…intimate moments. And body language! How do people actually hold themselves when they're vulnerable? What do real emotions look like on someone's face when they're—"

He stops mid-sentence, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"When they're what?" you prompt, more curious than you want to admit.

"When they're... you know. Experiencing pleasure. Real pleasure."

There's something in his voice—a genuine frustration that catches you off guard. Like this actually matters to him beyond just paying rent.

"That does sound complicated," you say, surprising yourself with the sincerity.

"It is. I mean, I can draw bodies fine. Anatomy, positioning, all that technical stuff. But making it feel real? Making the characters seem like actual people instead of just... vessels for fantasy? That's the hard part."

The beer is making you bolder than usual.

"So what's the problem exactly?"

Hoseok fidgets with his chopsticks.

"I think... I think I draw women the way I assume they should look and feel, instead of how they actually do. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of. Like you're working from secondhand information instead of... primary sources?"

"Exactly!" He leans forward, animated again. "I'm always guessing. What would her face actually look like in this moment? How would she really move? What would be going through her head?"

You take another drink, processing this unexpected insight into his work.

"And you can't just... I don't know, watch porn for reference?"

"Porn is the worst reference possible. It's all performance. Fake expressions, exaggerated reactions, completely unrealistic scenarios. If I based my work on porn, it would be just as terrible as everyone else's."

"Huh."

"Yeah, huh." He picks at his food, suddenly looking younger than his twenty-six years. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just give up on trying to make it realistic and just draw ridiculous tentacle monsters like everyone expects."

"Don't do that."

The words come out more forcefully than you intended, and he looks up with surprise.

"I mean," you backtrack, "if you think realistic is better, then... keep trying to make it realistic. Right?"

"But how? I can't exactly ask random women to model for explicit manga. That would be weird and probably illegal."

You're quiet for a moment, an idea forming that you immediately try to dismiss.

But the beer and the warmth of the izakaya and the genuine frustration in his voice make you consider it.

"What if..." you start, then stop.

"What if what?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Capy, what were you going to say?"

You drain half your beer in one go.

"I was going to say, what if you had someone to model for you? Like, someone you trust who could give you actual realistic reference?"

Hoseok stares at you. Frowns, like genuinely, actually frowns (and isn't that the first time in his adult face you've seen it?)

"Are you... are you offering?"

"I'm not offering anything. I'm just saying hypothetically, if you had access to realistic references, your work would probably improve."

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically."

"And this hypothetical reference model would be...?"

You feel heat rising in your cheeks and blame it on the alcohol.

"I don't know. Someone who understands that it's just work. Professional."

"Professional reference modeling for hentai manga."

"It's not any weirder than your current career path."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"You're serious," he says finally.

"I'm drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."

"But you're serious about being drunk."

"Shut up, Ott."

But he's grinning now, that stupid, wide grin that takes over his entire face.

"Capy wants to model for my sexy manga!"

"Keep your voice down!" You glance around the izakaya, but everyone seems too absorbed in their own conversations to care about yours. "And I didn't say I wanted to do anything. I said hypothetically—"

"You offered to pose for me."

"I offered a theoretical solution to your creative problem."

"By posing for me."

"By... providing realistic reference materials in a professional capacity."

"For my hentai manga."

"For your... adult-oriented sequential art."

He's laughing now, delighted by your obvious discomfort. "This is the best day of my life. Capy is going to be my muse!"

"I am not going to be your muse. And stop calling it that."

"What should I call it? My artistic collaborator? My reference consultant? My—"

"Your friend who's had too much beer and suggested something stupid."

"My friend who's going to help me create the most realistic romantic manga Osaka has never seen."

That stops you.

Because he…

He's just said the word 'friend'.

And you hate how that made something twist in your chest.

"I haven't agreed to anything," you insist. "We were just talking theoretically."

"Theoretically, when would you be available for our first session?"

"Theoretically, you're an idiot."

"Theoretically, you're avoiding the question."

You finish your beer and immediately signal for another.

"If—and I mean if—I were to consider this theoretical arrangement, it would be purely professional. No weirdness."

"Define weirdness."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't. Are we talking about no inappropriate comments? No lingering stares? No—"

"All of the above. It would be like... like life drawing class. Clinical. Professional."

"Have you ever taken a life drawing class?"

"That's not the point."

"Because life drawing classes can get pretty—"

"Hoseok."

"Right. Clinical. Professional. Got it." He's still grinning. "So when do we start?"

"We don't start anything because this is a hypothetical conversation about a theoretical arrangement that will never actually happen."

"But if it were to happen theoretically?"

You look at him across the table—flushed from beer and excitement, eyes bright with possibility, that stupid beanie slightly askew.

He looks exactly like the kid who used to convince you to climb fences and steal apples from the neighbor's tree, all mischief and misplaced confidence.

And despite every rational thought in your head screaming at you to shut this down, you hear yourself saying:

"Tomorrow night. After work. Your place."

His grin could power the entire city.

"Theoretically?" he asks.

"Theoretically."

"This is going to be amazing, Capy."

You signal for another beer.

You're going to need it.

The thing is, he looks genuinely excited. Not the performative, over-the-top excitement he uses to annoy you—but the real kind.

The kind that makes his eyes go bright and his whole body lean forward like he can't contain whatever stupid idea is bouncing around in his head.

It's the same look he used to get when he'd convince you to sneak out and explore the construction site behind your neighborhood, or when he'd drag you to that weird arcade with the broken claw machines that somehow always gave him exactly what he wanted.

Which means this theoretical modeling arrangement is either going to be completely innocent or a complete disaster.

Probably both.

"You know what?" he says, peeling the label off his new beer bottle in strips, "you should see my place tonight. Get the full Osaka experience."

You nearly choke on your karaage. Because what did this nuthead just say?

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"Why not? It's still early!"

"It's past nine, Ott. That's not early. That's nighttime. When normal people go home to their sad apartments and contemplate their life choices."

"Since when are we normal people?" He grins, that stupid, infectious grin that probably got him out of trouble his entire childhood. "Come on, Capy. When's the last time you had a proper house tour?"

When's the last time you crashed at a guy's place just because he asked? When's the last time you did anything without calculating the exact social implications and potential for regret?

"When's the last time you cleaned your house?" you counter instead.

"That's… irrelevant."

"Everything about you is irrelevant."

"Harsh but fair."

The waitress brings your beer, and you immediately take a long drink because this conversation is heading somewhere you're not sure you want to follow.

The alcohol has made everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but not fuzzy enough to make this seem like a good idea.

Actually, that's a lie.

The alcohol is making it seem like exactly the kind of stupid, impulsive thing you would have done when you were seventeen and thought the worst thing that could happen was your parents finding out.

Now you know better.

Now you know that the worst things are usually the ones that feel like coming home.

"I'm not going to your apartment at nine-thirty at night after we just agreed to some theoretical professional arrangement that I'm already regretting," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"But you haven't seen where the magic happens! Where your theoretical modeling will theoretically take place!"

"The magic happens in your bedroom, doesn't it."

"Well, yeah. Better lighting by the window, and I can spread all my references out on the bed—" He stops mid-sentence, apparently realizing how that sounds. "Wait, that came out wrong."

"Everything you say comes out wrong."

"Fair point." He demolishes another piece of chicken. "But seriously, you should see the place. I've got it set up pretty nice now. Real drawing desk, proper lamp, even organized my reference materials into folders like a functioning adult."

"Your porn collection, you mean."

"My professional research library," he corrects with mock dignity. "Very different thing. Alphabetized and everything."

The image of Hoseok carefully organizing hentai manga by genre and artistic merit is so ridiculous you almost smile.

"Plus," he continues, voice quiet and not meeting your eyes while he picks at the label on his bottle, "you could crash there tonight. Save yourself the train ride back to your shoebox apartment."

And there it is. The real reason behind this sudden house tour enthusiasm.

"My apartment isn't a shoebox."

"Capy, you described it yesterday as 'slightly larger than a coffin but with worse lighting.'"

"That was… accurate but not the point."

"The point is you're probably dreading going back there alone. New city, new job, everything unfamiliar." His voice gets softer, less performative. "Wouldn't hurt to have somewhere comfortable to crash."

There it is again—that stupid, genuine concern that always catches you off guard. The way he can shift from ridiculous to sincere in half a sentence, like he's got some kind of emotional whiplash disorder.

It's the same tone he used when you were thirteen and crying because your parents were fighting again, when he climbed through your window and sat on your floor for three hours without saying a word. Just… present.

Just there.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Because it's been five years since anyone was just there for you. Five years of being the competent one, the reliable one, the one who has her shit together and doesn't need anyone to sit on her floor and not say anything.

Five years of being completely, utterly alone.

"I'm not crashing at your place, Hoseok."

"Why not? We're friends, right?"

There's that word again—friends.

Like it's simple. Like five years of radio silence and separate lives can be erased with one dinner and too much beer.

Like you can just slip back into being the people you were before you grew up and moved away and learned how to be strangers.

"Are we?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

He looks up from his bottle, label half-peeled and hanging like a sad flag of surrender.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" You gesture vaguely between you, encompassing the izakaya, the theoretical modeling arrangement, the way he's looking at you like you're still seventeen and nothing has changed. "This. Whatever this is. Are we friends? Or are we just two people who used to know each other pretending nothing's changed?"

He blinks at you. You blink at him. And suddenly the two seconds of silence that pass by feel like an eternity.

"Do you want to be friends?" he finally asks quietly.

"I don't know." The honesty surprises you. "I mean, yes. I think. But I don't know if we can just… pick up where we left off."

"We don't have to pick up anywhere. We can start over."

"Start over as what?"

"As…" He shrugs, that careful casualness that means he's thinking harder than he's letting on. "As whatever we want to be."

But that's the problem—because you don't know what you want to be.

You don't know if you want to be the girl who crashes at her old friend's apartment because she's too lonely to go home, or the woman who keeps appropriate boundaries and doesn't complicate things.

You don't know if you want to be someone who can trust that easily again.

"You still bite your lip when you're thinking too hard," he observes.

"I do not."

"You're doing it right now."

You immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider.

"Some things don't change, Capy. Even when everything else does."

"Don't get philosophical on me, Ott. It doesn't suit you."

"What does suit me?"

The question catches you off guard.

You look at him—really look at him—taking in the way five years have sharpened some edges and softened others.

The boy you knew is still there, buried under layers of adult experience and professional disappointment and whatever other things happen to people when they stop being kids and start pretending they know what they're doing.

He's still too thin, still too energetic, still wearing clothes that look like he grabbed them off his bedroom floor.

But there's something different in his eyes now.

As if he's been waiting for something for a long time and isn't sure it's coming.

"Chaos," you say finally. "Chaos suits you."

He laughs, loud enough that several other customers glance over.

"I'll take it."

"Good, because that's all you're getting."

"For now."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

You blame the beer and the warm lighting and the fact that you've barely slept in three days.

"I should go home," you say, but you don't move to leave.

"You should come see my apartment."

"Those are opposite things, Ott."

"Not if you crash at mine."

"I'm not crashing at your place."

"Why not?"

"Because…" You fumble for a reason that doesn't sound ridiculous. "Because it's weird. We just reconnected yesterday. Normal people don't sleep over at their childhood friend's house after one dinner."

Because it feels too much like before.

Because you're scared of how easy it would be to fall back into old patterns, old dependencies, old ways of needing someone.

Because you've spent five years learning how to be alone, and one night on his couch might undo all of that.

"Normal people don't agree to model for hentai manga either, but here we are."

"That's different. That's professional."

"Right. Professional." He draws out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Professional modeling, professional friendship, professional distance. Everything professional."

"There's nothing wrong with professional."

"Course not. Very sensible. Very mature."

He's grinning again, but there's something underneath it that you can't quite identify.

You feel, surprisingly, it's shaped like disappointment.

"Very unlike the Capy I remember."

That makes you swallow.

It's unfair, how he can say shit like that and have your chest cave in.

"People change, Ott. We're not kids anymore."

"No," he agrees, and his voice goes quiet. "We're not."

The way he says it makes you look at him again, and what you see in his eyes looks like he's grieving for those kids too. Like he misses them as much as you do.

Like maybe he's been just as lost without them as you have.

"I have a surprise," he says suddenly, changing direction so fast you get conversational whiplash.

"I hate surprises."

"I know. That's what makes this one perfect."

"That logic makes no sense."

"Trust me."

"I don't trust you. You tried to convince me that eating chocolate for breakfast was a balanced meal because it contained milk."

"It does contain milk! And calcium! Very nutritious!"

"You were seventeen, Hoseok. You should have known better."

"I was a growing boy! I needed nutrients!"

You laugh despite yourself, and the sound echoes off the low ceiling of the izakaya.

It's embarrassing how easy it is to fall back into this rhythm with him, like your brain has been storing all these conversation patterns for five years just waiting for him to come back.

"What kind of surprise?"

"The kind you'll only find out if you come see my apartment."

"That's manipulation."

"That's incentive."

"That's emotional blackmail."

"That's friendship."

Fucker.

You drain the rest of your beer in one long pull, partly for courage and partly to delay having to respond. The alcohol seems to have erased your usually reliable sense of self-preservation.

And maybe that's what you need right now. Maybe you need to stop protecting yourself from every possible disappointment and just… see what happens.

Maybe you need to remember what it feels like to trust someone who used to know all your secrets.

"If I come see your place," you say carefully, "and if I hate your surprise, I'm leaving immediately."

"Deal. But you won't hate it."

"I probably will."

"You definitely won't."

"I have a very high hate-to-like ratio when it comes to surprises. Remember my sixteenth birthday?"

His face changes. "Oh. Shit. Yeah, I remember."

Of course he remembers.

He's the one who spent three hours sitting outside the bathroom door, talking to you through the wood while you had a complete meltdown because your mom had thrown you a surprise party and invited half your class and you couldn't handle being the center of attention like that.

"Your mom meant well," he says quietly.

"I know she meant well. But I told her I didn't want a party, and she threw one anyway because she thought I was just being shy. And then I locked myself in the bathroom like a lunatic while twenty people ate cake and wondered where the birthday girl went."

"You weren't a lunatic. You were overwhelmed."

"I was pathetic."

"You were sixteen and dealing with more shit than anyone knew." His voice has gone serious in a way that makes you uncomfortable. "And I should have known better than to help her plan it."

"You were just being a good friend."

"I'm still trying to be a good friend," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes you look up from your beer.

This man who used to be a boy who used to climb through your bedroom window just to sit on your floor and read comics. Who used to walk you home from school even though his house was in the opposite direction. Who used to know exactly what to say to make you laugh when you were crying about some stupid teenage drama.

Who disappeared from your life for five years and somehow found his way back in the span of twenty-four hours.

"Fine," you say, and immediately regret it. "But I'm taking the couch."

His smile is so bright it should be illegal.

"Deal. But you're gonna love the surprise, Capy. I promise."

"I doubt that."

"You love being wrong about things."

"I love being right about you being an idiot."

"Same thing, really."

He signals for the check, already bouncing slightly in his seat with excitement.

You watch him count out bills with the kind of gesture that suggests his porn money isn't quite as abundant as he likes to pretend.

His apartment is probably just as small and depressing as yours.

He's probably just as lost and lonely as you are.

He's probably just as scared of growing up and becoming a real person with real responsibilities and real consequences.

But at least you can be lost and scared together.

At least for tonight.

"Ott?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still like strawberry milk?"

The question comes out of nowhere, surprising both of you.

But something about the beer and the warm light and the familiar rhythm of your bickering has loosened something in your chest, some speck of control you've been maintaining since you walked into that izakaya.

His smile goes soft around the edges.

"Yeah. I do. Do you still put way too much sugar in your coffee?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

It's such a small thing—strawberry milk and oversweetened coffee—but somehow it feels enormous.

Like proof that some essential part of each of you has remained unchanged despite everything else that's shifted and grown and broken apart.

Like maybe those kids are still in there somewhere, waiting to be found again.

"Ready to go?" he asks, standing and pulling on his jacket.

"No. But let's go anyway."

"That's the spirit, Capy."

You follow him out into the cool Osaka night, where the neon signs reflect off wet pavement and streets are full of people pretending they know where they're going.

And for the first time since you moved here, you think maybe you don't need to know where you're going.

Maybe you just need to trust that wherever Hoseok is leading you, it'll be worth the trip.

Even if it scares the hell out of you.

Four flights of stairs later, you're questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

"Exercise," you mutter, gripping the railing as Hoseok bounds ahead like some kind of demented mountain goat. "Right. Because what this night needed was cardio."

"Almost there!" he calls back, not even slightly winded. "Just think of it as pre-modeling conditioning!"

"I'm thinking of it as cruel and unusual punishment."

His apartment door is covered in stickers—anime characters you don't recognize, band logos from groups that probably broke up in 2001, and what appears to be a holographic Pikachu giving a thumbs up.

It's aggressively juvenile and somehow perfectly him.

"Don't judge the door art," he says, fumbling with his keys. "It came with the apartment."

"It absolutely did not."

"Okay, fine, I may have added some personality over the years. Sue me."

The door swings open and you step into what can only be described as organized chaos.

The apartment is small but noticeably bigger than your shoebox—which isn't saying much, but still manages to feel spacious by comparison.

Manga volumes are stacked in towering columns against every wall, art supplies scattered across a desk positioned near the window, and clothes draped over furniture like fabric ghosts.

"Welcome to Casa de Ott!" he announces, spreading his arms wide and nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. "Home sweet chaotic home."

You scan the space, taking in the details.

The couch looks like it was salvaged from a 1980s office waiting room. There's a small TV balanced precariously on a stack of manga, and the kitchen is basically a corner with a mini-fridge and what might generously be called a stove.

"It's…" you start.

"Terrible? Depressing? A fire hazard?"

"I was going to say small."

"Small is a nice way of putting it. I prefer 'cozy' or 'efficiently designed.'"

Your eyes land on a red sketchbook lying open on the low table, pages covered in detailed drawings that make you stop mid-step. You can't make out the specifics from this distance, but before you can guess the contents, Hoseok is screeching.

"Oh shit," Hoseok says, following your gaze. He lunges forward and slams the sketchbook closed, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "Those are, uh, not for virgin eyes."

"Virgin eyes?" You raise an eyebrow. "I'm twenty-six, Ott. I've seen naked people before."

"Yeah, but not my naked people. These are my professionally naked people. Very different."

"I'm literally going to model for this stuff, remember?"

He freezes, sketchbook still pressed against his chest.

"So we're not doing hypothetical anymore?"

Shit, he's right—somewhere between the beer and the banter and the way he looked at you when you called him your friend, the theoretical became decidedly less theoretical.

"I…" You falter, suddenly aware of how close you're standing. "Beer. You mentioned beer."

"Right. Beer. Very important. Life-sustaining beverage." He's still holding the sketchbook like a security blanket. "Kitchen's over there. Help yourself. I'm just going to put this away where it can't traumatize anyone."

He disappears down a narrow hallway, and you make your way to the kitchen area.

The refrigerator is covered in delivery menus and what appears to be a drawing of a cat wearing a top hat.

Inside, there are exactly three items: beer, leftover ramen, and a container of something that might once have been vegetables.

"Your food situation is concerning," you call out.

"I survive on convenience store cuisine and pure artistic passion!" comes his muffled reply from what you assume is his bedroom.

You grab two beers and settle onto the couch, which is actually more comfortable than it looks.

The apartment feels lived-in despite its chaos—or maybe because of it.

There's something appealingly unpretentious about the space, like Hoseok just exists here without trying to impress anyone.

"Okay," he says, emerging from the hallway with his hands behind his back and a grin that should probably be illegal. "Ready for your surprise?"

Every muscle in your body tenses. "I told you I hate surprises."

"And I told you this one's different. This one's going to change your entire worldview on surprises."

"My worldview on surprises is based on sound psychological principles and extensive personal trauma. One cute whatever-it-is isn't going to—"

He brings his hands forward, revealing a small, furry creature with enormous dark eyes and a long, fluffy tail.

You stop breathing.

"Capy," he says, his voice soft with obvious pride, "meet Momo."

The sugar glider—because that's clearly what she is—sits perfectly still in his cupped palms, studying you with the kind of intense curiosity usually reserved for wildlife documentaries.

She's tiny, maybe the size of a hamster, with gray fur and cream markings that make her look like she's wearing a tiny vest.

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"Language," Hoseok scolds, but he's grinning. "She's a lady."

"You have a sugar glider."

"I have Momo. She's not just any sugar glider. She's the most perfect sugar glider in the history of sugar gliders."

As if hearing her cue, Momo shifts slightly in his palms, studying you with what can only be described as deep suspicion.

"Can I…" you start, then stop. "Is she friendly?"

"She's cautious with new people, but she's never actually bitten anyone. Well, except that one time with my neighbor, but he deserved it."

"What did your neighbor do?"

"Tried to pet her without permission. Momo has very strong opinions about consent."

You extend one finger slowly, and Momo sniffs it delicately, her tiny nose twitching as she processes your scent.

After a moment of consideration, she pulls back and immediately scurries up Hoseok's arm to perch on his shoulder, as far from you as possible.

"Well," you say, trying to keep your voice casual, "that's… fine. I don't care if a rodent likes me or not."

"She's a marsupial, actually. And she just needs time to warm up to new people."

"I said I don't care."

But there's something distinctly annoying about being rejected by something the size of a hamster.

You're a perfectly likeable person. You've never done anything to offend small mammals.

"She's very discerning," Hoseok says, clearly trying not to laugh at your obvious wounded pride. "High standards."

"So you rescued a sugar glider."

"I rescued the most perfect sugar glider."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true. Look at her little hands! And her tail! And the way she tilts her head when she's thinking!"

You look at him instead—at the way his entire face lights up when he talks about Momo, the gentle way he cradles her, the obvious pride in his voice.

This is a side of Hoseok you've never seen before, tender and protective and completely unguarded.

It's dangerous how much you like it.

"She's nocturnal," he continues, settling onto the couch beside you with Momo still in his hands. "So she's most active when I'm working late. She keeps me company during those long drawing sessions."

"Does she approve of your career choices?"

"She's very supportive of the arts. Aren't you, princess?"

Momo makes a soft chittering sound that might be agreement or might be a request for food.

Either way, you can't deny it's adorable.

"How long have you had her?"

"About eighteen months. She was really skittish at first—wouldn't let me touch her for weeks. But now…" He strokes her tiny back with one finger. "Now she's spoiled rotten."

You watch as Momo climbs onto his shoulder, then leaps gracefully to the back of the couch. The movement is so fluid it barely registers as motion—one second she's with Hoseok, the next she's exploring the cushions near your head.

"She's showing off," he says fondly. "She likes to glide around the apartment when she's skittish."

"Glide?"

"Sugar gliders have these membranes between their legs—see? She can glide from the bookshelf to the couch, couch to the desk, basically anywhere she wants to go. It's like having a tiny flying squirrel roommate."

As if to demonstrate, Momo launches herself from the couch back to Hoseok's shoulder, the movement so quick and graceful you barely catch it.

"That's incredible."

"I know. She's basically a superhero. A tiny, adorable superhero who costs me a fortune in specialized food and vet bills."

The beer is wearing off, leaving you feeling suddenly, acutely sober.

Clear-headed enough to realize what you've gotten yourself into tonight—agreeing to pose for Hoseok's hentai manga, coming to his apartment, letting yourself get charmed by his ridiculous pet.

"Ott," you say carefully.

"Yeah?"

"I was drunk earlier. When I said I'd… help with your reference situation."

His face doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture.

"How drunk?"

"Drunk enough to suggest something stupid."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sober enough to know it was stupid."

He's quiet for a moment, watching Momo explore the couch cushions.

When he speaks, his voice is casual in a way that doesn't fool either of you. "Too late, Capy. I'm already planning our first session."

"Hoseok—"

"Think about it. Professional artistic collaboration between old friends. Very sophisticated. Very mature."

"Nothing about this situation is mature."

"I'm hurt. Deeply wounded by your lack of faith in my professionalism."

Despite yourself, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Your professionalism in drawing pornographic manga."

"Adult-oriented sequential art with emotional depth and realistic character development."

"You keep saying that like it makes it sound more legitimate."

"Because it is more legitimate. You'll see when we start working together."

The assumption in his voice—that you will, in fact, go through with this insane arrangement—should annoy you.

Instead, it makes something flutter in your chest that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

"I didn't actually agree to anything," you say, but the protest sounds weak even to you.

"You suggested it. I accepted. Contract sealed."

"That's not how contracts work."

"It's how friendship contracts work."

Friendship contracts.

As if you're still twelve and sealing deals with pinky promises and shared secrets.

Except you're not twelve anymore, and this isn't about friendship.

Or maybe it is, and that's what makes it dangerous.

"I should get going," you say, making no move to actually leave.

"It's late. Train's probably stopped running."

"It's not even eleven."

"But you're comfortable now. Look, Momo likes you."

You glance down to find the sugar glider eyeing you from the floor.

"She's still giving me the cold shoulder."

"She usually hides when strangers are here, so this is actually progress."

"Great. I've been upgraded from 'immediate threat' to 'tolerable presence.'"

"It's a very exclusive club. You should feel honored. You've basically been officially approved for apartment privileges."

"What kind of privileges?"

"Sleeping on the couch when you're too tired to go home. Raiding my refrigerator. Critiquing my life choices in person instead of via text."

The casual way he lists these domestic intimacies makes your chest tight.

Like he's already decided you belong here, in his chaos, part of his routine.

"I'm not sleeping on your couch, Ott."

"Why not? It's surprisingly comfortable. And I'll be in my room working when you get lonely and need someone to bother."

"I don't get lonely."

He gives you a look that suggests he sees right through that particular lie.

"Fine," you say, because arguing seems more exhausting than just giving in. "Now shut up and give me another beer."

"Can't. You said you're sober now. Can't have you making any more questionable decisions."

"I make excellent decisions."

"Says the woman who just agreed to sleep on a stranger's couch."

"You're not a stranger. You're Ott. Annoying but familiar."

He grins at that, wide and pleased, like being called annoying is the highest compliment you could give him.

And maybe, in your particular language, it is.

goal: 100 notes.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﾟ௰ﾟ'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[ddaenqqvantae]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 01

˗ˏˋott and capy ˎˊ˗

“Ott and Capy. Stupid nicknames, really. Which is fitting when you’re like 8? 10? and your best friend is being annoying. Now at almost 30 it’s… something alarming to be called in the middle of Tennoji Station. But then again, this is your childhood friend Hoseok who you’re talking about.”

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 4,7k

content: moving out/in, new beginnings, discovering Osaka, wondering the merits of texting your childhood best friend, 5 years no contact, reconnecting, work discoveries, dinner plans, hobi being loud on purpose, hobi being a literal golden retriever, nicknames (are we surprised this is a kiki fic), yn being black grumpy cat coded andweird feelings.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

HEEEEYYYYYY did ya losers miss some good ol’ Kiki-Hobi energy???? WELL GUESS WHAT. I’m back. I’m here. I’m mentally unwell. And I’m writing Hoseok as a hentai mangaka. You’re welcome.

So here's the thing: after Off Labels I thought I was done. Thought I’d said all I had to say about Hoseok and trauma and weird intimacy and shame and giggles through grief. And then this man—this stupid man with his stupid loud laugh and his stupid kind eyes—crept back into my mind and refused to leave. He's my wrecker. Shocking, I know. Please hold your gasps.

This fic came to me because I couldn’t stop listening to Kyary Pamyu Pamyu and having weird visual flashes of neon Osaka streets, vending machines, childhood nicknames, and that very specific flavor of yearning that comes from bumping into someone you used to know so well, and realizing you don’t know them at all anymore. I sat with that for a while. It festered. And then, like all things in my life, it became fiction.

This chapter… hurts. Like?? Soft and fluffy?? Kind of?? But also??? Pain?? It’s not loud pain. It’s not sobbing-in-the-rain pain. It’s quiet ache pain. It’s “do they still like lemon cake” pain. It's the psychological spiral that hits when you realize someone who once knew you like breathing is now asking you for your address like a stranger. It’s sitting across from your childhood best friend and realizing neither of you remember how to touch. How to say goodbye. How to exist in each other’s presence without flinching.

And yeah okay I know exactly why it hurts. (I’m a psychology girlie. I analyze my own trauma for breakfast and then write porn in the afternoon. Duality.)

It’s the displacement. The unspoken. The existential nausea of identity—like who are you, if the person who knew you best doesn’t recognize you anymore? It’s the phantom limb syndrome of old intimacy. You keep reaching for a version of them that doesn’t exist anymore. And maybe they’re doing the same with you.

This fic will be slow-paced. Of course it’s slow. This is a Kiki fic. We write longing so extended it loops back into erotic torment and then loops again into grief.

Anyway, I’m really proud of this chapter. Like, genuinely. I think the tone is doing something very specific that I don’t always allow myself to linger in: melancholy. It’s bittersweet but not tragic. Nostalgic but not sappy. It’s two people walking a tightrope over their shared past, too scared to look down.

I’ll stop rambling now (no I won’t). Read the chapter. Text your childhood best friend. Or don’t. Maybe just sit in it. Let the ache settle.

Thanks for reading. ~ Kiki (aka Capy in spirit, Ott in chaos)

P.S. If you're not already invested in Hoseok as a feral golden-retriever-turned-hentai-artist, I will make you. Give me three chapters. Bet.

⋆｡°✩ read on ✩°｡⋆

wattpad

ao3

Your phone's been staring at you for three hours, and you're pretty sure it's winning.

You've spent three days arranging your meager possessions in this shoebox apartment, and still, it doesn't feel like yours. 

The walls are too thin, the floor creaks in places it shouldn't, and there's a mysterious stain on the ceiling that looks vaguely like Australia—which feels like some cosmic joke you're not in the mood to appreciate.

And it’s Sunday evening in Osaka. 

Tomorrow you start your new job at that international marketing firm—the one that hired you specifically because you can string English words together without having an aneurysm. 

Impressive skill, that.

Your phone sits on the fold-out table, screen cracked in one corner from when you dropped it while unpacking. 

The pixelated display of your Nokia mocks you with its emptiness. 

No messages. No missed calls. No one even knows you're here except your family, your new boss and the unimpressed landlady who barely looked at you when handing over the keys.

And right now you're sprawled on your sad excuse for a futon, scrolling through Mixi for the fourth time today like some digital masochist. 

There it is again—Jung Hoseok's profile, mocking you with that ridiculous peace-sign photo and his stupid orange beanie.

Osaka Life: Year Five! with a picture of manga sketches and what looks like convenience store ramen. 

Classic.

You scroll through the contacts, thumb hovering over his profile. 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤. Saved without a nickname or emoji because you're allegedly an adult now.

"This is stupid," you mutter to the empty room, tossing the phone onto your futon. It bounces pathetically, like everything else in this apartment—cheap and temporary.

Five years. Five years since you've properly seen him. 

Yeah, there was that awkward coffee when you both happened to be home visiting parents three years ago, but that barely counted. Twenty minutes of surface-level catching up before he had to run for his train. 

You both promised to keep in touch better. 

Neither of you did.

You wouldn't even know Ott was still in Osaka if you hadn't stumbled across his profile on Mixi last month while researching your move. 

The nickname forms in your head unbidden. 

Ott. 

Right. The stupid nickname. Ott. Otter.

Because he never stopped moving as a kid, always splashing around, getting into everything, making noise. 

Like an otter. 

You called him that once to piss him off, but he'd just grinned that stupid grin and started calling you Capybara—Capy for short—because you were ‘always sitting there, judging everyone, looking grumpy but actually kind of cute.’

You were not cute. You were eleven and had braces and hated everything.

Still kind of do. 

Your apartment's single window faces another building, barely six feet of space between them. Someone's laundry hangs on the opposite balcony—a man's shirts and pants, all in dark colors. You wonder idly if your neighbor is as lost in this city as you are.

You moved to Osaka because it made sense. The job offer came at the perfect time—just when your old position in Sydney had become so monotonous you were considering setting your desk on fire just to feel something. 

They needed someone who could communicate with their English-speaking clients. 

You needed a change. 

Simple math.

The fact that you knew Hoseok lived here was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant. It's not like you were expecting to run into him in a city of 2.6 million people. And it's definitely not like you were going to reach out to him.

Except now you're sitting here, stomach growling because you still haven't figured out where to buy groceries, staring at your phone like it might bite you.

You hear everything happening outside.

Distant trains, muffled voices speaking rapid Japanese you can barely follow, someone's TV playing what sounds like a game show. 

You've learned exactly seventeen useful phrases in Japanese, and fifteen of them are food-related.

Your laptop sits on the floor, ancient and struggling to connect to the building's spotty internet. The email from your new boss stares back at you: 

"Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at 8:30. Please be punctual. Orientation materials attached."

God, you're not ready. You're not ready for any of this.

You grab your phone again, a decision forming against your better judgment. 

It's just practical, really. He knows the city. He could tell you where to get decent food that won't bankrupt you. Maybe recommend a better internet provider. That's it.

Your thumb hovers over the message button. You type, delete, type again. Finally:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚎𝚢. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚈/𝙽. 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚢𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚢. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙾𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔. 𝚂𝚊𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚡𝚒. 𝙰𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗 𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝟽-𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗?

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately throw the phone down like it's contaminated. 

What the hell are you doing? He probably doesn't even remember you properly. Or worse, he does, and he'll think you're some desperate loser who can't make friends without dredging up people from elementary school.

Five minutes pass. 

Ten. 

You force yourself to unpack the last box, arranging toiletries in your tiny bathroom, pretending you're not listening for the message alert.

When the phone finally beeps, you nearly trip over your own feet rushing to check it.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙲𝙰𝙿𝚈?!?!? 𝙽𝙾 𝚆𝙰𝚈!!!!! 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝙾𝚂𝙰𝙺𝙰????

All caps. Multiple exclamation points. Some things never change.

Before you can respond, another message:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?? 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊?? 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚜! ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ

And then another:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙾𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠?? 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚆???

You stare at the screen, a strange mixture of irritation and something warmer swirling in your chest. 

Of course he texts like an overcaffeinated teenager. Of course he uses those stupid Japanese emoticons. Of course he still calls you that ridiculous nickname.

You type back, deliberately keeping it casual:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚓𝚒. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚆, 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝.

The reply is instant:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙽𝙾𝙹𝙸?! 𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟷𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎! 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚃𝙴, 𝙲𝙰𝙿𝚈! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. 

Fate. More like unfortunate coincidence. 

Your stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, reminding you of the original purpose of this ill-advised communication.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚂𝚘... 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜? 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚞.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍! 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚓𝚒 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝟸𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜! 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝!  𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝙾𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕!!

You stare at the message in horror. 

No. Absolutely not. 

You did not sign up for actually seeing him tonight. You're not mentally prepared. Your hair is unwashed, you're wearing your oldest t-shirt, and you haven't slept properly in three days.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝙾𝙾 𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙴! 𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔, 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙? ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟷𝟿 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜!

You throw your phone onto the futon with a groan. 

This is exactly why you hesitated to contact him. The man has no concept of boundaries. Never has. 

You remember how he used to climb through your bedroom window when you were thirteen because your mom said he couldn't come over until you finished your homework. He'd just sit on your floor, reading comics quietly, claiming he wasn't ‘technically’ visiting if he didn't talk.

You glance at your reflection in the small mirror above your sink. 

Dark circles under your eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt from a concert you don't even remember attending.

"Fuck it," you mutter, grabbing a somewhat cleaner shirt from your suitcase.

You're not dressing up for him. You're just not going to give him ammunition to tease you about looking like a zombie.

As you change, you tell yourself this is purely about food. 

You're hungry. He knows places. End of story. 

It's not because some small, traitorous part of you is actually relieved to have someone familiar in this strange city. 

And it's definitely not because, despite everything, you're curious about what five years in Osaka has done to Jung Hoseok.

Sixteen minutes later, you're standing at the north exit of Tennoji Station, arms crossed over your chest, scanning the sparse Sunday evening crowd for a familiar face.

You spot him before he sees you. 

He's jogging toward the exit, still wearing that stupid orange beanie from his profile picture, a faded hoodie hanging loose on his frame. 

He looks... the same, somehow. 

Different, but the same. 

Like someone took the Hoseok you remember and just stretched him slightly, sharpened some edges, but left the core intact.

He hasn't seen you yet, and for a moment, you consider turning around and heading back to your apartment. 

Pretending you never messaged him. 

Starting fresh tomorrow without this complication.

Then he looks up, eyes scanning the area, and his entire face transforms when he spots you. 

His smile is so wide it should be physically painful, eyes crinkling at the corners, hand shooting up to wave frantically like you might miss the only person having a full-body spasm in the middle of the station.

"CAPY!" he shouts, loud enough to make several people turn and stare. "CAPYBARAAAAAA!"

You want to disappear into the concrete. 

Instead, you lift a hand in the smallest possible acknowledgment, your face already settling into the scowl that feels most natural around him.

He bounds over like an overexcited puppy, stopping just short of actually tackling you, which you half-expected him to do.

"Look at you!" he says, eyes scanning you from head to toe. "You look... exactly the same! But taller? Did you get taller? No, that's impossible, we're adults, we don't grow anymore. Maybe I shrunk? Did I shrink, Capy?"

He's talking too fast, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he can't contain the energy in his body. 

Some things really never change.

"Hello to you too, Ott," you say, the nickname slipping out before you can stop it. "And no, neither of us has experienced a height change. You're just as annoyingly tall as always."

His grin somehow gets wider at the nickname, like you've given him some kind of gift. "You remember! You still call me Ott! This is the best day!"

"It's been five years, not fifty. I haven't developed amnesia."

"Five years, three months, and approximately—" he makes a show of checking an imaginary watch, "—twelve days, but who's counting?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Apparently you are, which is concerning."

He laughs, the sound exactly as you remember it—too loud, slightly high-pitched, completely uninhibited. "Come on, I'm taking you to the best okonomiyaki place in Osaka. The owner has a daughter who speaks some English, so you can point at stuff if you need to."

Before you can protest, he's already walking, gesturing for you to follow. You hesitate for only a second before falling into step beside him.

"That's the best convenience store—they never card you for beer. That place has decent ramen but the bathroom is sketchy. Oh, and never go down that street at night unless you want to get offered 'massages' by very persistent men in suits."

You're barely listening, too busy trying to process the fact that you're walking through Osaka with Jung Hoseok, like the last five years never happened, like you're still the same people you were back in Sydney.

But you're not. You can't be. Too much has happened. Too much time has passed.

As if reading your thoughts, he glances at you sideways. "So. Marketing, huh? Always figured you'd end up doing something with all those fancy words you know."

"It's just copywriting. Nothing fancy."

"Still. International firm. Sounds impressive."

You shrug. "They just needed someone who speaks English. The bar was pretty low."

He nudges your shoulder with his. "Classic Capy. Never take a compliment when you can deflect it instead."

"It's not a compliment, it's an observation. And what about you? Still drawing?"

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. "Yeah. Still drawing."

"Anything I would have seen?"

He lets out a short laugh. "Uh, depends on what kind of websites you visit."

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he stops in front of a small restaurant wedged between a closed flower shop and what appears to be a tiny bar. The sign is all in Japanese, and the windows are steamed up from the heat inside.

"Here we are! Best okonomiyaki in the city, I swear."

As he slides open the door, the smell hits you—savory, slightly smoky, with hints of ginger and onion. Your stomach growls audibly, and Hoseok laughs.

"Someone's hungry! Don't worry, Capy, I'll feed you." He puts on a baby voice, reaching out like he's going to pinch your cheek. "Poor widdle Capybara, all alone in the big city with no food."

You swat his hand away. "Touch my face and lose the hand, Ott."

He clutches his chest dramatically. "Still so violent! I see Osaka hasn't softened you at all."

"I've been here three days."

"Ah, so there's still hope!"

The restaurant is small but cozy, with grill tables where customers cook their own okonomiyaki. 

An older woman greets Hoseok warmly in Japanese, exchanging a few sentences before she leads you to a table in the corner.

As you sit down across from him, the reality of the situation finally hits you. 

You're having dinner with Jung Hoseok. 

In Osaka. 

After five years of nothing but occasional likes on social media and that one awkward coffee shop meeting.

He's looking at you with a strange expression, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"What?" you ask, immediately defensive.

"Nothing," he says, but the look lingers. "Just... it's weird, right? You being here. In my city."

"It's not your city. You just live here."

"Five years makes it mine. Three days makes you the tourist."

"I'm not a tourist. I live here now."

His eyes widen slightly. "Wait, for real? Like, permanently?"

You shift uncomfortably. "Well, the contract is for a year initially. But yeah, I moved here. Shipped all my stuff. Got an apartment. The whole thing."

"Huh." He leans back, processing this information. "A whole year of Capy in Osaka. The city won't know what hit it."

The daughter—presumably—comes over with menus, speaking in careful, slow Japanese mixed with English phrases. 

Hoseok jumps in, ordering in fluent Japanese that flows so naturally you almost forget he's half-Australian. 

His mom made sure he was bilingual from the start, but hearing it now, surrounded by the actual language and culture, makes you realize how much more connected to this place he is than you.

When the waitress leaves, you raise an eyebrow. 

“Show off."

He looks genuinely confused. "What?"

"The Japanese. You sound like you actually belong here."

"I mean, I've lived here for five years. And I am half-Japanese, remember?"

You do remember. His mom speaking to him in Japanese when you were kids, though he'd usually respond in English because it was easier around you. 

Another piece of Hoseok that feels different now, more layered than the boy you knew.

"So," he says, leaning forward on his elbows, "what made you choose Osaka? Of all the cities in all the world, you just happened to pick the one where I've been living?"

There's something in his tone—playful, but with an edge of genuine curiosity—that makes you look away.

"The job offered the best package," you say, which is true. "And I needed a change from Sydney. That's it."

"That's it? Not even a little bit because you knew your favorite childhood friend was here?"

You roll your eyes. "You weren't my favorite childhood friend. You were an annoying neighbor who wouldn't leave me alone."

"I was totally your favorite," he insists, grinning. "You let me read your diary once."

"I did not! You stole it, and I pushed you into a bush for it!"

He laughs, the sound filling the small restaurant. "Oh yeah! I had scratches for weeks. Your mom thought I'd been attacked by a cat."

"You were. A human one."

The banter feels so familiar, so easy, that for a moment you forget the five-year gap, the distance, the strangers you've become. 

For a moment, it's just you and Ott, arguing like you're thirteen again.

The waitress returns with a tray of ingredients and begins preparing the grill built into your table. Hoseok watches you, strange expression back on his face.

"What?" you ask again.

He shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. It's just... good to see you, Capy. For real."

It catches you off guard, the sincerity in his voice. 

You don't know what to do with it, so you fall back on sarcasm.

"Well, don't get used to it. I'm going to be very busy with my important marketing job."

"Of course, of course. The great Y/N, too important for old friends." He contorts his gaze in fake agony. "How will I survive the rejection?"

"The same way you've survived the last five years, I imagine. Without a single thought about me."

It comes out more bitter than you intended, and you see it land—a slight widening of his eyes, a pause in his perpetual motion. 

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then the waitress saves you by placing a bowl of batter on the table, demonstrating how to mix in the cabbage, meat, and other ingredients before pouring it onto the hot grill. 

Hoseok jumps in, taking over the cooking and flipping the pancake-like creation with surprising dexterity.

"I thought about you," he says quietly, eyes on the grill. "I just... didn't know what to say anymore. It felt like we'd gone in different directions."

You don't know how to respond to this sudden honesty, so you watch him cook instead. His hands move confidently, sprinkling bonito flakes and drizzling sauce over the okonomiyaki once it's cooked through.

"Try it," he says, cutting a piece and sliding the plate toward you. "Best thing you'll ever put in your mouth, I promise."

You take a bite, and damn it, he's right. The flavors explode on your tongue—savory, sweet, umami, with the perfect texture of crispy exterior and soft interior. You can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes you.

Hoseok's face lights up. "See? What did I tell you! The Ott never lies about food."

"The Ott refers to himself in the third person now? That's not concerning at all."

He laughs, taking a huge bite of his own portion. "Some things change, Capy. But the important ones stay the same."

You're not sure what he means by that.

You focus on eating instead. 

The food really is incredible, and you realize just how hungry you've been, and for a few minutes, you both eat in companionable silence, the awkwardness fading under the simple pleasure of good food.

"So," he says eventually, "where's your apartment? Is it nice? Do you have roommates?"

"It's in the south part of Tennoji. It's tiny and depressing, and no, I live alone. The company arranged it."

"Alone? In Osaka? That's no fun. You should have called me before moving! I could have helped you find something better."

The idea of planning this move with Hoseok's input is so absurd you almost laugh. 

"Right, because we've been in such close contact."

He has the decency to look slightly abashed. "Yeah, well... we're fixing that now, right?"

You're not sure what to say to that either. 

Are you fixing it? Is that what this impromptu dinner means? Or is this just a one-off reunion before you both return to your separate lives in the same city?

"How's the manga going?" you ask instead, changing the subject. "I saw your blog. Looked like you were working on something."

That strange expression crosses his face again. "It's... going. It pays the bills."

"What kind of manga? Anything published?"

He coughs, suddenly very interested in arranging the remaining food on his plate. "Yeah, it's published. It's, uh... it's adult manga, actually."

It takes you a moment to process what he's saying. 

"Adult as in...?"

"As in not for kids." He meets your eyes. "Hentai, if we're being specific."

You blink. "You draw porn?"

"I draw adult-oriented manga with complex characters and narratives that happen to include explicit sexual content," he corrects, the words sounding rehearsed. "But yeah, essentially, I draw porn."

Of all the ways you imagined Hoseok's life had gone, this was not on the list. The boy who used to draw elaborate superhero comics in the margins of his school notebooks now draws hentai for a living.

You can't help it—you start laughing.

His face shifts from defiance to confusion. "What's funny?"

"Nothing, just..." You try to control your laughter. "Of course. Of course that's what you do. It's so perfectly ridiculous."

"Hey! It's legitimate art! I'll have you know I've won awards!"

This only makes you laugh harder. "Awards? For porn? Like what, 'Best Depiction of a Tentacle'?"

He rolls his eyes, but you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. "Mock all you want, but it pays well, and I'm good at it. I have a whole fan following online."

"I bet you do," you say, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes. "God, Ott. Only you would somehow turn drawing dirty pictures into a career with awards."

He grins, seemingly relieved that you're not judging him. "What can I say? I found my calling."

"Does your mom know?"

"She thinks I illustrate 'romance novels,'" he says, making air quotes. "And we're both happy with that explanation."

The image of Mrs. Jung proudly telling her friends that her son illustrates romance novels while he's actually drawing explicit hentai is somehow both hilarious and oddly sweet.

As your laughter subsides, you realize something. 

This is the first time you've really laughed since arriving in Osaka. 

The first time you've felt anything close to comfortable.

Hoseok is looking at you again with that soft expression that makes something flutter in your chest. 

You quickly squash it.

"What?" you ask for the third time tonight.

"I missed that," he says simply. "Your laugh. It's still the same."

“Well, don't get used to it. I don't plan on making a habit of laughing at your poor life choices."

"But you'll have to see me again to laugh at my future poor life choices," he points out, grinning. "So that means we're hanging out again, right?"

You hesitate. 

The sensible thing would be to thank him for dinner, go home, and focus on your new job. Keep things casual. A message here and there, maybe coffee someday. 

Not jump right back into whatever intense friendship you had as kids.

But there's something about sitting across from him in this tiny restaurant, the familiar rhythm of your bickering, that feels like the first real thing since you arrived in this city.

"I start work tomorrow," you say, neither a yes nor a no.

"Perfect! You'll need dinner after your first day. I'll show you another spot."

"I didn't agree to that."

"You didn't not agree either." He reaches across the table, stealing the last bite of your okonomiyaki with lightning speed. "Come on, Capy. You missed me too."

Too. 

You narrow your eyes at the theft of your food. "I will admit no such thing. And you'll pay for taking my food."

"See? Violent as ever." He beams like your threat is the greatest compliment. "I'll pick you up after work tomorrow. Where's your office?"

Before you can protest, he's already pulling out his phone, ready to input the address. 

And somehow, against every instinct screaming at you to maintain boundaries, you find yourself telling him.

He walks you back to your apartment building later.

And it’s not because you wanted to (you said no multiple times). But he insisted on seeing you home safely, ‘because Osaka can be confusing at night.’

So now here you are, both walking, side by side whilst keeping a deliberate distance between you. 

Most shops are closed by now, and the night air is cool against your skin, makes you nuzzle your sweater a little bit.

"This is me," you say, stopping in front of your building. 

It looks even more depressing at night, the lighting in the lobby flickering slightly.

Hoseok looks up at the building, assessing. "Not bad. Kind of reminds me of my first place here."

"Let me guess, you live somewhere amazing now, with your fancy porn money?"

He laughs. "Nah, still in a pretty basic apartment. Just with more bookshelves for all my manga research." 

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at 'research.'

You roll your eyes. "Gross."

"You love it."

"I do not."

He grins, rocking back on his heels. "So, tomorrow. After work. I'll meet you at your office at... what time do you finish?"

"I don't know yet. And I didn't agree to tomorrow."

"Text me when you know," he says, completely ignoring your protest. "I'm free all evening."

You should say no. You should set boundaries now, before this becomes a thing. 

But the thought of coming back to your empty apartment after your first day at a new job in a foreign country...

"I'll text you," you concede. "But no promises."

His smile is annoyingly triumphant. "That's all I ask, Capy."

There's an awkward moment where neither of you seems to know how to say goodbye. 

In the past, you might have shoved him, or he might have ruffled your hair. 

Now, you stand a careful three feet apart, the years between you like a physical barrier.

"Well. Thanks for dinner," you say finally. "And the recommendation. It was good."

"Anytime. Seriously." There's that sincerity again, throwing you off-balance. "It's really good to see you, Y/N."

The use of your actual name instead of the nickname startles you. 

You look at him—really look at him—for the first time all night. There are new lines around his eyes when he smiles. His hair is different under that beanie, longer than he used to wear it. He's thinner than you remember, or maybe just more angular. 

But his eyes are the same, dark and warm and always, always watching you too closely.

"Yeah," you say, before you can think better of it. "You too, Hoseok."

His smile softens into something different, something that makes your stomach do a strange little flip. You quickly look away.

"Goodnight, Ott," you say, already turning toward the building entrance. "Don't get lost on your way home."

"Goodnight, Capy," he calls after you. "Sweet dreams about your first day in the big, scary office!"

You flip him off without looking back, his laughter following you as you enter the building.

Inside your apartment, you lean against the closed door, releasing a breath you didn't realize you were holding. 

The space feels even smaller after being out in the city, the silence more pronounced.

Your phone beeps with a message:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤; 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎! 𝙸𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 (𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎). 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠! 𝙶𝚊𝚗𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎!!! ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ"

You stare at the screen, torn between annoyance and something dangerously close to affection.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢.

Three dots appear immediately.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚃𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠! 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝! 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜!!

You put the phone down without responding, but there's a small smile tugging at your lips that you can't quite suppress.

Tomorrow you start your new job. Tomorrow you begin the life you came to Osaka for. Tomorrow everything gets real.

But tonight, for just a few hours, it felt like maybe you weren't completely alone in this strange new city. Like maybe there was one person who still knew you, even after all this time.

You're not sure if that's comforting or terrifying.

Probably both.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 150 notes.

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[ddaenqqvantae]

Shadows of Sin

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Trope: Criminal AU | Undercover Cop x Target’s Girlfriend

Rating: 18+ (Explicit Smut, Violence, Dark Themes)

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, gun kink, possessiveness, dirty talk, cheating, betrayal, violence, kidnapping, blood, morally gray characters, dub-con elements due to manipulation, drugging, attempted assault.

Word Count: ~4k

Tags: Dark romance, forbidden love, smut, angst, danger, desk sex, stakeout sex, gunplay, obsession, betrayal

The underground club is a living beast, its pulse pounding through your veins. Neon strobes cut through the haze of cigarette smoke, and the air reeks of spilled liquor and broken promises. You’re perched at the bar, alone, a vodka soda sweating in your hand. Your boyfriend, Kai, holds court in a VIP booth, his arms draped over two girls who giggle like they’ve won a prize. Their laughter slices through you, but you don’t look away. You can’t.

Kai’s flings are a public performance, a power play. He’s the king of this underworld—drugs, money, blood—and he keeps you as his queen, his main piece, because you’re the perfect trophy: loyal, beautiful, and silent. You’re with him because three years ago, he pulled you out of a dead-end life, promising you the world. You believed him, fell hard for his charm, his danger. Now, you’re trapped in his orbit, telling yourself it’s love, even as his betrayal carves you hollow. He flaunts other girls to remind you—and everyone else—that he owns you, that he can have anyone, but you’re the one he comes back to.

Tonight, though, something shifts. You feel eyes on you, a prickle that makes your skin burn.

Across the club, Hoseok leans against a pillar, whiskey glass glinting in his hand. He’s new to Kai’s crew, a shadow with a cocky smirk and eyes like a predator.

He saw you first a week ago, outside this very club, smoking alone in the alley. You were leaning against the brick, cigarette trembling between your fingers, your eyes red from stifling tears after Kai left with some brunette. Hoseok had stopped dead, his breath catching. You were a vision—hair catching the streetlight’s glow, lips parted around the cigarette, vulnerability wrapped in defiance. His chest tightened, a mix of pity and hunger.

She’s too good for this place, he thought, but he knew instantly you were his way in. His mission: infiltrate Kai’s empire, bring it down. You were the key, and he hated how much he wanted you already.

Now, he watches you at the bar, your posture stiff, your eyes fixed on Kai. He feels it again—that pull, that need to unravel you. He crosses the room, sliding onto the barstool beside you, his leather jacket creaking, his cedar-and-smoke scent cutting through the club’s stale air.

“You’re too pretty to look that sad, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, a dangerous caress. The pet name hits like a spark, and you hate how it makes your pulse jump.

You glance at him, eyes narrowing. “And you’re too bold for a newbie. Kai doesn’t like his men talking to me unless it's related to work.”

Hoseok smirks, tongue darting over his lips. “Kai’s an idiot, then. Letting you sit here alone while he plays with his toys.”

Your jaw tightens, the truth stinging. “Watch it,” you snap, but your voice wavers.

He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me, sweetheart. Why do you let him hurt you?”

The question cuts too deep. You stand, ready to walk away, but his hand grazes your wrist, light but electric. “Don’t run,” he murmurs. “You deserve better than him.”

You yank your arm free, glaring. “You don’t know me.”

But his eyes say he does, and that scares you more than Kai’s betrayal.

The club is your cage, Kai’s flings your chains. Earlier that night, Kai had beckoned you to the VIP booth, his eyes glinting with that possessive edge. You went, because you always do, because the lie of love still holds you.

He pulled you onto his lap, his hands rough on your hips, and kissed you hard in front of everyone—his lips whiskey-sour, bruising, claiming. The girls beside him watched, smirking, and you felt Hoseok’s gaze burning from across the room, his knuckles white around his glass.

You let Kai kiss you, your hands resting on his shoulders, but it hurt—knowing he’d been with someone else hours before, knowing he’d do it again. Your heart twisted, but you didn’t pull away, not even when his tongue pushed into your mouth, a public declaration of ownership. Hoseok’s eyes never left you, and the weight of his stare made you ache in ways Kai never could.

Hoseok’s different. He’s everywhere now—every deal, every drop, his eyes tracking you with a hunger that makes your skin burn. The tension between you crackles, a live wire ready to spark.

One night, after Kai leaves with another girl, you’re outside in the alley, cigarette glowing between your lips. The air smells of rain and rust, the distant bass a faint pulse. Hoseok appears, silent, his boots crunching gravel.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he says, stepping close, his fingers brushing your wrist as he takes your cigarette, lighting his own. The flame catches his eyes—dark, ravenous.

You snatch it back, glaring. “You keep saying that. What’s your angle?”

He exhales smoke, smirking. “No angle. Just hate seeing a goddess treated like trash.”

The word goddess hits like a drug. You step closer, voice low. “You’re full of shit. You’re one of Kai’s dogs. You think you can sweet-talk me into your bed?”

His laugh is low, dangerous. “Sweetheart, I don’t need to sweet-talk. You’re already breaking.”

The air snaps taut. You kiss him first, a reckless collision of lips and teeth. He groans, pinning you against the brick wall, the cold biting your back as his hands grip your hips. He tastes like whiskey and rebellion, his tongue claiming your mouth as he lifts your skirt, fingers teasing your thighs.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, dropping to his knees, worshipping you with his eyes. He kisses up your inner thigh, slow, deliberate, your one leg on his shoulder. His breath hot against your skin, leaving a trail of fire that makes your legs tremble.

The alley’s rough brick scrapes your back as he pulls your panties down, his lips finding your core. His tongue is relentless, circling your clit with precise, hungry strokes, his hands holding your thighs apart like he’s claiming a sacred offering. The wet heat of his mouth, the low groans vibrating against you, send sparks through your core. He worships you like a man starved, sucking gently, then harder, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you closer, devouring you.

You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, the cigarette falling forgotten. The world narrows to the slick pressure of his tongue, the cedar-and-smoke scent of him filling your lungs. “Hoseok,” you moan, and he growls, sucking harder, his nose brushing your sensitive skin, sending you spiraling.

“Look at you,” he rasps, standing, his lips glistening as he kisses you again, letting you taste yourself. “So fucking beautiful, coming undone for me.”

He unzips his pants, freeing himself, and lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist. He enters you in one deep thrust, stretching you, filling you. The brick scrapes your skin, but the pain blends with pleasure as he moves, slow at first, then faster, worshipping every inch of you with his hands, his mouth, his cock. His fingers trace your curves, reverent, like he’s memorizing you, his lips whispering praises against your neck—“You’re a fucking goddess, sweetheart.”

“Quiet,” he whispers, biting your earlobe. “Or the whole damn club will know you’re mine.”

You come with a shudder, clinging to him, and he follows, his release hot inside you, his breath ragged against your neck. He holds you there, still inside you, whispering, “You’re too good for him. Too good for this.”

You know Hoseok’s a liar. It’s in the way he dodges questions about his past, the way his eyes flicker when Kai mentions the cops sniffing around. You overheard him on a call once, voice low, promising someone “intel” on Kai’s next deal. He’s using you, getting close to get to Kai. But every touch, every sweetheart, makes you crave him more, and you hate yourself for it.

Kai sends you and Hoseok on a stakeout, watching a rival crew’s deal from a stolen sedan in a dark lot. The air’s thick, the car smelling of leather and Hoseok’s cedar cologne. His gun rests against his chest, a constant reminder of the danger. You can’t stand the silence, or the way his presence pulls at you.

You climb over the console, straddling his lap, your skirt riding up. His hands find your ass, squeezing hard, but you pull back, glaring. “I know what you’re doing,” you snap. “Using me to fuck over Kai. Don’t pretend you give a shit about me.”

Hoseok’s eyes darken, confusion flickering. Is he using you? He’s not sure anymore. The mission was clear—seduce you, get intel—but every time you moan his name, every time you look at him like he’s your salvation, his resolve cracks. “You think I’m faking this?” he growls, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“Then prove it,” you hiss, unbuckling his belt, the clink of metal loud in the car. His gun presses against your chest as you lean in, cold steel against your skin. You yank his jeans down, freeing his cock, already hard and throbbing. “Fuck me like you mean it, or I’m done.”

He groans, hands gripping your hips as you sink onto him, the stretch almost too much. The car creaks, windows fogging as you ride him, hard and fast. His fingers dig into your ass, guiding you, his thrusts meeting yours with desperate force.

The gun’s holster rubs against your skin, a dangerous thrill that makes you clench around him. The leather seats squeak under your movements, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat, his cologne mingling with your perfume.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he pants, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb teasing your nipple through your shirt, sending jolts of pleasure through you. “You think I’m using you? Feel this.” He thrusts up harder, hitting that spot that makes you gasp, your hands bracing against his shoulders, nails digging into his jacket. “This is real.”

But his mind races. Is it? He’s supposed to be in control, but you’re unraveling him, making him question everything. You argue even as you fuck, your voice sharp. “You’re a liar, Hoseok. You’ll ditch me when you get what you want.”

He grabs your face, kissing you hard, silencing you, his tongue demanding as he thrusts deeper, the car rocking with the force. “I’m not going anywhere,” he lies, or maybe it’s the truth—he doesn’t know anymore. Your walls clench around him, tight and hot, and you come with a cry, your body shaking, nails scraping his neck. He follows, spilling inside you with a groan, his hands trembling as he holds you close.

You collapse against him, panting, his heartbeat pounding under your cheek. The gun’s still there, a cold reminder of the lines you’re both crossing.

Kai’s worse than ever, his flings a deliberate taunt. At the club, he pulls a brunette onto his lap, his hand disappearing under her dress, his eyes flicking to you, daring you to react.

Your stomach twists, and Hoseok sees it—your eyes dimming, your shoulders slumping under the weight of Kai’s cruelty. Across the room, Hoseok’s jaw clenches, his knuckles white around his glass.

He’s furious, not just at Kai, but at you for letting that bastard’s ridiculous actions break you. Why do you care about him? he thinks, his blood boiling. He wants to shake you, to make you see you’re worth more than Kai’s games, that you’ve been his since the moment he saw you in that alley, smoking through your tears.

Later, he finds you in Kai’s office, pacing, the image of Kai’s hands on someone else seared into your mind. Hoseok slams the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His eyes burn with frustration, his voice sharp. “Why the fuck do you let him do this to you? You’re out there, looking like your world’s ending over that piece of shit. He doesn’t deserve your tears, sweetheart.”

You flinch, but fire back, “Don’t act like you care. You’re just waiting for your chance to use me.”

His laugh is bitter, almost a snarl. “Use you? I’ve been obsessed with you since I saw you in that damn alley, breaking but still fucking radiant. You’ve been mine since that night, and you know it.”

He clears the desk with one sweep—papers crashing to the floor. “Get over here,” he growls, grabbing your wrist, pulling you to the desk’s edge.

You don’t resist. He pushes you down, your back hitting the cold wood, skirt yanked up. The drawer’s half-open, Kai’s gun glinting inside, a silent threat. Hoseok’s eyes flick to it, then to you, dark and possessive. “You want someone loyal?” he says, voice rough, unzipping his pants. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He enters you slowly, deliberately, his cock stretching you, filling you with a heat that makes you gasp. His hands roam your body, reverent yet possessive, fingers tracing your curves like he’s claiming every inch.

His thrusts are deep, sensual, each one pulling a moan from your lips. The desk creaks, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cedar. His lips find your neck, kissing and biting, leaving marks that scream mine. “You’re mine, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and intense, his hips rolling in a rhythm that’s both tender and ruthless. “Since the day I saw you, you’ve been mine.”

His hand slides between your legs, fingers circling your clit, slow and teasing, building the pressure until you’re trembling beneath him. His other hand grips your hip, bruising, grounding you in the moment. The gun’s presence heightens the danger, your pulse racing as he fucks you with a desperation that borders on worship. “Feel that?” he whispers, thrusting deeper, his breath hot against your ear. “No one else gets you like this. Not him. Only me.”

You come undone, crying his name, your body arching off the desk, nails digging into his back. The intensity of his gaze, the way he claims you, makes the pleasure sharper, overwhelming. He follows, his release hot and shuddering, his groan low as he buries himself deep, holding you like he’ll never let go. He moves through the aftershocks, slow and sensual, drawing out every sensation until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, completely his.

“You’re not his anymore,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “You never were.”

Hoseok’s slipping—too protective, too reckless. His team warns him he’s getting attached. Kai suspects something, watching you closer, his eyes cold.

One night, in a safe house, you’re tangled in sheets, sleeping soundly in Hoseok’s arms. He’s awake, admiring you—your soft breaths, the way your lashes flutter, the way you look so tiny in his oversized hoodie, the faint marks he left on your neck. You’re beautiful, vulnerable, and his chest aches with something he can’t name. His mission feels like a betrayal now, but he can’t stop.

His phone buzzes, shattering the moment. He slips out of bed, careful not to wake you, and answers. His face hardens.

“What did you say?” he snaps. Kai’s voice slithers through: “You took her from me? Now watch me take her from you.”

The line goes dead. Hoseok curses, grabbing his gun, but he’s too late. He’d stepped out to take the call, leaving you alone for just minutes. Kai’s men move fast, slipping into the safe house. They drug you with a heavy dose, a cloth pressed to your face, your body going limp before you can scream. When Hoseok returns, you’re gone, the sheets still warm.

You wake in a warehouse, head pounding, vision blurry from the drug’s hangover. Your hands are bound, the air thick with the stench of oil and rust. Kai stands before you, eyes wild with rage, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. “You thought you could betray me?” he snarls, stepping closer. “You’re mine, and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

Your voice is slurred, heavy, but you spit back, “Fuck you, Kai. I was never yours. You made sure of that with every girl you fucked in front of me.”

He grabs your chin, forcing your face up, his breath hot and sour. “You’ll regret that. I own you, and I’ll carve it into you if I have to.”

Before he can go further, Hoseok storms in, blood on his knuckles, two bodies left in his wake. His eyes blaze with fury when he sees Kai, belt half-undone, looming over you. His rage peaks, a primal roar in his chest as he raises his gun. Kai reacts fast, yanking you up and pressing his gun to your temple, the cold barrel biting your skin.

“You fucked my girl,” Kai spits, his grip tightening.

Hoseok’s voice is ice, his eyes burning. “She was never your girl. That’s the difference. I’m standing here to save her, even if I die, but you’re standing here, targeting her. If you ever loved her, you would’ve kept your ass in one place and never thought of killing her.”

Kai’s face twists, but he doesn’t waver, the gun steady against your head. “Drop it, or she’s dead.”

Hoseok’s eyes lock on you, your hazy gaze pleading despite the drug’s fog. “Let her go,” he growls, voice deadly calm. “You touch her, and I’ll make you beg for death.”

You muster what strength you have, headbutting Kai, his nose crunching. He staggers, and Hoseok shoots his leg, blood spraying. Kai screams, collapsing, the wound severe enough to leave him unconscious, blood pooling beneath him. Hoseok disarms him in seconds, kicking the gun away, ensuring Kai’s no longer a threat.

You’re shaking as Hoseok pulls you to him, his hands checking you for injuries. “You okay, sweetheart?” His voice is soft, but his eyes are lethal, still burning with rage at Kai.

The safe house is quiet, heavy with blood and secrets. Hoseok bandages your arm, his touch gentle, jaw tight. You’re still shaky from the drugs, your body weak, but the need to feel him, to reclaim something, drives you. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, hands fisting his shirt, desperate for his warmth. But he stops you, his hands gentle on your hips, eyes soft with concern.

“Not now, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing. “You’re not okay. You need to rest.”

You protest, leaning in, but he cups your face, kissing you softly, a contrast to the fire you’re used to. “I’ve got you,” he whispers.

“Let me take care of you.”

Later, he returns with a tray of food—simple soup and bread, the warmth filling the room with a comforting scent. He sits beside you on the bed, feeding you small spoonfuls, his fingers brushing your lips with each bite. “You scared the shit out of me,” he admits, voice breaking. “I thought I lost you.”

When you’re done, he pulls you into his arms, your head resting against his chest. His lips press soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your hair, worshipping you with every touch. “You’re everything, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a warm rumble as you drift off, safe in his embrace, his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

Months later, you’re in a small coastal town, the ocean’s roar a soothing backdrop to your new life. You and Hoseok didn’t run far—justice needed to be served. Instead of quitting the force, Hoseok doubled down, and you became his partner in a different way.

You helped him and his cop colleagues unravel Kai’s empire, piecing together every deal, every contact, every dirty secret. Your knowledge of Kai’s operations, gained from years by his side, was the key to dismantling his network. Late nights in dimly lit precincts, poring over documents with Hoseok, turned into moments of quiet intimacy—shared coffee, his hand brushing yours, a knowing smile that said you were in this together.

Now, the case is closed, Kai’s empire reduced to ashes. You live in a cozy cottage by the sea, its weathered wooden floors creaking under your steps, windows open to let in the salty breeze. The walls hold memories of your new life—seashells you collected on morning walks, a Polaroid of you and Hoseok laughing at a local festival, his arms wrapped around you like a promise. The danger’s gone, but Hoseok’s protectiveness lingers, softened into something tender.

Tonight, you’re curled up on the porch swing, a knitted blanket over your legs, the stars above glittering like scattered diamonds. Hoseok sits beside you, his hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh, his cedar scent blending with the ocean air. You lean into him, head on his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and warm.

“You ever miss the chaos?” you ask, voice soft, the memory of blood and neon a faint shadow.

He chuckles, that dangerous smile now all warmth, all love. “Not a chance, sweetheart. Taking down Kai with you? That was enough chaos for a lifetime. Now I just want this—us, here, forever.”

You smile, heart swelling, and tilt your head to kiss him, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that feels like home. His hands slide up your back, gentle but possessive, deepening the kiss, his tongue brushing yours with a tenderness that makes you melt. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm on your lips.

“I’d burn it all down again for you,” he whispers, fingers threading through your hair. “But I’d rather build this life with you—every single day.”

You laugh softly, nuzzling into his neck, the ocean singing its endless song. With Hoseok’s arms around you, the past is just a memory, replaced by a love that’s fierce, unwavering, and forever.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

A/N: This dark romance dived into betrayal, obsession, and forbidden love. Please let me know your favorite moment in the comments!

P.S.: My man is so hot... Damn... The concept photos made me scream my lungs out. 🥵🥵

He is killing it just like his new song. 🔥🔥

[ddaenqqvantae]

Nobody knows what the clown's mind is like……. 😔

cc: jhobiro

[ddaenqqvantae]

in conclusion:

[ddaenqqvantae]

Title: Suck It Part 1

Pairing: Reader/Jung Hoseok

Summary: What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.

Word Count: 13.1k

Part 2

read on ao3

The room stills as Hoseok walks in, his confident aura palpable. His easy smile and effortless cool seem to draw the air toward him, like gravity bending to his presence. It’s always fascinating to see the way he commands a room without saying a single word. Your breath catches, despite having rehearsed with him and the rest of the dancers for weeks now. That spark of awe hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it's grown, fueled by the moments he’s given you. The encouraging nods,  and the praise he doesn’t usually offer lightly.

Hoseok’s gaze sweeps over the group, and when it lands on you, his grin widens just slightly. “Alright, team. Let’s go hard today. I want the energy up, no holding back,” he says, his voice warm but firm. 

The room bursts into motion, everyone eager to match the energy Hoseok expects. The rehearsal is grueling but electric, every step and every movement carrying weight and purpose. You throw yourself into the choreography, pushing your limits, aware of Hoseok’s eyes occasionally flicking in your direction. The senior dancers seem to notice too, their expressions tight, their movements sharper than usual as if they’re trying to outshine you. Good luck. 

The tension lingers in the air, but you keep your focus. You’ve worked too hard to let their jealousy rattle you now. Every move, every count, is an opportunity to prove yourself, and to everyone else, why you belong here.

By the time Hoseok claps his hands, signaling the end of the rehearsal, your muscles ache, and sweat clings to your skin. “Good work today, everyone,” he says, his voice carrying genuine approval for once. “Let’s keep building on this energy. Get some rest and stay hydrated. We are just a few weeks out now.”

The team disperses, some dancers chatting in low voices while others grab their bags and file out. You linger to stretch, avoiding the sideways glances from the senior dancers as they leave in a cluster. Their whispers trail behind them, but you block it out, focusing instead on your breathing as you pack your things. 

Feeling the need to clear your head, you wander into an empty practice room down the hall. The space is quiet, the mirrors reflecting the stillness. You drop your bag by the wall and start running through a few sections of the choreography on your own. The rhythm grounds you, each movement a reminder of why you’re here. 

“Still working?”

The familiar voice makes you freeze mid-step. You turn to see Hoseok leaning in the doorway, his expression soft but unreadable. He steps inside, letting the door close behind him. 

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” you admit, your voice a little shy. 

“I could say the same to you,” he replies with a faint smile. “You already gave everything in rehearsal. What’s keeping you here?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lips. “I guess…I just needed a minute to breathe. To clear my head.”

Hoseok crosses the room, his movements unhurried. “I noticed the way some of them were acting today,” he says, cutting straight to the heart of it. “I wanted to check in with you after rehearsal, but I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone.”

Your chest tightens, embarrassment and frustration swirling together. The things you overheard earlier reply in your mind, stinging like fresh wounds. You’d walked into the changing room mid-whisper, and though they stopped when they saw you, the smirks and knowing looks said it all. The other dancers' whispers were sharp, accusing you of things so far from the truth they almost felt laughable—if it didn’t hurt so much. They assume you’ve slept with someone, blackmailed staff, or even bribed Hoseok to get the opportunities you’ve earned. None of it is true. You pour everything into this, long nights perfecting choreography, pushing through exhaustion, and showing up with relentless determination. All you want is to be accepted and appreciated. But it doesn’t matter to them. They refuse to see your effort, dismissing it all as underserved favoritism. Now standing in front of Hoseok, the weight of those baseless accusations feels heavier, but the steady warmth in his gaze offers a sliver of relief. Without needing to hear the details, he seems to know exactly what’s on your mind, and the sincerity in his presence alone reminds you why you’ve fought so hard to be here. 

“I’m fine. Really,” you say quickly.

Hoseok’s eyes search yours for a moment, as if trying to gauge how much of that “fine” is genuine. His expression softens, and he steps closer, his tone careful but firm. “You don’t have to say that. I know what it’s like being in the spotlight, having people assume the worst just because they don’t know your story or don’t want to see your talent for what it is. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.”

Your throat tightens, the effort to hold back the emotions you’ve been bottling up threatening to break. You nod, lowering your gaze to the floor. “I’ve worked so hard, Hoseok,” you admit quietly, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Every single thing I’ve gotten, I earned. But no matter how hard I push myself, they don’t see that. They don’t want to see it.”

He exhales softly, a look of understanding crossing his face. “They’re threatened,” he says simply. “By your talent, your energy, and the way you carry yourself. That’s not on you, that’s on them.” His voice drops slightly, more serious now. “But I need you to promise me something: don’t let their insecurities dim your light. You’re here because you deserve to be here. Nothing anyone says can take that away.”

You blink, his words settling over you like a warm blanket. For a moment, the weight on your chest eases, and you feel seen. Not just as a dancer, but as someone who’s been fighting for their place. “Thank you,” you whisper, the sincerity in your tone matching his.

Hoseok smiles gently, his hand twitching like he’s considering reaching out but stops himself. “Don’t thank me for telling the truth,” he says with a wink, his tone lightening. “But if you need to talk, about this, about anything. I’m here. You don’t have to shoulder this alone.”

The warmth in his words stays with you as he steps back, giving you space. He gestures to the empty room with a small grin. “Now, let’s see what you’ve been working on. Show me that fire they’re so jealous of.”

The silence in the practice room becomes a melody of its own as you reset to the opening pose, your heart thundering as you meet Hoseok’s gaze in the mirror. You take a steadying breath and let the music in your head guide you. With each movement, you channel everything—the doubts, the whispers, the quiet anger, and the determination that keeps you moving forward. You’ve rehearsed this choreography countless times, but tonight, it feels different. Hoseok’s presence sharpens your focus, pushing you to dance not just for yourself but for the truth of your abilities.

As you finish, your chest heaving from the exertion, you finally look at him. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the intensity in his eyes tells you everything. He takes a step forward, clapping once, slow and deliberate. “That,” he says, his voice low but filled with certainty, “is exactly why you’re here. No one can take that away from you.”

You don’t trust yourself to respond, simply nodding as you gather your things. Hoseok doesn’t say anything more, giving you a parting glance that lingers just long enough to leave you wondering.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next rehearsal is nothing short of brutal. The room pulses with intensity as bodies move in perfect synchrony, sweat painting the floor beneath them. Each beat of the music is met with sharp, deliberate motion as the group drills the choreography again and again, the echo of sneakers and stomps filling the mirrored space. You’re dancing like muscle memory has taken over, fluid, focused, determined, barely noticing the burning in your limbs anymore. 

After a full run-through, the choreographer finally calls for a break. Everyone collapses to the floor or grabs their water bottles, panting and grateful. You grab a towel to dab the sweat from your neck, catching your breath when the lead choreographer suddenly steps forwards again. 

“Alright, listen up,” he says, his voice slicing through the hum of low conversation. “J-Hope choreographed a new section that will feature three pairs. He’ll be choosing who gets the spotlight tomorrow. Until then, you’ll be working with assigned partners to learn the duet. Learn quickly and show me you want this.”

You sit up straighter as he begins pairing dancers. There’s a flicker of anxiety in your chest, this section is important. It’s not just about technique anymore. It’s about chemistry, presence, making people feel something. 

Your name is called alongside Heeseung’s, and relief washes over you. He’s one of the few who doesn’t treat you like an outsider. Maybe it’s because he’s newer to the team too, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t get involved in the drama. Either way, you’ll take it. 

The music shifts to something lower, grittier, slower. You both watch as the assistant choreographer demonstrates the duet. It’s bold, sensual, and more intimate than anything you’ve done with this group before. Hands sliding over waists, synchronized steps that pull the dancers close before sending them apart again, dramatic pauses that demand eye contact. It’s not raunchy, it’s electric, and it’s meant to make the audience feel something. 

You glance at Heeseung as the demo ends. He just raises his brows with a quiet smirk and says, “Ready?” And just like that, you fall into step. 

Heeseung matches your energy beat for beat. His movement is clean, sharp, but when the music calls for it, he melts into the flow like honey. His facial expressions are deadly. Confident, teasing, completely in sync with the mood. Rehearsing with him doesn't feel like work; it’s fun, even a little thrilling. For the first time in days, you’re reminded why you love this. 

But not everyone is thriving. You notice Mina and her usual crew struggling to grasp the rhythm and comfort of the pairing. Some of the girls look visibly uncomfortable, hesitating at the close contact or fumbling through transitions. There’s a mean spirited satisfaction in watching the girls who usually whisper about you now floundering under pressure. Maybe it’s petty, but it feels like karma is right on time. 

“YN and Heeseung, come to the front.”

You both step forward, brushing past someone who audibly sighs and rolls their eyes behind you. The choreographer ignores it, gesturing for you two to demonstrate. 

“Watch them,” he says to the rest of the room. “This is what I’m looking for.”

The music kicks in and you lose yourself in it. You give every step your full attention, every beat your best expression, letting the tension and chemistry between you and Heeseung do the work. When the final pose hits and the music fades, the room is quiet before the choreographer claps once, satisfied, but only with you and Heeseung.

“Again,” he says simply. And so you do it again. And again. Until you stop counting.

By the time rehearsal ends, your shirt is sticking to your back and your thighs ache with the effort of hours spent pushing yourself to the limit. You’re grabbing your things when a familiar voice calls your name. 

“Hey!” Yunjin jogs up beside you, practically bouncing. “You killed that duet. Like, seriously—if Hoseok doesn’t pick you tomorrow he’s blind. That section is so good. I love it.”

You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Yunjin narrows hers. “Okay. What’s up? You’re not freaking out about Mina again, are you?”

“I’m not freaking out,” you say quickly, but the look on her face tells you she doesn’t buy it. You sigh. “I just…we cannot mess up tomorrow. Hoseok is going to be extra critical. We have to be perfect.”

Yunjin giggles. “You sound like you’re about to audition for the Olympics or something.”

“We kind of are. The duet is a big deal.”

A mocking voice chimes in from behind you. “As if he would pick you.”

You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. Mina.

She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one hip cocked like she owns the hallway. Her perfectly arched eyebrow is raised, her lips curl into a smug little smirk. There’s no denying she’s talented, probably one of the best dancers in the crew, but her jealousy has always poisoned her shine. 

You turn to face her slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “You should focus on your own part before worrying about mine.”

Mina’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t reply right away. Her gaze flicks to Yunjin and then back to you, eyes narrowed. “We’ll see who he picks tomorrow.”

She walks off without another word, her ponytail swinging like a warning behind her. 

Yunjin scoffs beside you. “She’s just mad you were asked to demonstrate. Again.”

“Still,” you murmur, staring down the hallway. “Tomorrow is going to be a war.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next day, the rehearsal room buzzes with nervous energy before anyone even steps onto the floor. There’s an edge to every voice, a sense that something important is about to happen. You can feel it in your bones. Today matters.

You’re already stretching in the corner when thet door swings open and Hoseok walks in, sunglasses perched on his nose, a cap pulled low, and that unmistakable aura trailing behind him like static electricity. The room seems to exhale all at once, tension morphing into something else. Anticipation, maybe. Respect. He’s calm but focused, nodding a silent greeting to the choreographer and a few dancers he passes on the way in. Then his eyes sweep the room. 

When they land on you, he gives a small smile, barely there, but enough to make your stomach flip for a second before you snap your attention back to your warm up. He’s always been kind, professional, but tough. Hoseok doesn’t hand out praise easily. You have to earn it.

“Alright team,” he says, clapping once, his voice sharper than the last time you heard it. “I’ve seen the footage from yesterday. Some of it was promising. Some of it…needs work.”

A few dancers shift uncomfortably. Mina stiffens beside you.

“We’re going to run all the pair choreo. I want to see full energy, no holding back. Expressions. Intensity. Chemistry. Everything.” He pauses. “At the end of rehearsal, I’ll be choosing three pairs to feature.”

There’s a murmur through the group, some excited, some anxious. Hoseok doesn’t reveal the last part of the plan, but the stakes are already high. The chance to be in a featured pair for a section he choreographed? That’s already enough to make people push past their limits. 

You and Heeseung watch from the sidelines as the first duets go up. Some are good, technically clean, and well rehearsed. Others lack a spark. Mina’s routine is sharp, but her partner feels like an afterthought. You can almost see her trying too hard to win instead of just dance. 

Finally, your names are called.

You move into position with Heeseung, exchanging one quick glance before the music hits.

And then, it’s all instinct. 

You both dive into the choreo like you’ve done this hundreds of times, like you were made to move together. There’s tension, heat, and a boldness to every step. Your hands slide into places like muscle memory, your eyes lock when they need to, and your movements match so seamlessly it barely feels like performance, it feels like connection. 

When the final beat hits and you hold the last pose, the silence in the room feels different. 

Then Hoseok claps. Just once. Crisp and deliberate. 

“That,” Hoseok says, a smile creeping onto his face. “That’s the energy I want.”

You pull back slightly, catching your breath as the music fades. Heeseung subtly bumps your shoulder with his, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. 

“Take five,” Hoseok says. “Then we’ll run it one last time with the final picks.”

You step off to the side, heart still pounding, when Yunjin beelines for you with wide eyes. 

“He clapped,” she hisses, gripping your arm like she might explode. “You know what that means.”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, but you’re still buzzing. Hoseok never claps for the group unless something really hits. The look in his eyes when you're finished…there was something extra there. Something calculating. 

Across the room, Mina stares daggers through your reflection, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. You ignore her.

When the break ends, everyone regathers, tension thick in the air.

Hoseok stands at the front again. “I’ve made my decisions,” he says. “These three pairs will be featured in the sections.”

He starts calling names—Heeseung and your name first.

Your stomach flips. You don’t look at Mina, but you can practically feel the steam coming off her. 

Hoseok finishes naming the other two pairs, then adds, “One more thing.”

The room stills.

“There’s another slot. Not a pair.” He pauses just long enough for everyone to start glancing around. “One dancer does the duet with me.”

You blink.

A duet with Hoseok? A sharp, electric silence stretches through the room as he scans the group again, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll decide after one final run through,” he says, stepping back. “So if you’re holding back…now’s your last chance.” 

The final run-through feels heavier, like everyone is pushing beyond their limits. The chosen pairs are locked in, but that solo duet spot is still up for grabs.

You give the routine everything. Every movement, every look, every shift of weight is intentional. You know Hoseok is watching—really watching—and there’s no room for mistakes. Heeseung matches your energy, and for a second, you forget about the stakes, about the competition. It’s just you and the music, your body moving like it belongs in this moment.

When the last beat lands, you hold your final pose, breathless, feeling the weight of Hoseok’s stare.

Then, after a long pause, he exhales and nods.

“Alright.” His voice is calm, but the decision is final. “The featured three pairs are set. And for the solo…”

The tension is thick. You swear you hear someone’s breath hitch.

“…YN.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

There’s a ripple of reaction around you, some hushed murmurs, a sharp intake of breath. Mina stiffens, her arms crossing, jaw tight.

Hoseok continues, his voice steady. “It’s a shame to separate such a strong pair, but YN is the best pick for this.” His eyes flicker to Heeseung for a brief moment before returning to you. “You have the control, the expression, and the versatility this role needs.”

You barely register Yunjin’s hand squeezing yours in excitement before Hoseok speaks again.

“Heeseung, you’ll be with Yunjin.”

Yunjin lets out a tiny squeak, trying, and failing, to keep her composure. Heeseung just grins, giving her an encouraging nod.

That’s it. That’s the final lineup.

You and Hoseok in the front. Three pairs behind.

Mina…nowhere.

The realization sinks in across the room, and you don’t miss the way her hands clench into fists at her sides, but she says nothing. Doesn’t make a scene. Just lifts her chin slightly, as if daring anyone to pity her.

Hoseok claps his hands together. “That’s it. Rehearsal’s over. Get some rest and we run full-out tomorrow.”

You exhale, the adrenaline still pulsing through you.

As the dancers begin filtering out, Yunjin throws an arm around your shoulder, practically bouncing. “Are you kidding me? With Hoseok? Front and center? You’re about to be iconic.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe it.”

She grins. “Believe it. And be ready because if he’s dancing with you, he’s expecting perfection.”

You already know that. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel terrifying.

It feels like a challenge you’re ready to take.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The room empties out slowly, dancers murmuring their goodbyes as they head for the exit. You start to follow Yunjin, but before you can take another step, Hoseok’s voice calls out behind you.

“YN, stay for a minute.” Just beyond the doorway you see Yunjin pause. Hoseok notices and addresses her. “Yunjin, I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

You pause, turning back to face him. He stands in the center of the room, rolling his shoulders out, an easy confidence in his stance. Your heart kicks up slightly. You take a slow breath, stepping back onto the dance floor as the last of the others disappear down the hallway. The door swings shut, leaving just the two of you in the massive rehearsal space.

Hoseok tilts his head, studying you for a beat before speaking. “I wanted to run through a few things. It’s important that we’re comfortable with each other before we start full rehearsals with this.”

You nod, shifting your weight slightly. It makes sense. Dance, especially a duet, is about trust.

“I know you can handle yourself,” Hoseok continues. “You’re an amazing dancer. But I also know it can be intimidating dancing with someone like me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he raises an eyebrow, and you know he’s right.

It’s not that you doubt your skill. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough. But Hoseok is Hoseok. Years of experience, endless stage presence, and an almost supernatural ability to make every move feel effortless. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of that.

Still, you refuse to let nerves show. “I’ll be fine,” you say.

He grins. “Good. Then let’s start.”

You move into position. The choreography isn’t foreign anymore, but the difference is immediate—this isn’t Heeseung. He is a few inches shorter than your previous partner and Hoseok moves with a fluidity and confidence that makes every step feel like second nature to him.

But when it comes time to place your hands on him, you hesitate. It’s just for a fraction of a second, but he notices.

Hoseok chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Pretend I’m Heeseung.”

You blink.

“It’s the same thing,” he says easily. “Same hands, same pressure. No difference.”

No difference. Right. You swallow, nodding, and this time, when your hands find their place, you commit to it.

Hoseok hums approvingly. “Better. But—” He shifts, taking your wrists in his hands, adjusting them slightly. His grip is warm, firm but not forceful. “More weight here. Less here. Feel the difference?”

You do. He guides you through it, step by step, his touch light but precise. The smallest corrections, pressure, angles, breath control and as you move, something shifts.

The hesitation melts away, replaced by something new. Tension. Not the bad kind. The kind that makes every movement electric, every glance charged. Hoseok notices it too, but he doesn’t acknowledge it outright. He just meets your eyes for a beat longer than necessary before pulling away.

“Good,” he says simply. “That’s enough for now.”

You exhale, feeling something unravel inside you.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You both just sit on the floor, catching your breath. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable.

Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you say, “I danced from when I was three until I was fifteen. I don’t know how they got the idea I just started a few years ago. Dance was my whole life for most of my life.”

Hoseok turns his head slightly, listening.

“I had to stop because I tore my ACL.” You glance down at your knee, absently tracing a pattern on your leggings. “I recovered pretty fast, but when I tried to come back, my peers had already gotten too far ahead. I felt like I couldn’t compete anymore.”

You don’t look at him, but you can feel him watching you. 

“So I quit.” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I didn’t dance at all for years. Until about three years ago.”

Hoseok leans back on his hands. “What changed?”

Your lips curve slightly. “I saw a BTS dance practice.” His eyebrows lift in surprise. “I don’t even remember which one it was,” you admit, shaking your head. “But something about the way you guys moved made me want to move again. I started learning choreography for fun and before I knew it…I was back.”

A beat of silence passes before he speaks again.

“That’s crazy,” he murmurs. Then softer, “In a good way.”

You finally glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of something behind his eyes, like he’s processing more than he’s saying. And then he smiles, slow and knowing. 

“Well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand. “Guess that means this dance is a full-circle moment, huh?”

Your chest tightens just a little. You take his hand.

And as he pulls you up, you think—yeah. Maybe it is. Your hand is still warm from his as you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You expect him to head out first, maybe give a casual “see you tomorrow,” but instead, Hoseok lingers near the door, waiting for you. 

“You ready?” he asks.

You blink. “Uh…yeah.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You give him a sideways glance. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I said I would,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Told Yunjin I’d get you home safe.”

You’re not sure if he’s doing it out of politeness or something else, but you nod anyway. “Okay.”

The night air is cool when you step outside the building, still warm from rehearsal. Hoseok walks beside you, his hood pulled up again, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He doesn’t say much at first, and neither do you. It’s a comfortable kind of quiet, the kind that settles in when something meaningful just happened.

You expect him to point you toward the train or call a staff car to take you home.

Instead, he falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you say gently, glancing over.

He shrugs. “I know.”

You pause. “Then why are you?”

Hoseok doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his gaze forward, but you catch the faintest lift of his lips. “I said I’d make sure you got home safe, didn’t I?”

You smile softly, heart fluttering. “You didn’t have to actually do that. People are gonna talk.”

“They already do,” he says, voice light, teasing. “Might as well make it worth it.”

You laugh, and he grins at the sound.

As you walk, the sharp edges of the professional Hoseok, the perfectionist, the dance leader, the choreographer, start to fade away. Instead, something else emerges. Softer. Warmer. This is the version of him you’ve only seen in clips. The one who makes dumb jokes on Run BTS, laughs with his whole chest, and gets way too into silly games.

“You know,” he says, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets, “you looked like you were gonna pass out the first time I corrected your placement.”

“I was not,” you protest, bumping your shoulder lightly into his. “Okay, maybe a little. You’re kind of a big deal.”

He laughs. “Nah. I’m just a guy who never stops dancing. Kind of annoying, actually.”

You shake your head. “You’re really not.”

There’s a pause, and when you glance over, he’s watching you with that same unreadable look from the studio. It’s not intense or overwhelming, it’s just steady. Thoughtful.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he tells you. “You’re a good dancer and you feel the music. That’s rare.”

Your cheeks warm. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I said you inspired me.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he replies. “You’ve got something.”

You walk a few more paces in silence before his voice comes again, this time quieter. “And hey…I meant the other thing, too.”

You glance at him.

“If something’s ever messing with your head, whatever it is, you can tell me.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

The memory of that conversation in the empty studio flashes through your mind, the way his voice had softened when he told you he knew what it was like, the way he saw straight through you without prying. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

“I’ll remember that,” you say quietly.

He nods like that’s enough. You reach your building quicker than you thought. When you stop in front of the gate, you half expect him to wave you off and leave. Instead, Hoseok lingers.

“This is me,” you say, turning to him.

He nods, taking a step back but not quite leaving. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be brutal.”

You smile. “Looking forward to it.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then gives a small salute and turns to go. You don’t move until he disappears around the corner.

Inside, the lights are on. Yunjin is waiting, perched on the edge of the couch, a snack bag in her lap and a look of pure, concentrated mischief on her face.

You don’t even get your shoes off before she pounces.

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

You blink, taking a step away from her. “I—”

She stands. “Nope. Don’t even try to play it cool. You stayed late with J-Hope. You walked home with J-Hope. And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” you mumble, which only makes her laugh harder.

“You so are,” she says, grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the couch. “Spill. Every little detail. Right now.”

And you do. Eventually.

But as you tell her the story, there’s one part you leave out. A moment too small to explain, but impossible to forget:

The way Hoseok looked at you when he said, “You can tell me anything.”

Like he meant it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The studio is quiet now. Most of the dancers have filtered out, the buzz of today’s rehearsal replaced with the faint hum of a speaker left on low volume. You’re sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of you, rolling out your calves with a foam roller. The mirror reflects the tired set of your shoulders, your hair sticking to your neck, and the slightly dazed look in your eyes.

You’re not sure when Hoseok came back in, but you hear the door click shut and the soft shuffle of his steps before he drops onto the floor beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits close enough that your arms could brush if you leaned a little to the side. Then he speaks and it’s quiet, but direct.

“You good?”

You glance at him, blinking like you hadn’t expected him to actually sit down.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”

Hoseok doesn’t look convinced. His expression is steady, unreadable like it always is when he’s being careful with his words.

“You danced like you were somewhere else today,” he says, not unkindly. “Still sharp, but…distracted. Off. It wasn’t physical, it was in your head.”

You press your lips together, pretending to focus on the roller beneath your thigh. “It’s nothing serious. Just some…catty stuff.”

He tilts his head. “Catty like ‘someone wore the same shoes as me,’ or catty like ‘people are being assholes behind your back’?”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hoseok shifts his weight, leaning forward a little. His voice softens, but there’s an edge of seriousness under it. “It clearly does matter. If something’s going on that’s affecting how you feel here, I need to know.”

You glance at him. His brows are drawn in concern, not in a nosy way, but in that quiet, careful way of someone who’s watching more closely than he lets on.

You try to smile, but it feels tight. “It’s just some girls being salty. Nothing new.”

“Was it Mina?”

You pause. That alone tells him everything.

He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “What did they say?”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle and taking a long sip to stall.

“Hey,” Hoseok says, gentler now. “I’m not asking because I want drama. I just don’t like the idea of you being put in a bad spot because of me.”

You blink. “You?”

He meets your gaze, expression open. “I’ve been around long enough to know what people say when they think attention isn’t fair. Especially when it comes from someone like me. I shouldn’t have pulled you aside yesterday without making it clear to the group why. It gave them room to assume things.”

Your chest tightens. “It’s not your fault.”

“But they’re whispering about you, aren’t they?”

You look down. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “They said I must’ve begged for the rehearsal. Or offered something in return. That I don’t deserve the spot.”

There’s a heavy silence. Hoseok doesn't respond right away.

When you glance up, his jaw is tight, eyes unreadable.

“I can talk to them,” he offers.

You shake your head instantly. “No. Please don’t. That would just make it worse. If they think I ran to you, they’ll hate me even more.”

He doesn’t argue, but you can feel the tension in him.

“You shouldn't have to deal with this,” he says finally, quieter than before. “None of this is your fault. You work hard. You earned your spot. And anyone who can’t see that, who chooses not to see it, doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously.”

You nod, barely. He watches you for a moment longer, then shifts slightly, bumping your knee with his.

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

You look over at him.

“I mean it,” he says. “Even if we’re not close or whatever yet. If stuff like this keeps happening, please don’t carry it alone.”

You nod again, this time more sincerely.

“Thanks,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He gives you a small smile, then gets to his feet and holds out a hand.

“C’mon. Show me where you got stuck earlier. Let’s work through it before we call it.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, and before you can say anything, he’s already stepping back toward the center of the studio gesturing for you to follow.

“Let’s go from the beginning,” he says, sliding his foot across the floor into position. “Just our duet. No pressure…feel it out.”

You nod and move into place, facing him, your heart still a little tight from the conversation, but lighter than before. The music kicks in low from the speaker, just loud enough to hear the rhythm, and you both fall into motion.

You mirror each other for a few counts before stepping into the partnered section, his hands catching yours, the turn, the lift, the slow lean-in that has your breath catching for a reason that has nothing to do with the choreography.

His eyes flick up to meet yours for just a second, the barest glint of mischief in them.

“You sure you’re not mad at me?” he asks mid-spin, voice teasing as you land.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“Your grip is kind of intense,” he jokes, laughing softly.

You scoff and roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush all the same. “Maybe I am mad at you.”

“Damn. I knew it,” he says dramatically, tossing his head back in mock despair before resetting for the next movement. “Guess I’ll go cry in the corner. Alone. With my incredible sense of rhythm.”

You huff a laugh, the tightness in your chest easing just a bit more.

The next run-through goes smoother. Your timing aligns perfectly, and the tension that’s been coiled in your body all morning starts to melt away. Between counts, Hoseok slips into goofy-mode. He’s pulling exaggerated faces during transitions, pretending to wobble like a baby deer when you jump, and fake-swooning when you land a tricky turn.

“You trying to show me up?” he asks between breaths, hands on his hips. “I thought this was a partnership.”

You smirk. “Sounds like someone’s feeling threatened.”

He gasps. “Okay. Wow. I’m being disrespected in my own studio.”

You giggle, covering your mouth. “You started it.”

“Me?” He points to himself with wide eyes. “I’m innocent.”

“You’re literally never innocent.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, but I’m cute.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to notice, your brain scrambling to process whether that was flirting or just…Hoseok being Hoseok.

He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing and spins toward the mirror, smoothing back his sweat-damp hair in exaggerated slow-motion. “Okay. Again from the top,” he declares dramatically. “This time with ten percent more flirtation and twenty percent more sass.”

You snort. “Is that the official note?”

“Yes. I’m very professional.”

He catches your eye in the mirror, and you smile without meaning to. He returns it, softer this time, a little more real.

“Seriously,” he says, tone dropping just a bit, “you good now?”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Hoseok just nods, like he expected nothing less, and lifts a hand toward the speaker. “Then let’s dance.”

And this time, when the music starts again, you really let yourself move.

The music flows around you, the rhythm pulling you back into your body as you and Hoseok move together again. Everything sharpens, the way your hands connect, the heat of exertion building under your skin, the way he smiles when you hit the counts just right.

You’re in the final eight, the part where your bodies come close—close enough that your breath catches and you almost forget you’re supposed to keep moving. Hoseok’s palm slides to the small of your back, guiding you through the turn. His voice is low but playful.

“See?” he says. “Told you we’d get it.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lift. “You’re not always right, you know.”

“I am when it comes to this,” he grins. “And also when it comes to—”

The studio door creaks open with a soft click.

You both freeze.

He’s still close. His hand is still on your waist. Your breath still feels just a little too loud in your throat.

Sana stands in the doorway, blinking like she didn’t expect to see anyone. Her brows lift a fraction as she takes in the scene, your closeness, the music, the fact that you’re both very clearly in the middle of something.

“Oh,” she says, smiling a little too wide. “Didn’t realize there was still rehearsal going on.”

You step back immediately, your body going stiff as you reach for your water bottle, suddenly hyper-aware of how this must look.

Hoseok clears his throat, casual but a little clipped. “Private practice,” he says evenly. “We’re running duet sections.”

Sana’s eyes flick between you two. “Right. Of course.” Her tone is perfectly polite, but there’s something just beneath it. You know she’ll twist this. She doesn’t need evidence, just the image.

She lingers a second longer before turning toward the lockers. “Don’t mind me,” she calls over her shoulder. “Just grabbing my sweatshirt.”

You glance at Hoseok, but he’s already looking at you.

“Ignore her,” he says under his breath. “This is our time. Let her talk if she wants.”

But your chest has already tightened again.

You nod, trying to keep the knot in your stomach from growing. “Let’s just finish the run.”

He hesitates, eyes scanning your face, then gives a soft, reassuring smile. “Okay. From the top. Let’s kill it.”

The music starts again, but it’s harder now to ignore the whispers that you know are coming.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The studio is already humming with quiet chatter and the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor when you walk in the next morning. Your duffel hangs heavy on your shoulder, but not as heavy as the pit in your stomach. The last rehearsal before tour. The final run of the full program. It should feel exciting.

Instead, the energy feels…off.

You’re barely a few steps inside when you catch it. Low whispers, the kind that stop just as quickly as they start. You glance toward the mirrors, where Sana and Mina are stretching with two other girls. One of them, Momo, smirks and leans in closer to Mina, who’s pretending to focus on her split stretch.

“Must’ve been a late night,” Mina says under her breath, not looking at you.

Sana hums thoughtfully. “Mm. Guess some people need the extra help.”

The girls snicker, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks. Yunjin, walking just behind you, hears it too. She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “I swear to god,” but you gently tug on her arm before she can say anything louder.

“Not worth it,” you murmur.

Yunjin shoots you a glare, protective and fiery. “They think they’re slick, but they’re just sad.”

You give her a small smile, but the edge of it wavers.

You take your usual spot on the floor to begin warming up, trying to stay focused, but the tension in the room is palpable. Everyone knows this is a big day. The full run-through. All eyes will be on Hoseok’s final decisions who shines, who doesn’t, and who might get more spotlight once the tour kicks off.

Your nerves were already frayed, but now the added scrutiny. The stares, the fake laughter, the whispered theories about why Hoseok chose you for the duet, it makes your stomach churn.

You stretch in silence, headphones in, trying to block them out. You know you earned your place. You know. But it doesn’t stop the noise.

Hoseok walks in fifteen minutes later, ball cap low over his brow and a coffee in hand. The room shifts instantly. Everyone straightens, energy tightening like a wire pulled taut.

His eyes flick across the studio as he greets everyone with a quick, “Morning,” before his gaze lands briefly on you.

It lingers for just a second.

You don’t smile. You don’t react.

You can’t. Not with every pair of eyes watching.

“Alright,” Hoseok claps his hands together. “Let’s run it top to bottom. No stops. Treat it like a real show. Find your focus and give me everything you’ve got.”

People start moving to their places, but the whispers haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve just gone quieter slinking under the surface like snakes in tall grass.

You swallow hard and exhale through your nose. One more rehearsal. Then the tour begins, and maybe hopefully you’ll finally be too busy proving yourself to hear them at all.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The first few shows in Seoul go off without a hitch. Every cue lands, every formation clicks, and the energy in the KSPO Dome is electric. Hoseok commands the stage like he was born on it, and somehow, being beside him under the lights feels more natural than nerve-wracking. You move in sync, you hit every mark, and the crowd responds with deafening cheers that echo in your chest long after you leave the stage.

But the online reaction? A different story. 

Korean fans aren’t exactly thrilled about the close choreography between you and Hoseok. Some accuse the creative team of pushing too hard for attention, as if this wasn’t his idea. Others aren’t shy about voicing their discomfort, dissecting every interaction between the two of you with brutal intensity.You don’t let it get to you, you’ve worked too hard to be shaken by faceless usernames and half baked speculation.

Brooklyn night one is just as electric. The crowd is louder, rowdier, and when you step off stage soaked in sweat, there’s a fire in your blood that you don’t want to put out.

Then comes night two and the day starts to unravel just a few hours before showtime.

You’re in the dressing room, tying your hair back, when the stage manager walks in looking like she’s carrying a live grenade. “Wardrobe issue. One of the interns hung your outfits in the wrong place and they are ruined,” she says, holding up her phone. “Customs seized the backup costumes when they came into the U.S. The shipment paperwork was flagged.”

You blink. “All of them?”

“Everything. Yours, the duets, even the encore outfits.”

Your stomach sinks. “So…what are we supposed to wear?”

She disappears behind a garment rack and pulls out a hanger. It holds a cropped jersey with the tour logo in silver glitter across the chest. On the back, it reads in huge block letters:

HOPE’S GIRL

You stare. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“They were from a scrapped number. We have a full box of them in the truck. They’re clean, they’re pressed, and they fit the aesthetic.”

You eye the jersey. It’s cute. Actually, it’s really cute. But it’s also really cropped, your stomach will be fully on display. And the name on the back? Way too bold.

“Isn’t this a little…” you gesture vaguely at the lettering. “Much?”

“Do you want to fly to Newark and sweet talk the customs agents yourself?” the manager asks, half-joking, half-panicked. “Because call time’s in thirty.”

You don’t have a choice. You change.

The jersey fits like it was made for you. Snug in all the right places, sleeves cuffed just above the elbow, hem hovering above your waist. You check yourself in the mirror, trying to ignore the lettering burning into your back.

When you step out, conversations stall. A few dancers glance over. One of the stylists lets out a low whistle. Then Hoseok turns, mid-discussion with a crew member, and his eyes land on you.

He freezes.

Then, slowly, he grins. Not the polite stage smile. The real one. The one that makes his eyes crinkle and your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the jersey. You glance down, suddenly hyper-aware of just how much skin you’re showing, and the text stretched across your shoulder blades.

Still, the moment passes. The music starts. The show goes on. But the mood sticks with you. A little unsettled, a little unsure. You look amazing. The crowd will scream. The performance will be flawless.

So why do you feel so weird inside?

The lights dim. The roar of the Barclays Center swells around you like a wave, and the opening VCR flickers to life on the screens above the stage. You’re already in place, heart hammering in your chest, fingers twitching at your sides as you wait for the music to drop.

The crowd is louder tonight, maybe it’s the weekend energy, maybe it’s just New York. Maybe it’s the jersey.

Your jersey.

The one that reads HOPE’S GIRL in massive silver letters across your back.

You try to shake it off. Focus. Breathe. You know the routine inside and out, muscle memory will take over. But as the spotlight hits and the opening beats explode through the arena, you can’t help the flare of heat that climbs your neck when you and Hoseok hit your first mark center stage.

He’s already smirking when he looks at you.

You swear it’s a little cockier than usual.

The crowd loses it when he reaches for you during the duet section. His hand grazes your waist, right where the cropped jersey ends, and you hear the collective shriek ripple through the venue like a current. You don't falter, not even for a beat, but your pulse skitters. You wonder if he notices. (He does.)

The chemistry tonight is different. Tighter. Sharper. Every move is crisp, charged, laced with something just below the surface. Hoseok doesn’t break character once, but there’s something extra in the way he watches you, like he’s feeding off the crowd’s energy, and you're the spark.

At one point, he leans in for a choreographed moment—faces close, breaths shared—and you swear you catch him whispering, “They’re gonna riot.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you snap into the next move, heart pounding, mind focused, eyes locked.

When the last beat hits and the lights go black, the arena erupts. It’s deafening. Screams echo through your bones as the two of you jog offstage, breathless and slick with sweat. You’re grinning, high on adrenaline, already tugging your in-ear out when Hoseok turns to you in the wings.

“You crushed that,” he says, still breathless. “That jersey…” He whistles, grinning. “Might have started a war.”

You roll your eyes, breath hitching on a laugh. “Don’t even.”

But he just flashes that infuriating smile again. “Hope’s girl, huh?”

You shove his shoulder, but your cheeks burn, and even as the crew moves around you resetting for the next set, he lingers a second longer, eyes lingering like he’s memorizing you all over again.

The show ends in a blur of lights and music, the crowd's cheers still ringing in your ears as you make your way backstage. Your body aches from the intense performance, sweat dripping down your back as you strip off the jersey, feeling the cool air hit your skin. You’re breathing hard, but there’s a high buzzing through you, an energy that doesn’t quite fade yet.

Yunjin is there in an instant, practically bouncing with excitement.

“Okay, first of all,” she starts, eyes wide, “what was that?! You were literally on fire tonight. You looked so hot, I almost couldn’t concentrate! Like, how does that even happen?”

You laugh, wiping your face with a towel. “It was just the jersey, Yunjin.”

“Just the jersey?” She places a hand over her heart dramatically. “You’re telling me you don’t know what you were doing out there? The way it clung to you, the way you moved, if I were in the crowd, I’d be screaming my head off. Hoseok probably had to be holding himself back from jumping off stage just to catch you.”

You try not to grin, but the thought makes your chest tighten. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am not. Babe, I don’t even know how you stayed so calm. I was practically hyperventilating on the sidelines watching you. You’re like…a goddess.”

Before you can reply, the sound of footsteps clicks through the hallway, and you know who it is before you even turn around.

Mina and Sana.

“Well, well,” Sana says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “look who’s enjoying the spotlight.”

Mina crosses her arms, eyes narrowing at the exposed skin of your stomach. “Must be nice. Wearing a jersey with ‘Hope’s Girl’ on it. Subtle.”

You don’t respond immediately, but you feel the tension creeping up your spine. Yunjin, however, isn’t having it.

“Really? That’s what you’re gonna focus on?” she shoots back, eyes flashing. “I think we all know the story behind the jersey, and it’s not like she went around asking for this attention.”

Sana smirks, a little too pleased with herself. “Sure, it’s just a scraped costume item. But only one of us got assigned that particular one, didn’t we?”

Mina’s gaze sharpens, her tone fake-sweet. “Yeah, just be careful. You might get too comfortable being everyone’s center of attention, those things don’t last long.”

Her words sting, but you keep your face neutral. You want to tell them to mind their business, but you hold back, not wanting to make a scene.

Yunjin steps closer, her voice low and cutting. “You guys are real classy, huh? Try not to be so obvious.”

Mina and Sana share a look before walking off, their footsteps echoing down the hall like a statement.

Yunjin exhales sharply, her fists clenched at her sides. “Seriously. Do they ever stop?”

You shrug, trying to shake it off. “Let them talk. They don’t get to decide what’s true.”

“Yeah, but damn, it’s hard not to hear them when they’re that loud,” Yunjin mutters, her eyes still on the retreating figures.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next few stops of the U.S. leg flow like muscle memory. Rehearsals, shows, after-show hangouts in hotel rooms or wherever you can find food that late. Everyone slips into their own rhythms. Little cliques form, some loud and chaotic, some quieter and tired. You and Yunjin are the latter, always rooming together, always ending the night whispering half-asleep jokes under hotel comforters, letting the adrenaline of performance burn off slowly.

Hoseok is kind to everyone, but there’s something a little softer in how he treats you. Even when he’s obviously exhausted with dark circles under his eyes and a  gravelly voice. He'll still toss you a grin in passing, a warm “good work today,” or a brief shoulder squeeze as he walks by. Nothing intense. Nothing you can’t explain away. But still, it lingers.

Mexico City feels different the moment the plane touches down.

The crowd is electric, louder than anything so far, and the setlist tonight gives the dancers a chance to shine, one particular number puts the girls front and center, a line of you holding onto each other’s hips, all sweat-slick skin and sharp movement, hip thrusts and rhythm pulsing through the floor.

You barely even register it when Mina’s fingers dig into your waist. Not at first.

But then she digs. Sharp nails through the thin fabric of your costume, pressing so hard it feels like they’re carving into you.

You flinch, barely, but your body keeps moving like it’s on autopilot. You smile, you hit every beat, you power through. There’s a camera somewhere. Fans screaming. You don’t miss a step. But when you hit the wings, adrenaline drops all at once, and the pain settles in.

You rush toward the wardrobe first thing, heart thudding in your chest. “Hey, do we—do we have any backup options?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Like...something with more coverage?”

Thankfully, they do now. You swap out the crop top and slip into something looser. The scratches burn, but at least they’re not visible anymore.

You don’t think anyone noticed.

Later, the green room is quiet. Most of the dancers have drifted out, some heading to the hotel, others grabbing food or showering off the performance high. You stay behind to grab a hoodie from the top shelf of the wardrobe racks, reaching up on your toes.

The door creaks open behind you.

“Hey—” Hoseok’s voice cuts off. “Wait.”

You pause mid-reach, glancing over your shoulder.

He’s standing just inside the doorway, brow furrowed, eyes locked on your waist.

You look down.

Your shirt has ridden up just enough to show the angry red scratches along your skin, faint but clearly there. His expression shifts instantly, quiet concern turning sharp.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping closer.

You tug your shirt down quickly. “It’s nothing. Costume just rubbed me the wrong way.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Can I see?” he asks gently, his voice low, eyes searching yours.

You hesitate, then nod once, slowly lifting the hem of your shirt just enough to show the marks along your side.

His breath catches. “Jesus,” he mutters, kneeling slightly to get a closer look. “These are from nails.”

You lower your shirt again, already bracing.

“I have to tell management,” he says, voice calm but firm.

“No.” You shake your head. “Hoseok, please. You can’t.”

His jaw clenches. “She drew blood. You don’t do that by accident.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But if you report her, she’ll know it came from me. She already hates me enough.”

“I don’t care if she hates you. She crossed a line.”

You look down, fists tightening at your sides. “And if she gets reprimanded? Cut? Then every girl on this tour is going to think I’m trying to get people fired just because I’m close to you.”

“You’re not close to me,” he says without thinking, then winces. “I mean—not like that. I just mean, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Exactly,” you say. “So don’t make it worse.”

There’s a long pause. His gaze softens a little, but the tension’s still there, tight in his shoulders.

“I won’t go to management,” he says finally. “But only if you swear to tell me if she touches you again.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly still not thrilled, but lets it go, for now. Then, a little softer, “You didn’t even flinch out there. No one would’ve known.”

You offer a small shrug. “Didn’t want to mess up the show.”

Something flashes behind his eyes—pride, maybe. Or something warmer. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can feel it settle between you.

“Still,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you shouldn’t have to bleed for a stage.”

Back at the hotel, it’s just past midnight. You and Yunjin are in your room, both freshly showered, your hair still damp as you sit cross-legged on your bed scrolling through messages. She’s across from you, stretched out on her stomach and picking at a protein bar with barely-contained boredom.

“God, we should order fries or something,” she mumbles into her arms. “I know it’s late, but I’m still wired.”

You laugh softly, about to answer then you stretch.

Your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a faint red line on your side.

Yunjin sits up like she’s been electrocuted.

“What the hell is that?” Her voice is sharp, alarmed. She scrambles over the bed toward you, pushing your arm up before you can react. “Wait—is that a scratch? That’s blood.”

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, trying to pull your shirt down again. “Seriously.”

She isn’t having it. “Don’t lie to me. Who did that?”

You go quiet.

“Who.” Her voice drops into a dangerous whisper.

You sigh. “It happened during the performance. Mina. She dug her nails in during the line choreo.”

Yunjin is already off the bed.

“Absolutely not.” She’s halfway to the door, hair wild, grabbing her hoodie off the chair. “I’m going to drag her. I’ll knock on her door and rip her fake lashes off one by one—”

“Yunjin!” You scramble up, grabbing her wrist before she reaches the handle. “Please. Don’t.”

“Are you serious right now? She injured you in the middle of a live performance!”

“I know. But if you storm down there, it just gives her what she wants. More drama. More fuel.”

Her jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle twitch. “She wants you humiliated. She’s been whispering garbage since Seoul and now she’s physically hurting you? And you’re the one worried about drama?”

You squeeze her wrist gently. “I’m tired. You’re tired. Just…let it go. For now.”

Yunjin glares at the door like she’s imagining it’s Mina’s face, but finally, finally, she exhales sharply and slumps back against the wall.

“I swear,” she mutters, “if she so much as breathes in your direction wrong again, I’m not stopping at lashes. I’m coming for her extensions too.”

You smile faintly, despite the sting in your side. “Noted.”

She walks back to you and flops down beside you again, grumbling under her breath, “Next tour, we’re getting roommate requests and I’m making sure we’re in a different hotel wing.”

You laugh. “You’d miss me.”

“Shut up and order the fries.”

You reach for your phone. The tension still lingers in the air, but it’s easier now, the weight of it softened by the person next to you who’s always ready to go to war, no matter how small the battlefield.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The fries are gone, Yunjin is out cold, and the hotel room feels too warm, too cramped with everything that happened still buzzing in your head. You need to get out of here. 

You slip on a hoodie, grab your keycard, and make your way up to the rooftop lounge. It’s quiet at this hour, just past 2 a.m., and the Mexico City skyline stretches around you, lights glittering in the distance like stars fallen to earth. You sit down on one of the loungers, tucking your knees up to your chest, letting the night air cool your skin and settle your thoughts.

You don’t expect anyone else to come up.

Which is why your heart jumps a little when the rooftop door creaks open.

Hoseok steps out, hoodie pulled low, hair damp like he just showered. He spots you immediately and pauses, his expression unreadable for a second before he walks over.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he says softly.

You give a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” he nods, settling into the lounger beside yours. “Me neither.”

There’s a brief silence, comfortable, somehow. Then he turns his head to look at you, eyes catching faint light from the city below.

“How’s your side?”

You blink, still surprised that he seems to care. “It’s fine.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate for half a second, then pull the hoodie up just enough to show the bandage, a thin sliver of red peeking out underneath.

His jaw tenses.

“She really did that during the choreo?” He asks again, like he can’t believe that it was true the first time you had this conversation. 

You nod. “It wasn’t that deep. Just enough to be petty.”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “You didn’t even flinch on stage.”

“Can’t flinch when there’s seventeen thousand people watching.”

He shakes his head. “You’re tougher than most people I know.”

You snort, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” he says. “You don’t complain. You just keep working.”

You glance over at him, a little startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

“You notice that?”

He looks at you, the edges of his mouth quirking up. “I notice everything.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “Smooth.”

“I’m not trying to be smooth,” he says, laughing now. “If I was, I’d say something like you danced so well tonight I almost missed my cue.”

You giggle despite yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“Right? I knew it,” he grins, then leans back against the lounger, staring at the sky. “You know, people ask me the same questions in interviews. Favorite food, dream collaborations, stuff like that. But no one ever asks the weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff like what?”

He hums, making his thinking face where he looks up. “Like the first time I ever forgot choreography on stage. Or the first time I realized I liked dancing more than rapping.”

“You forgot choreo?” you ask, eyes wide. 

He groans. “Yes! 2016 we were in Osaka. I completely blanked. I played it off, but I wanted to die. I still think about it sometimes when I’m in the shower.”

You laugh, and it feels easy, light in a way you haven’t felt since this tour started.

“You ever think about quitting?” you ask, quieter now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Twice, but I didn’t. I stayed. And then…people like you came along. Reminded me why I loved this in the first place.”

You’re stunned into silence for a beat, and he just smiles, leaning back again like he didn’t just drop a weight into your chest.

The air shifts, warmer now. More charged.

You stay up there with him until the sky starts to tint pink at the edges, trading quiet stories and silly jokes and tiny truths you’re not sure either of you mean to share, but don’t regret. Not even a little.

You and Hoseok sneak in your naps earlier in the day, quick, quiet moments of rest that leave you both looser and lighter. You haven’t spoken since the night before, but when your eyes meet across the green room as everyone starts getting into costume, there’s something wordless exchanged. A kind of mutual grounding.

When it’s time to run the show, everything clicks into place. Mina’s been shifted out of your proximity in all the formations. She’s still there, but now her energy can’t touch you. You don’t have to brace yourself. You can just dance, and you do.

The crowd is louder than night one. They are wild, alive, feeding you energy from the second you step out. Every cheer feels like it’s vibrating in your bones. Your body moves like it’s never known hesitation, hitting every count with precision and power. Every hair toss, every hip hit, every spin. You’re on fire.

The numbers flow one into the next, and soon enough, you’re side-stage again, waiting for the duet. Everyone else clusters on the other side, but Hoseok finds you right where he did the night before. You’re both smiling this time.

“Better night?” he asks with a little raise of his brows, already knowing the answer.

“The best,” you say, and you mean it.

He steps in close, just like yesterday, but there’s no hesitation now, only warmth. His hands come to your face again, thumbs brushing the tops of your cheeks as he leans in until your foreheads touch.

“You were glowing out there,” he says, voice low and playful. “Like, full-on radiant. Crowd’s obsessed.”

You laugh, heart hammering in your chest. “Pretty sure they’re obsessed with you.”

“Nah,” he grins. “Tonight, they’re yours.”

It sends something giddy fluttering in your stomach. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. “Let’s go own this. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too,” you say, and you’re both smiling like you’re about to get away with something.

The cue hits. The lights flare, and then you're dancing together.

This time, everything is free and full. Hoseok’s energy wraps around you, not protective, not careful, just completely in sync. Hoseok dances with the kind of presence that makes people forget to blink. He still avoids the spot where your cut is healing, but it doesn’t feel like he’s pulling back. It feels like he knows you. Like you’ve built something real in all those hours of rehearsal, tension, and trust.

When the duet ends, the crowd goes wild, and as you hold the final pose beside him, Hoseok glances your way with that same dazzling smile. Only now, there’s something a little different in his eyes. Pride. Mischief. Maybe even a spark of something more.

You feel unstoppable.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The post-show adrenaline lingers like glitter on skin. The performance high, the crowd’s roar, the perfect execution, it’s all still pulsing through your veins as you sit with the other dancers and crew at a lively restaurant tucked into a buzzing neighborhood just beyond the venue. The energy’s infectious. Laughter pours from every table, drinks clink, and someone orders another round before you can blink.

Hoseok shows up a little after the rest of you, wearing a baseball cap and a plain white tee, the kind of casual that still somehow makes heads turn. He slides into the seat beside Yunjin, across from you, and when your eyes meet over the rim of your glass, you can’t help the quiet smile that rises.

He toasts you later with a simple, “To killing it two nights in a row.”

Eventually, most of the dancers rally into a louder crowd, talking bar hopping, clubs, “just one more,” and “we’re in Mexico, come on!” But you, comfortably buzzed and warm from the tequila and laughter, decide to head back. Yunjin stays behind, swept into the tide, and you’re happy for her.

Back at the hotel, you take your time. A long, hot shower. Moisturizer. Your favorite oversized tee and soft shorts. Then you pad barefoot down the hallway with a hotel-bar cocktail in hand and head for the rooftop lounge.

The air is cool but gentle, and the view stretches out like a glittering painting. You settle on a lounger, legs tucked under you, drink cradled in both hands as you sip slowly and let yourself feel everything. The ache in your muscles. The thrum of triumph. How far you’ve come.

And then—

“Thought I might find you up here.”

You look over your shoulder. Hoseok steps out onto the rooftop, holding a drink of his own, something dark and neat in a short glass.

He’s changed, too. Into joggers and a hoodie, hair still a little damp from his own shower. He looks tired, but content. You wave him over.

He settles beside you on the same lounger, close but not crowded, and for a while, you just… talk. About nothing. About everything. About how wild this whole thing is: the tour, dancing, fans screaming your name.

And then a song starts playing through the rooftop speakers. Something upbeat and groovy, with a smooth, bouncing rhythm that makes your shoulders sway almost instinctively.

You glance at him.

“Dance with me.”

He chuckles. “Right now?”

You stand, offer your hand. “It’s tradition now, isn’t it?”

Hoseok hesitates for half a second before taking your hand and rising to his feet. “Alright, tradition.”

The two of you fall into rhythm easily, bare feet sliding over the rooftop tile. It’s loose, playful. No choreography, no mirrors. Just movement. Just you and him. You laugh when he tries a silly body roll and laugh even harder when he copies your spin with exaggerated flair.

One song blends into the next, and somewhere along the way, it shifts. You’re still laughing, still dancing, but the space between you shrinks. His hands linger longer. Your breath comes quicker.

Then he twirls you.

Your back presses gently to his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. He turns you again, catches your hand in his, and dips you.

Time stops. You’re suspended in the moment, his arm strong around your back, your hand resting on his shoulder, and he looks at your lips.

Then, almost guiltily, his eyes flick away. Up, off to the side.

You look at his lips. Then back up at his eyes and you nod. Just once.

He kisses you.

One hand cradles the small of your back, holding you in place as the other comes to your jaw, tilting your chin up just right. The kiss is warm, slow, exploratory. His lips move like he’s learning the shape of you, like he’s been waiting for this longer than he realized. Your heart is slamming against your chest trying to understand what is going on. The kiss ends gently, like a breath, but the moment it does, Hoseok steps back like he’s just come to his senses.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” he blurts, voice hushed and panicked. His hand flies up, fingers brushing his mouth like the kiss might still be there. “God, I’m so sorry. That was…totally unprofessional. You’re my dancer. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You blink, still half-drunk on the feeling of his lips against yours, your body still tingling from where he touched you.

“I mean—” he keeps going, running a hand through his hair. “You’re just… you’re so pretty. You’re funny, and smart, and you’ve been killing it every single night and then tonight you looked at me like that and I just—” He breaks off with a frustrated groan. “Shit. I let my feelings get ahead of me. I shouldn’t have—God, I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Your thoughts are moving like molasses. You’re trying to process what just happened, what he’s saying, how this spiraled so fast from soft rooftop magic to this flurry of regret.

“I just don’t want to make things weird for you,” Hoseok says, already backing away, voice rough with self-recrimination. “You’ve worked so hard to be here and this is your moment to prove yourself. I don’t want to mess it up because I can’t control myself—”

“Hoseok—”

But he keeps rambling, barely hearing you. “Seriously, just forget I did that, okay? I’ll keep everything professional from here on out. You don’t need to worry about me, I swear.”

And before you can even figure out how you feel or how to respond, he’s turning to leave.

“Hobi—” You yell desperately. “Wait!”

He freezes. You’ve never called him that before. His favorite nickname hangs between you delicate and real. He turns just slightly, looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and searching. Now it’s your turn to be breathless. 

You take a deep breath, gathering whatever courage you have left. The tension is thick, the air crackling between you both. You step closer, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying every ounce of confidence you’re trying to muster.

“If they’re going to whisper about me anyway,” you start, “might as well make it true.”

Before he can react, you reach out, catching his wrist in your hand, turning him back toward you. His eyes flash with a mix of surprise and something deeper, but before he can say anything more, you lean in, kissing him again.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t pull away. He melts into it, his lips soft against yours, his breath steadying as he lets the moment wash over him. You can feel the tension leave his body, how he’s relaxing into you, like he’s been holding it all in for far too long.

You tug on the excess fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, your chest pressing against his. You feel the heat between you, the softness of his body as he leans in further, his hands moving to your back, tracing the curve of your spine. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, the world outside disappearing as the music plays softly in the background.

For a moment, there’s no tour, no pressure, no expectations. Just you and him, and everything feels right. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling in the air between you, Hoseok’s eyes are dark, lips parted as if he’s trying to catch his breath.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice quiet but filled with the same uncertainty he had before.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If they’re gonna talk anyway…might as well give them something to really talk about.”

Hoseok chuckles, low and breathless, before pulling you in for another kiss. This time, it’s full of quiet promises, no words needed. The rest of the world can wait.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The morning after, sunlight creeps in through the curtains, warm and golden across your sheets, but it doesn't soften the twist in your chest. You wake up slower than usual, almost like you’re trying to delay facing reality. There's no knock at your door. No message. No sign that anything happened last night at all.

You see him in the hallway a little later, just outside the elevators. You weren’t expecting it, so your smile catches you off guard before you can stop it. He’s walking with a couple of stylists, laughing at something someone says. His eyes pass over you like you’re a stranger.

Not even a nod. It stings more than you'd like to admit.

Back in your room, Yunjin is packing up her things, humming softly to herself.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with us today?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “San Antonio’s got good food and my college friend’s letting a few of us crash at their place.”

You give her a half-hearted smile and shake your head. “I think I’ll stay behind a little. Be a tourist for a day. Last chance and all.”

“Your loss,” she teases lightly, dragging her suitcase toward the door. “Don’t forget sunscreen.”

She doesn’t press further. She doesn’t notice anything is wrong. No one does. You’re still smiling. Still functioning.

Just…quieter.

You spend the day wandering through the city, letting the sun soak into your skin and the colors of Mexico City blur into a kaleidoscope. You try mezcal at a street-side bar, buy a handmade bracelet from a vendor who compliments your earrings, and stand still in front of a cathedral until the bells chime and make your chest ache.

Hoseok stares at his phone like it might answer all the questions for him.

It doesn’t.

It just glows with the time. Too early for this kind of spiral, too late to sleep it off. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs, reaching for the only contact that might give him something useful.

He hits call. It rings three times before Jin answers, voice still thick with sleep.

“Hyung,” Hoseok says before Jin can even get a proper greeting out. “I messed up.”

Jin groans. “Hello to you too. What did you do?”

“I kissed her.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Who—wait. Her her? YN?”

“Yes.” It’s almost as if Hoseok can hear is hyung silenting judging him.

“Well damn,” Jin says, a little more awake now. “That’s…unexpected, and kind of bold. How’d it go?”

“She kissed me back. It wasn’t like—I don’t know. I didn’t plan it. It just happened and now I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“That checks out,” Jin mutters. “You’ve had a crush on her for a while, haven’t you?”

Hoseok winces. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to anyone with eyes.”

He groans again, collapsing back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t think I’d actually do anything about it.”

“And yet here we are.”

There’s a pause.

“I don’t even have her number,” Hoseok admits, his voice small. “I thought about asking someone on staff, but that feels…I don’t know. Weird?”

Jin snorts. “Yeah, kind of creepy. Don't do that.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you get her number last night?”

“I was distracted. I didn’t think—there was this moment, and it felt like everything in the world narrowed to just her, and then it was over.”

“Well,” Jin says, “it’s not over if you don’t let it be.”

“I saw her in the hallway this morning. She smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.”

Jin groans. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I panicked!” Hoseok snaps. “I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t want her to regret it. I’m her boss. I should’ve never—”

“You already did,” Jin cuts in, firm now. “So the whole ‘I shouldn’t have’ ship? It’s sailed, capsized, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Thanks for the imagery.”

Jin huffs a laugh. “Look, I get that this is complicated. But you’re allowed to feel things, Hobi. You’re allowed to want something good. If you’re serious about her—really serious—then don’t let protocol be the reason you ruin it.”

Hoseok is quiet for a long time. He watches a crack of sunlight stretch across the floor of his hotel room and thinks about how your smile looked under stage lights. He thinks about how he made you feel like you weren’t alone in it.

“…I am serious,” he says quietly.

“Then find a way to show her.”

🧡part 2🧡

[ddaenqqvantae]

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Stars We Never Caught 4.0 | jhs

—  summary: At eleven, you met Hoseok. He was your older brother’s best friend, and for years, he was a constant in your world. Growing up alongside him, with Yoongi, your brother, and the rest of your crew, you never imagined that anything would ever change. Hoseok felt like family—always there but never quite a brother. It was a strange kind of closeness, one that never quite fit into the lines of what you understood.

But as you grew older, things started to shift. You got caught up in your own life, distracted by the swirl of adulthood. Now, back in Seoul, you find yourself drawn back to him. Whether it’s fate or coincidence, Hoseok is still there, and you can’t shake the pull that you’ve buried for so long. But perhaps some things are never meant to be—some stars are never meant to be caught, no matter how brightly they shine or are they?

— playlist: what was that - lorde, ribs - lorde, panic - beomgyu, wildest dreams - taylor swift, i need u (urban mix) - bts, run (ballad mix) - bts, cigarette daydreams - cage the elephant, the less i know the better - tame impala, 0x1 love song - txt, writer in the dark - lorde, somebody else - the 1975, your dog - soccer mommy + every mitski album.

— word count: 5k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing, this is finally the last part.

—  warnings: angst, longing, yearning, deep Yearn (I meant this), pinning (sorry), slow really slow burn (I meant this), brother's best friend, coming of age, yoongi being a big bro (we love you yoongles), overthinking, lots of inner monologue, growing pains in your 20s, adulthood being a pain in the ass, lots of deep talks, tension... so much tension (shit goes wrong or not....) OKAY, now onto other warnings: sweet love making—then horny people being horny people because they're deep in feelings but freaky as hell: big dick! hobi, f! m! masturbation, sex with feelings™, strenght kink, hickeys, HICKEYS, biting, deep throathing, choking, missionary, manhandling?

please, read the note !!!

part one | part two | part three

He stared at you for a long second, his hand still resting on your thigh.

The room felt heavy — not just with lust, but something else. Something close. Real.

And then, without a word—

He dropped to his knees.

Not to tease.

Not to rush.

Just to look up at you from below, hands dragging softly down your thighs as he settled between them.

His breath was warm against your skin when he spoke.

“Have you ever been loved right?”

Your lips parted—no sound.

He tilted his head, eyes burning, soft and sharp all at once.

“I’m not talking about fucked.”

His hand moved higher.

“I mean touched. Worshipped. Felt.”

You whimpered, already dizzy from the heat in his voice alone.

“Please,” you whispered. Desperate. Wrecked.

But he didn’t move yet.

Just leaned in, lips close enough that his breath hit your skin with every word.

“I’m asking you, baby.”

“Have they touched you here?”

His fingers brushed over you—barely.

You gasped.

“I’m sure they have,” he continued, “but the one you remember after this?”

His mouth curled into a grin—slow and devastating.

“It’ll be me.”

And then—

He put his mouth on you.

No more teasing.

Just heat.

Soft at first—testing, tasting—

And when your head dropped back and your thighs tightened around his shoulders, he moaned into you.

You cried out—sharp, sweet—

Your body already tipping forward, your hands grasping at the sheets, his name breaking from your lips without shape.

Your eyes rolled back.

And he didn’t stop.

He devoured you.

His mouth was everywhere.

Hot. Wet. Knowing.

And you were unraveling — not just under the pressure of his hands, not just from the slick slide of his tongue,

but from the way he said your name.

Or—what he used to call you.

“My precious star.”

The words dropped from his mouth like sin.

Low. Velvet. Drenched in heat.

So unlike the way he used to say it — bright, teasing, with a lopsided grin and a juice box in hand.

No.

This was different.

This time, he said it like it meant something.

Like he was tasting not just your body, but the years between you.

All the soft edges of your childhood.

All the versions of you he used to know.

And the one he was learning now — mouth open, thighs shaking, fingers twisted in the sheets.

“So sweet,” he murmured, licking slow, deliberate, his voice crumbling at the edges.

Like he was remembering and forgetting you at the same time.

Your breath hitched.

You should’ve blushed.

But you didn’t.

Because it wasn’t just a name anymore.

It was a confession.

A claim.

A way to say you’ve changed without ever having to say it.

He kissed you again, deeper.

And then—

“Sweet, tasty star.”

You gasped.

Not because of the pressure.

But because that name, once so innocent, now felt like the only thing anchoring you to your skin.

Like you were being rewritten in his mouth.

Grown.

Opened.

Made new.

This was the moment it shifted.

You weren’t the girl with a quiet crush anymore.

You were a woman, shaking in his hands,

and he wanted you — not in spite of the history,

but because of it.

You didn’t even know what you were saying.

“Please—”

It fell from your mouth over and over.

A sound more than a word.

A sob soaked in heat.

You weren’t begging for anything specific—

Just more.

Just now.

Just him.

Your thighs were shaking, hips chasing every flick of his tongue like your body was hunting something your brain couldn’t even name.

“Please,” you choked again, one hand gripping the sheets, the other lost in his hair.

You were too far gone.

Too high.

Too blind from lust, from want, from the sharp edge of release curling deep in your gut and pulling tight, tighter—

“I’m gonna—”

But you couldn’t finish.

You couldn’t say it.

Because your body did it for you.

You shattered.

Loud.

Shaking.

Your voice catching in your throat as everything in you let go.

Your vision blurred.

Your chest stuttered with a breath you couldn’t catch.

And through all of it, his mouth didn’t stop.

His hands held you in place.

And his voice—low, dark, proud—was the only thing that tethered you back.

“That’s it,” he murmured, dragging his mouth up your thigh.

“Let me feel you break.”

You were still shaking.

Still catching your breath, mouth open, chest rising in uneven bursts.

Your thighs twitched every time the air hit you—slick, sensitive.

He looked up at you from where he hovered—lips wet, jaw tense, hands loose at your hips like he didn’t know whether to hold you or kneel again.

His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth like he could wipe you off of him. “You’re—fuck, baby, that was—”

You didn’t wait.

You moved before the thought even finished forming.

Your knees hit the floor with a thud.

He barely had time to react before your fingers were at his waistband, your breath still uneven from your own undoing, but your eyes locked on him like a dare.

His hand came to your jaw, cupping it gently, thumb brushing the corner of your lips like he needed to slow you down.

“My sweet star,” he said, voice barely there. “Baby, you don’t have to—”

Your eyes flicked up.

“But I want to.”

He sucked in a breath, jaw tightening.

Still—he hesitated.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warned, already half-choked on the image of you like this. “Not if you do this. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”

You smiled.

Sharp. Wrecked.

And deadly honest.

“Did I ask you to be?”

His control snapped just like that.

He was standing over you, shirtless, wrecked, still recovering from what he just pulled from your body.

And yet—he smirked.

Slow. Crooked.

Like he still had a little bit of control to burn through.

He leaned down, cupped your face in his hand, his thumb brushing across your lip like he was thinking about everything you could do to him.

Everything you would.

“Tsk tsk.”

His voice was low, playful. But edged.

“So you told me rough,” he said, eyes heavy as he looked down at you.

“That’s how you like it too, right?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You just looked at him—wide-eyed, mouth parted, body still humming from the high he’d given you moments ago.

He tilted his head.

“Mmm. Okay, Star.”

The name hit different now.

Weighted. Filthy.

“Red was your word, right?” he asked, more serious now. Still steady, still with care anchoring every bit of the burn.

You nodded.

His thumb dipped under your jaw, made your mouth fall open just a little.

“Good. Then come on.”

He leaned in, voice velvet-dark.

“Do your thing.”

You were still on your knees.

Your hand around him, slow and slick, watching the tension in his jaw sharpen every time you twisted your wrist just right.

But that smugness in your smile?

That didn’t last long.

Because Hoseok was done watching.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair—not harsh, not painful, but firm, possessive—and tilted your face up.

“Open,” he said.

Voice like a command wrapped in velvet.

Low. Steady. No room for teasing now.

You obeyed.

And the second your mouth parted, he guided himself between your lips—slow, deep, with a groan that sounded like it had been waiting years to come out.

His grip in your hair tightened as your lips closed around him, heat blooming on your tongue.

“Just like that,” he muttered, already breathless.

“Fuck, you look so good like this.”

You tried to take control again—hands moving, setting your rhythm—

But he stopped you.

“Uh-uh,” he growled, pulling your hands away and pinning them to your lap.

“You wanted rough, remember?”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide, mouth full.

He grinned—sharp, dangerous, hot.

“Then keep your hands to yourself, baby.”

And then he moved.

Not too fast.

But deliberate.

Rhythmic.

In control.

He rolled his hips just enough for you to feel the weight of it, the pace of it—his hand still fisted in your hair, guiding you up, down, slow and deep.

You moaned around him, the sound strangled and thick.

He cursed, low.

“God—look at you.”

Another thrust.

“You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Your eyes watered. Your jaw ached. But you never stopped.

And neither did he.

“If it’s too much,” he muttered, voice ragged, “say it. Otherwise…”

He pulled your hair tighter.

“Take it. All of it.”

His hips moved again—steady now, purposeful—each slow thrust brushing the back of your throat just enough to make your eyes flutter.

You moaned around him, soft and thick, and that—

That broke him a little.

He looked down, sweat on his brow, hand tangled in your hair, chest rising fast.

“So you’re a masochist, sweetheart.”

A breathless chuckle followed, dark and wrecked.

“That it?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not with him filling your mouth like this, owning the rhythm, guiding your every movement.

And he loved it.

“Mouth full of cock,” he rasped, hips twitching slightly, voice strained.

“So fuckin’ pretty.”

Your throat tightened at his words, heat surging lower.

He pulled your head back just enough for you to blink up at him—spit-slick, flushed, ruined.

“Can’t even talk, can you?”

You gave him what he wanted.

You nodded, slowly, shamelessly.

And then you made it worse—

You let your tongue drag over him deliberately as he held you, made a fucking show of it.

His grip tightened in your hair.

“Jesus, Star—”

You took him deeper again, gaze locked on his.

“You like it like this?” he asked, voice cracking.

You nodded again, eyes glinting, filthy and perfect.

He swore, hand clenching harder, his body tensing—his thighs shaking now, muscles straining with the effort not to lose it right there.

“Fuck—baby, you’re gonna make me—”

You had him.

You knew it.

The way his body was shaking under your hands—

The way his voice cracked, chest heaving, knuckles white where he gripped your hair—

He was close.

So you didn’t stop.

You dragged your mouth over him again, slow and filthy, tongue teasing just enough to push him right to the edge.

You looked up—eyes glassy, mouth wet, lips stretched around him—

And Hoseok let out a sound you’d never heard before.

A groan, broken in half.

Raw.

Wrecked.

“Fuck—Star, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

You just gripped his hips, braced yourself, and took it.

His hand tightened, pulling your head down just enough for his breath to catch, spine arching—

And then—

He came.

Hard.

With a gasp and a curse and your name strangled somewhere in the middle.

You felt every pulse of it.

Every tremor in his thighs.

Every breath he couldn’t catch.

You stayed there until he finished—until his body started to slacken, his hand falling from your hair, his whole frame wrecked above you.

And then you pulled back—slow, careful, a little smug.

Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

He stared at you.

Like you weren’t real.

Like he never expected this.

“Holy—fuck.”

He dropped onto the bed behind him, still catching his breath.

One arm flung over his face, the other blindly reaching for you.

He peeked at you from under his arm—eyes soft now, a little stunned.

“I didn’t know you were gonna try to end my life.”

You laughed. Breathless.

And he pulled you into his chest.

Tucked your head beneath his jaw.

Still panting, still dazed.

His hand slid into your hair—gentle now. Reassuring. Familiar.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You?”

“We aren't done, babe”

You looked up — and he was already smirking.

Already shifting onto his side, one arm sliding around your waist.

“What else do you like,” he asked, voice soft, teasing, mean.

“Hmm? My sweet, nasty star.”

He was still above you, eyes dark, chest rising slowly.

Watching.

His hands didn’t move fast.

But when they did move—

They moved you.

Like it was easy.

Like it was nothing.

One hand around your thigh, one bracing your waist—

He adjusted you underneath him, hips tilted, legs spread, just so.

You whined.

And he smiled.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, like he was learning something delicious.

“You like that.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He shifted you again, deliberately, dragging your hips a little higher with one hand. The ease of it, the control, the effortless way he could place you—

Your breath stuttered.

His smirk deepened.

“You like how easy this is for me?”

He kissed the side of your jaw.

“How I can just—”

He flipped you again.

Not all the way. Just enough to force a gasp out of you.

“—move you however I want?”

Your whole body arched, instinctive, needy.

“Fuck,” he breathed, more to himself now. “You’re so into this.”

You whined, pressing your thighs together, only for him to spread them apart again with a single knee.

“You like being handled like you weight nothing?” he asked, mouth at your ear.

“Knowing I could flip you over, drag you down, fuck you through the bed—”

You moaned—open, honest, wrecked.

“Jesus, baby.”

He kissed down your spine, hands firm on your hips now, and you could feel it—

The shift.

His control breaking just a little.

His restraint cracking.

“Please,” you gasped— More breath than word.

A whine pulled from somewhere raw.

And that—That broke him.

His body shuddered.

His restraint snapped.

He looked down at you—ruined, flushed, eyes glassy—and his voice came low, tight, like it hurt to speak.

“Tsk, tsk…”

His thumb brushed your lip.

“My beautiful star making such pretty sounds.”

He shifted, just slightly—just enough for the tip of him to slide through the wetness between your legs, teasing, lazy, maddening.

“Sounds I never thought I’d get to hear.”

You whimpered again, hips chasing him.

And he moaned at the sight of it.

“So wet,” he murmured, dragging his length along your folds, slow and torturous. “So fucking ready.”

You clawed at the sheets.

He leaned in, mouth to your ear.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Has anyone ever loved this pussy right?”

You shook your head, breathless.

He pulled back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Let me.”

A kiss to your cheek.

“Let me show you how much I fucking love you.”

Another kiss—hot, shaking—along your jaw.

“Let me show you how fucking regretful I am of the years we missed because I was a fucking idiot.”

He thrust in—deep, slow, wrecking.

You cried out—no shame, no filter, just need.

“Let me show you how a man loves a woman—”

His hips snapped forward again, harder.

“—hard.”

You arched into him, open-mouthed, completely unguarded.

And that was it.

That was when you both started to unravel—together.

The rhythm was relentless.

Consuming.

Each thrust harder, deeper—every inch of him claiming space you didn’t even know you could give.

“Oh my god—”

That’s all you could say.

Barely a whisper, your voice cracking with every movement, your nails digging into the sheets like they were the only things anchoring you.

He was everywhere.

Above you, in you, all around you—

Breathing hard, burning, skin against skin like friction was the only language he knew now.

“Oh my—fuck—”

You couldn’t finish.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth open, breath shattered.

He was destroying you in the most perfect way.

And he knew it.

“Take it, baby,” he growled, his voice thick and broken.

“You wanted rough, right?”

His hips snapped again, slamming into you with precision, with purpose.

You sobbed something incoherent, body arching up to meet him.

“You can take it.”

His hand slid under your thigh, lifting, opening you more.

“So fucking deep, right?”

You couldn’t breathe.

You nodded, head tipping back as he filled you again—slower now, but harder—dragging it out until your whole body trembled.

“You’re perfect like this,” he rasped.

“Fucking made for this.”

You whimpered—again.

High. Breathless. Embarrassingly loud.

And he loved it.

“Gosh,” he chuckled darkly, breath ragged but voice smug,

“you love being noisy, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer.

Not with the way he was pounding into you—hard and fast, the rhythm so good it felt illegal.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Mmm... should I give you something to really scream about?”

His mouth was suddenly everywhere—

Teeth scraping down your neck, tongue sliding hot against your throat, breath warm as he pressed kisses into your skin between thrusts.

“Should I bite you?”

He licked slowly up the side of your neck, deliberately drawing it out.

“You like it rough, right, Star?”

A sharp snap of his hips followed, making you yelp.

He moaned into your ear.

“Should I mark you?”

His voice dropped to a whisper, sinful and reverent.

He kissed just beneath your jaw, then slowly dragged his tongue to the curve of your shoulder—right before sinking his teeth in.

Not hard.

Not painful.

Just enough to make you feel it.

You gasped—head thrown back, vision blinking white.

“Fuck—”

He groaned, his grip tightening on your waist.

“Oh, you like that.”

Then he pulled back—barely—and his eyes dropped lower, trailing down your body.

He brought a finger to trace between your breasts, slow and teasing.

“Mmm,” he said, gaze dark. “Can I bite you here next?”

His hand flattened between them, palm pressing against your sternum.

“Right in the middle... between these perfect tits?”

Your breath hitched.

And then he did it.

He bent low, kissed between them—once.

Then sucked. Slow, hot, deep.

Not hard enough to bruise.

But hard enough to claim.

And still—he didn’t break rhythm.

His hips drove into you with perfect pressure, relentless, leaving you crying out with each thrust as his mouth worked its own magic lower.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Not the sounds.

Not the need.

Not the truth that had been clawing its way up your throat for years.

He was everywhere.

Inside you, above you, hands gripping your waist like he’d never let go.

His mouth was still pressed between your breasts, lips swollen, breath hot as he bit down again—harder this time, and you cried out.

“Say it,” he growled, voice wrecked, rhythm punishing.

“Say you're mine.”

And you did.

“I’m yours—”

Your voice cracked, hips lifting to meet his thrusts.

“I’m yours, please—fuck, I’ve been yours—”

Your head fell back.

“I don’t even know how long.”

He swore, loud, raw, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening around him.

“Please—fuck—”

You were sobbing the words now.

“Please don’t stop, I’m so close—”

And that was it.

His control shattered.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head, and fucked into you like he was trying to bury the years between you inside every thrust.

“You’re mine,” he gritted, sweat dripping down his temple.

“You’ve always been mine.”

Your bodies moved like they were chasing the same end—

And when it hit—

It wrecked you.

You came with a cry, legs shaking, mouth open, back arching into him like your body was breaking apart around his name.

And he followed—cursing, groaning, collapsing into you as he came, hard, pulsing deep, hips still grinding slow as he rode it out.

For a moment—

There was nothing.

No sound but your breaths.

No thought but him.

No feeling but the burned-out, beautiful aftermath of everything you'd held in finally being set free.

You didn’t remember when he stopped moving.

Only that at some point, his forehead was pressed to yours, both of you gasping into the tiny space between your mouths.

Your skin was slick—his was too—

And every part of your body felt used, loved, shaken.

Your hands were still tangled in his hair, your legs still around his waist.

Neither of you had moved.

Not yet.

Just breathing.

Hard.

Fast.

Trying to catch up to the fact that your bodies had just told the truth before your mouths ever could.

Hoseok's lips ghosted over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—

Not hungry. Not teasing. Just… there.

And then he kissed you.

Soft.

Slower than anything he’d done to you all night.

Like he was still apologizing for the years he wasted.

Like he needed to taste the moment before it slipped away.

You kissed him back, eyes closed, breath still shaky.

Your hand slid down his spine—damp with sweat, warm and familiar—and you curled into him like you never wanted to leave.

He rested his weight on top of you, careful not to crush, but refusing to let go.

No words yet.

Just the thump of his heart against yours.

Just his hand brushing the side of your thigh.

Just his lips pressed to your shoulder now.

And your fingers brushing his jaw as if to say I’m still here.

After a while—

He whispered it. Quiet. Barely a breath.

“Still with me?”

You nodded.

Tightening your legs around him just a little.

Breathing him in.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

His hand slid to your cheek.

Lifted your face just enough.

His eyes were warm.

Wrecked.

Honest.

“You okay?”

You smiled.

Small. True.

“I think I’ve never been more okay.”

He kissed you again.

Deeper this time.

You didn’t realize you’d been drifting—

Not fully asleep, not fully awake—

Until you felt his fingers.

Gentle.

Tracing soft shapes into your hip.

You blinked, slowly, still wrapped around him, still sticky and spent and so full of everything he just gave you.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just moved.

One hand brushing sweat-matted strands from your forehead.

The other lifting your leg slightly, shifting you with ease, like your body was something he knew now. Something he could read.

“Hurting?” he whispered, voice thick and low.

You blinked at him, eyes half-lidded.

“No,” you said softly. “Just… sore.”

He smiled.

Pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

You gave a sleepy smirk.

“You’re asking like you don’t know the answer.”

He chuckled—quiet, low in his throat—and slipped out of bed only long enough to grab a warm towel and a bottle of water from the side table.

You didn’t have to ask.

He just cleaned you gently, whispering nothing into your skin. Words like:

“So pretty.”

“Still can’t believe.”

“Mine.”

Then he pulled you back into him, wrapping the covers over both of you like a second skin.

You pressed your face to his neck.

He smelled like sex and warmth and something safe.

“Sleep,” he whispered into your hair.

And you did.

The first thing you felt was light.

Sunlight spilling through his curtain-less window, soft and golden against your bare back.

The second thing you felt—

Him.

His arm was still around you, his hand resting just beneath your chest.

One leg tangled over yours.

His breath warm against the curve of your neck.

You smiled into the pillow.

Your body ached.

Not in a bad way.

In the kind of way that reminded you exactly what had happened—

And how much it mattered.

Slowly, you turned.

He was already awake.

Eyes open. Barely.

That lazy, morning kind of smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hey,” he murmured back, voice rough.

Then, after a pause—

“So, uh… that wasn’t a dream, right?”

You laughed—quiet and warm.

“No. You definitely weren’t dreaming.”

He grinned, then leaned in, kissed your shoulder.

“Good.”

Another kiss, closer to your collarbone this time.

“Because I’d really hate to wake up from this.”

You stretched with a wince—limbs sore in the best way, muscles tired, your whole body buzzing from everything that happened hours ago.

He was still beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you were some dream he didn’t want to blink away.

You rolled toward him, dragging your fingertips lightly down his chest, smirking.

“You know I’m sore,” you said playfully, voice low and sleep-soft.

“But I just realized…”

You trailed off, tracing a slow path over his ribs.

“I didn’t mark your back like I wanted to.”

He blinked, and then — smirked.

Slow and devilish, like he’d just won something.

“So you wanna mark my back, pretty?”

His voice came out hoarse, still raspy from sleep, and full of teasing pride.

You shrugged—innocent, dangerous.

“Would be a shame to waste the moment.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, lips brushing your shoulder.

“That why you’re straddling me now?”

You hadn’t realized you’d done it—but you were.

Knees planted on either side of his hips, hands on his chest, your hair a mess and your grin feral.

“Maybe,” you said, hips grinding down just a little.

He hissed, hands already finding your thighs.

“God, you’re shameless.”

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and hot.

“I’ve never been like this,” you whispered against his lips.

“Not even with huh.. Daniel.”

His grip on your hips tightened.

“Good.”

A breath.

“I don’t want your past.”

He looked up at you—dead serious now.

“I just want you.”

You kissed him harder.

You didn’t realize how slow you were moving until he touched you.

His hands—warm, steady—slid up your thighs, anchoring you on top of him.

You were already straddling his hips, your body flushed from teasing, sore in all the best ways, but still buzzing with want.

The kind of want that didn’t burn like fire anymore—

It hummed like music.

Low. Steady. Deep.

Hoseok’s eyes were soft, but his grip wasn’t.

He guided your hips down just enough for your bodies to brush—his length hard against your entrance, your breath catching in a sharp gasp.

He didn’t move.

Just held you there.

“Still sure?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep and moaning your name all night.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“I want you slow,” you whispered. “But I want all of you.”

His head tipped back.

“Fuck.”

And then—

He guided you down.

Inch by inch.

Slow enough that you felt every part of him.

Every twitch. Every pulse.

You gasped—quiet but breathless—your nails dragging over his chest.

“Shit,” you breathed. “Still so full—”

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured, voice breaking, “So soft. So fucking warm.”

He held your hips and didn’t thrust—

He just let you settle.

Let you feel him.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

Then—

The first roll of your hips.

A grind, not a thrust.

Drawn out, deliberate, slow enough to make your entire body light up.

Hoseok moaned beneath you, hands trailing to your waist, your ass, your spine.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Ride me, baby. Just like that.”

You moved again, a little faster.

Still slow, still deep—

But now his breath was catching.

Now his hands were trembling.

And every time you dropped your hips, he lifted his—just barely—meeting you, feeding the rhythm like it was the only thing left keeping him sane.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

Your forehead pressed to his.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

And as you rode him—slow and soaked in heat—

He kissed you like he was trying to say everything without words.

It wasn’t last night.

It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t messy.

It was yours.

And when you came—

He did too.

Silent.

Breathless.

Clinging to each other in the morning light.

You were still lying on his chest.

Both of you were a mess—sweaty, sore, skin sticking slightly where your legs tangled together under the covers.

Neither of you had said much after.

There wasn’t much to say.

Just breath.

Just the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

Just the feel of his fingers brushing lazily up and down your back.

Until—

“So…”

His voice was hoarse, still ruined from the sounds he made hours ago.

“How’s your back?”

You snorted.

“Sore. You?”

He turned his head, eyes crinkling.

“I think I saw God at one point.”

You laughed—really laughed this time—and lifted your face off his chest just long enough to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He yawned, stretching dramatically beneath you.

“And I think you broke my spine with that last move.”

You grinned.

“Which one? The slow grind or the bite?”

He fake-wheezed. “Both. I was a goner by then.”

You sat up, still draped in the sheet, hair wild and lips swollen.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m right,” he mumbled, then added under his breath,

“My soul left my body and you were still grinding.”

You blushed, but didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned down, lips brushing his ear.

“You loved it.”

He groaned, arms flopping over his face.

“Don’t start. I’m gonna die if you get on top of me again right now.”

“So no round three?”

“Babe—”

You cackled, falling beside him again.

And that’s how you stayed.

Naked. Sweaty. Wrecked.

But smiling.

Together.

And in love, whether either of you said it or not. But he did though, it was so much better

You didn’t expect anyone to be there.

You were fresh out of the shower, hoodie zipped halfway up, skin still damp, hair wrapped in a towel. Hoseok had practically shoved you out of bed with a lazy smirk and a “I’ll come by later, babe, go act normal before your brother disowns me.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him goodbye anyway.

You hadn’t even thought to check your phone.

So when you unlocked the apartment and stepped in—yawning, hoodie barely covering the tops of your thighs—

You froze.

Because sitting around the coffee table?

Yeji. Jungkook. Yoongi.

Three heads turned.

Three pairs of eyes locked on you.

And the silence that followed was deafening.

Yeji blinked once—then grinned so wide her face could’ve cracked.

Jungkook looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh, his lip already tucked between his teeth.

And Yoongi?

Yoongi just stared.

Arms crossed.

You were still standing there, damp hair in a towel, oversized hoodie swallowing your thighs—

And all three of them were staring like you’d just strolled in wearing a wedding dress and a hickey.

Yoongi rubbed his temple. “Did you at least talk to him?”

You blinked.

Swallowed.

“Yeah,” you said carefully. “We… talked a lot.”

Silence.

Then—

“Yeah,” Jungkook added helpfully, not looking up from his phone,

“You also seemed to have fucked a lot.”

“JUNGKOOK—”

Yeji screamed laughing.

You choked on air.

Yoongi stood up like his soul was leaving his body.

“Oh my god,” you hissed. “Kook—shut up—”

He shrugged, grinning.

“I mean, I’m just saying! She’s glowing. She walked in like she levitated home. Hoseok’s hoodie looks slept in. We all know what happened.”

Yeji clapped her hands. “This is the best day of my life.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

And right then—

Your phone buzzed.

[Hoseok 💛]:

outside. do I come in or is yoongi still armed?

[You]:

come in. jungkook already set the building on fire it’s fine.

Everything was going to be fine.

You didn’t know how you knew —

Only that it felt true.

In your body. In the softness of your smile.

In the way the quiet didn’t feel heavy anymore.

You felt lighter.

Gosh, even… hopeful.

Life wasn’t perfect.

You were still figuring it out — fumbling through Monday mornings, trying to make peace with emails and deadlines and who you were supposed to become.

You didn’t have all the answers.

Hell, you barely had a plan.

But you had this:

A moment.

A stillness.

A stretch of peace that didn’t feel like waiting — it felt like living.

Because your people were here.

Your stars — the ones you caught without even realizing it.

Yeji, wild and luminous.

Jungkook, loyal and soft beneath the mischief.

Yoongi, steady as a lighthouse, even when he swore too much and cared too quietly.

And Hoseok.

God, Hoseok.

A man who loved you with hands that knew where to hold and when to let go.

A man who looked at you like the sky wasn’t quite enough.

A man who laughed with you, cried with you, burned with you — and stayed.

That kind of love?

It made everything else easier.

Even Monday.

Even growing up.

Even the not-knowing.

Because maybe adulthood wasn’t about having it all figured out.

Maybe it was just about choosing people who made the journey worth it.

And letting them choose you, too.

You looked out the window, blinking up at the darkening sky.

There were stars tonight.

Real ones.

But the brightest?

Were already here.

And you had never felt more at home.

— note: I’ve spent over two hours fighting with Tumblr to get this post up — so first of all, I’m sorry for the delay. This story means everything to me. It was the reason I created this blog in the first place. It was supposed to be the first thing I ever shared.

A one-shot that grew roots and refused to let go.

Coming-of-age has always been my favorite genre — there’s something about nostalgia that sinks into your skin.

It aches, longs, yearns. You ache for old memories, for the people you once knew, for the feelings you used to feel. Even for the feelings you haven’t had yet — the ones that still wait for you.

I wanted to write something that felt like that. Something dreamy and soft, but grounded — something that caught fire with reality, because the truth is: happiness alone has never been enough to carry us.

This wasn’t as angsty as I first imagined it would be. Somewhere along the way, the story took a different shape — and I let it. It’s been sitting in my drafts for 2–3 years, slowly becoming something else.

There’s a part of me that feels like I failed to capture exactly what I wanted. That I got lost in the middle.

But I’m learning to be gentle with myself — because there’s still so much more to explore.

And I really, really wanted to post this.

So if you read it — thank you.

If any part of it reflects your own thoughts, your insecurities, the weird ache of figuring life out — I hope you feel seen.

Growing pains aren’t a flaw.

They’re just the moments when we brush up against the truth that growing up is hard — strange, messy, beautiful and confusing. Sometimes, that's enough.

PD: Tumblr hates me, this post is up, yeah, technically. I hate that is up without the actual edition like I was pasting from my Word document includic italics / bold, but for some reason it doesn't look like I did. This app hates me I'll manage to change it later.

[ddaenqqvantae]

Stars We Never Caught | jhs

—  summary: At eleven, you met Hoseok. He was your older brother’s best friend, and for years, he was a constant in your world. Growing up alongside him, with Yoongi, your brother, and the rest of your crew, you never imagined that anything would ever change. Hoseok felt like family—always there but never quite a brother. It was a strange kind of closeness, one that never quite fit into the lines of what you understood.

But as you grew older, things started to shift. You got caught up in your own life, distracted by the swirl of adulthood. Now, back in Seoul, you find yourself drawn back to him. Whether it’s fate or coincidence, Hoseok is still there, and you can’t shake the pull that you’ve buried for so long. But perhaps some things are never meant to be—some stars are never meant to be caught, no matter how brightly they shine or are they?

— playlist: what was that - lorde, ribs - lorde, panic - beomgyu, wildest dreams - taylor swift, i need u (urban mix) - bts, run (ballad mix) - bts, cigarette daydreams - cage the elephant, the less i know the better - tame impala, 0x1 love song - txt, writer in the dark - lorde, somebody else - the 1975, your dog - soccer mommy + every mitski album.

— word count: 24.4k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing and the tumblr editor hates me so we'll have like 4 parts of this

—  warnings: angst, longing, yearning, deep Yearn (I meant this), pinning (sorry), slow really slow burn (I meant this), brother's best friend, coming of age, yoongi being a big bro (we love you yoongles), overthinking, lots of inner monologue, growing pains in your 20s, adulthood being a pain in the ass, lots of deep talks, tension... so much tension (shit goes wrong or not....) OKAY, now onto other warnings: sweet love making—then horny people being horny people because they're deep in feelings but freaky as hell: big dick! hobi, f! m! masturbation, sex with feelings™, strenght kink, hickeys, HICKEYS, biting, deep throathing, choking, missionary, manhandling?

please, check the end notes in part four

part 2 | part 3 | part 4

When you met Hoseok, it wasn’t fate or magic—it was more like a random glitch in the universe. Ironic, really. He’d somehow managed to get lost in your tiny house, wandering around like it was a maze instead of a modest three-bedroom.

“Hey, kiddo, where’s the bathroom?” he asked, peeking into the living room with that same bright-eyed grin that would someday undo you.

You were nine, stubborn, and already suspicious of anyone who called you kiddo. You stared up at him, unimpressed, then pointed to the door literally right beside him.

“Right there,” you said flatly. “Congrats, big guy. You survived the great labyrinth.”

He blinked, looked at the door, then at you again. “Guess I needed a guide.”

“You need glasses,” you muttered under your breath, but he just laughed like you’d told the funniest joke in the world.

“I’m guessing you’re Yoongi’s sister,” he said, squinting at you like you were a puzzle missing the picture on the box.

You didn’t bother to smile. Just crossed your arms and gave him the most unimpressed look an eleven-year-old could possibly summon. “Touché,” you replied, dry as ever.

He blinked, clearly not expecting sass from someone half his height. Maybe he thought you’d be shy or starstruck. Instead, you stared him down like he owed you rent.

“Wow,” he said, a chuckle slipping out. “You really are Yoongi’s sister.”

You tilted your head, slow and judgmental. “And you really got lost in a house with three rooms. That takes talent.”

He laughed—full-on, like you were the best thing that had happened to him all day. “Okay, okay. You got me. Note to self: don’t underestimate the small ones.”

“Good. Because I bite,” you said, deadpan.

He looked mildly alarmed for half a second before grinning even wider. “Duly noted.”

Just as Hoseok opened his mouth to say something else—probably another attempt at recovering from your verbal jab—Yoongi’s voice echoed from down the hall.

“Hobi, did you fall into the toilet or what?”

You smirked.

Hoseok turned toward the hallway. “I got a little… turned around.”

Yoongi appeared a second later, already wearing that look of brotherly exasperation. “How the hell did you get lost? The bathroom’s literally right there.”

“I told him,” you chimed in, hands on your hips like you’d just saved the day. “But apparently, he needs a map. Or a chaperone.”

Yoongi shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “Don’t encourage her,” he told Hoseok, but you could see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Hoseok held his hands up. “Hey, I’m just trying to survive here. She’s got your attitude, but, like—weaponized.”

You looked up at Yoongi. “You bring home lost puppies now?”

Yoongi groaned. “He’s not a puppy, he’s a person. Unfortunately.”

But Hoseok just laughed, shoulders shaking. “Nah, she’s cool. Sharp tongue, too. She’s gonna be dangerous when she grows up.”

You didn’t know it then, but that was the first compliment from him you’d ever remember. And years later, you’d still feel the echo of it every time he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

You were twelve when you realized Jung Hoseok had become a permanent fixture in your family—not out of necessity, but because he simply belonged.

He had parents. A home. A life separate from yours. But he was the kind of person who attached himself to the people he cared about like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loud and vibrant, always quick to laugh, Hoseok moved into your everyday like sunlight slipping through the blinds—quiet, warm, and impossible to ignore.

No one questioned it. He had a seat at your dinner table, his shoes in the entryway, his jokes echoing through your house more days than not. He and Yoongi were inseparable. And somehow, without you noticing, you’d become part of that orbit too.

It didn’t feel strange anymore.

You were twelve too when you started to understand something you couldn’t name yet. And it happened, like most things in your life lately, by accident.

It was a weekend night, the kind where Hoseok and Yoongi holed up in your brother’s room with snacks and open windows and music low enough not to wake your mom. You were passing by the door—okay, lingering near it—when Hoseok’s voice floated out.

“She kissed me first, but… I kept thinking about it afterward.”

You stopped. Not for the first time that week, Hoseok sounded different. Not in a bad way. Just—older.

“I mean,” he continued, “I didn’t feel weird about it. Just… curious. Like, is it supposed to feel like that? Or is that just me being a guy?”

Yoongi let out a quiet snort. “It is you being a guy. But it’s not a bad thing.”

There was a beat.

“It’s not about sex or whatever,” Hoseok said. “I just—I like her. I think I do. But I don’t know what I’m doing. Like, where’s the line between just liking someone and wanting more?”

Yoongi’s voice was softer now. “That’s what growing up is, Hobi. Figuring out what your more is. You’re allowed to want things. You just gotta want them with respect. With clarity.”

“I don’t want to mess it up,” Hoseok murmured. “She’s not just someone I kissed. It’s more like… I want to hold her hand and not let go until she wants me to. That sounds dumb, right?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “That sounds honest.”

You didn’t mean to stay and listen. But you also couldn’t walk away. Because that Hoseok—the one whose voice cracked a little when he talked about someone he liked, who sounded half-nervous and half-hopeful, who admitted to wanting and not knowing—that Hoseok wasn’t just the boy who made up dances in your living room and teased you about your choice in cereal.

He was a guy. A real, living, breathing boy, standing on the edge of something big. Not perfect. Not polished. But real in a way that made your chest feel strange.

Later, you found him in the hallway, stretching his arms over his head. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked with a smile.

You shrugged. “Shouldn’t you?”

“Touche,” he said, then tapped your head gently with his knuckles. “Your brain never turns off, huh?” You gave him a look. “Takes one to know one.”

He grinned at that, all bright teeth and dimpled cheekbones. For a second, it was just Hoseok again—the one you’d always known.

But something had shifted. Just a little.

"Keep being brilliant, star."

You didn’t know why your face got hot, or why your chest tightened just a little. Maybe it was the way he said it so casually, like he hadn’t just branded a memory into your mind that you wouldn’t be able to shake. You mumbled something back, pretending it was no big deal. Pretending you didn’t already know, deep down, that you’d remember it forever.

It was one of those nights at your house, the kind where everyone was sprawled out in mismatched pajamas, the dim light from the TV flickering softly as a random movie played in the background. The air was heavy with laughter, chatter, and the scent of snacks, but it felt like time was stretching out—suspended, almost.

You had all crammed into Yoongi’s room — yes, you too, despite his half-hearted protests that Hoseok always overruled with a grin and an arm slung around your shoulders, claiming you were “officially part of the crew.” (Yoongi never really meant it anyway. If he had, he would’ve locked the door.)

The night blurred into snapshots — pillows flying through the air, laughter loud and untamed, the stupid kind of jokes that only made sense when you were too young to care about looking cool. The music was ridiculous, some weird mix Yoongi had found online, but Hoseok and Yoongi still danced to it anyway, competing over who could come up with the worst moves.

You sat cross-legged by the dresser, half-watching, half-sinking into the warmth of the room, your cheek pressed against your knee. Hoseok was at the foot of the bed, laughing so hard he nearly tipped over, and you swore you could feel his laugh vibrate through the floor, through the air, through you. It filled the space in a way that made you feel safe. Seen. Like maybe you belonged here too, if only because he made it feel that way.

It was strange, how natural it all felt. How Hoseok fit. Not just in Yoongi’s room. In your life.

At twelve, you didn’t know why your chest squeezed tight when Hoseok caught your eye across the room, or why your stomach flipped when he grinned like you were in on some private joke no one else could hear. You didn’t know why you wanted to memorize the way his hair stuck up in messy tufts, the way his laugh curled around the syllables of your name.

You just knew it mattered. Even if you couldn’t explain why.

“Hey, kid,” Hoseok said, nudging you with his elbow, his voice low and soft, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. "You good?"

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts, pulling your knees closer like you could hide behind them. "Yeah," you said, too quickly, the word barely a breath.

He looked at you for a beat longer than necessary, head tilted slightly, a small crease between his brows like he didn’t quite believe you.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now, the teasing edge slipping away. “You’ve been kinda quiet tonight.”

You wanted to tell him it was nothing. That you were just tired, like you always said when you didn’t have the words for the heavy, shapeless thing sitting in your chest. You shrugged instead. "Yeah. Just tired."

Hoseok smiled, easy and warm, and something in you unraveled a little.

“You know, Yoongi always says you’re an old soul,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I think you’re just trying to act cool.”

You huffed, the barest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not acting cool. I just… don’t talk when I’m stuck with two idiots.”

Yoongi, catching only the tail end of the insult, scoffed from across the room. “Please. You’re the dramatic one. I deserve a medal for surviving you.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head without thinking. Yoongi retaliated instantly, and just like that, the room filled with the sound of laughter and flying pillows once again.

But even as you shouted and ducked for cover, even as you pretended to be annoyed at Yoongi, you could hear Hoseok’s laugh, steady and golden, threading through the noise like music only you could hear. It wrapped around you, soft and aching. It made you want things you didn’t have the language for yet.

Later, when the chaos burned itself out and the room sank into a heavy, comfortable silence, you caught him again — Hoseok, leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling. Gone was the teasing, the bright-eyed energy. There was something almost fragile in him now, like he carried a thousand thoughts he didn’t know how to say out loud.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, pretending you were too tired to notice. Pretending you weren’t memorizing him all over again. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The way his hand twitched restlessly against his knee, like his body couldn’t quite sit still even when his mind drifted somewhere far away.

It hurt. In a small, stupid way, it hurt — wanting to reach out, wanting to stay frozen in this exact moment forever, wanting something you didn’t even have a name for yet.

And somewhere deep inside, you understood: Some part of you would spend the rest of your life chasing this feeling. This night. This boy.

You closed your eyes and let the moment etch itself into you, down to the bone. Knowing even then that you would never really forget.

You sat there, in your pajamas, suddenly aware of how much his presence filled the space around you, how his easy grin and loud laughter had always been there, woven into the fabric of your life.

“Are you awake?” he asked, voice soft, like he wasn’t sure if he should disturb the quiet. You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or just to the room in general, but you answered anyway.

“I’m awake,” you whispered, unsure why your voice felt so small.

Hoseok looked over at you, his smile softening into something... different. Something you couldn’t quite place. "Good."

He didn’t say anything else, and you didn’t either. You could feel the space between you stretch and stretch, an invisible line that you didn’t know how to cross. You just stayed there, side by side, the weight of all the unspoken things hanging in the air.

When he stood to go, he ruffled your hair one last time, and it stung more than it usually did. “Goodnight, star.”

You didn’t reply right away. You just watched him walk out of the room, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway, and suddenly, everything felt too quiet. Too still.

It was the first time you realized that you weren’t just waiting for him to notice you. You were waiting for something else. Something you didn’t know how to name.

And years later, when you looked back at that night, at the way Hoseok’s smile lingered a little longer than it had to, you’d ache for it. For the way you had no idea what you were feeling then, how you hadn’t known that it was already too late to go back to the way things were before.

The room had quieted even more now, the world outside feeling a million miles away. Yoongi was already half-asleep, his head tipped against the headboard, mumbling nonsense under his breath.

You stayed curled up by the dresser, feeling the heaviness of your own body sinking deeper into the carpet. You could hear your own breathing, soft and even, but more than that — you could hear Hoseok shifting, the quiet shuffle of him moving closer.

You didn’t dare open your eyes, too afraid the moment would break.

A hand brushed lightly through your hair, feather-light, so careful you almost thought you dreamed it. Then Hoseok’s voice, rough with sleep, low and barely-there:

"Get some rest, star. You’re gonna outshine us all someday."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep the sudden, stinging heat from spilling out. You didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just let yourself pretend — for one night — that he saw you the way you saw him.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, his hand lingered against your hair just a second too long before slipping away. The last thing you heard before sleep pulled you under was the faintest sound of his breath — a sigh, almost a wish — drifting into the quiet.

You were turning thirteen when things got somewhat serious — and not. Deep conversations were starting to be your thing. Funny.

You found Yoongi out on the back steps, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, a hoodie pulled over his head even though it wasn’t cold. The kind of night that smelled like rain and damp earth, thick with the kind of silence that made your chest feel tight.

You hesitated for a second, your bare toes curling against the cool floor. Then you padded over and dropped down beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

Yoongi didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low and rough, like he'd been sitting there a while.

You shook your head, picking at the frayed edge of your pajama sleeve. "You either?"

He gave a humorless laugh, soft and tired. "Yeah. Guess not."

You sat in the quiet together for a long time. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

It wasn’t weird. It never was with him. He was always just... there. Solid. Even when the rest of the world felt like it was shifting under your feet.

Maybe that was why you were so restless lately. It felt like everyone was expecting something from you — parents with their questions about school, teachers who suddenly wanted you to plan your future, even your friends who already seemed to know who they wanted to be. You didn’t know. You weren’t sure you even knew yourself yet. And somehow, it already felt like you were falling behind.

"You ever feel like..." you started, then trailed off, cheeks burning. Stupid. He probably thought you were being dramatic again.

But Yoongi just waited, like he had all the time in the world.

"...Like you’re supposed to be someone," you mumbled finally. "But you don't even know who yet. And it’s like — it’s like you’re already failing at it."

The words fell out, heavy and clumsy, but real.

Yoongi finally turned to look at you, his eyes shadowed under the hood. And then, without saying anything, he reached out and flicked your forehead, gentle but firm.

"You're thirteen," he said, voice a little rough. "You don’t have to have it figured out."

You scowled, rubbing the spot he flicked. "Yeah, well. It feels like I do."

Yoongi smiled — small, crooked, the kind of smile he only gave you when no one else was around.

"Listen," he said, bumping his knee against yours. "You don't have to be anything yet. You’re allowed to just... be a mess for a while. You hear me, kid?"

You made a face at him, and he ruffled your hair so hard you nearly toppled over.

But then he pulled you into a headlock — gentle, loose — and you realized he was hugging you. Sort of.

The way Yoongi did when he didn’t have the words either.

"You’re already my favorite person," he said, so soft you almost didn’t catch it. "Even if you’re a mess."

Your throat closed up. You buried your face against his arm and didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to. He already knew.

Maybe that was why you missed it at first — the way his arm stayed around you just a second longer than it needed to. The way his shoulders, usually so loose and careless, felt a little too tense under your cheek.

Maybe you would only realize it later. How Yoongi, seventeen and already carrying more than he let you see, had needed to hear those same words just as much as you had.

But that night, you were just a kid, safe in the only place that didn’t expect you to be anything more.

And Yoongi? Yoongi just sat there, holding you tighter, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go either.

Later, you'd wonder if Yoongi had been talking to himself just as much as to you.

It was the night before Hoseok's sixteenth birthday, and somehow you found yourselves sprawled out on the living room floor — you, Hoseok, and Yoongi — passing a half-eaten bag of chips back and forth while a terrible movie played on TV.

The kind of night that felt like it could stretch on forever if you just didn't move. If you just stayed.

You didn’t even realize you were watching Hoseok more than the movie until you caught the way he was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, like he had something he wanted to say.

"Hey," Hoseok said suddenly, glancing over at Yoongi. "Can I ask you something?"

Yoongi grunted, not looking up from his phone. "When have you ever waited for permission?"

Hoseok grinned, but there was a nervous edge to it. He glanced once at you — quick, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it — then back at Yoongi.

"It's just... I dunno. Kinda dumb."

Yoongi set his phone down with an exaggerated sigh. "Out with it, idiot."

You hugged your knees to your chest, pretending you weren’t hanging onto every word.

Hoseok shifted, running a hand through his hair.

"Have you ever kissed someone?"

The question hung there, heavy, making your heart thump a little too hard against your ribs.

Yoongi barked out a laugh. "Seriously? That’s what you’re asking?"

"Shut up," Hoseok muttered, shoving his shoulder. "I mean — like — what’s it supposed to feel like? The first time."

You stared hard at the TV, pretending you weren’t listening.

Yoongi leaned back against the couch, smirking a little. "Depends. Was it good or did you both just bump noses and freak out?"

Hoseok groaned. "Not helpful."

"First ones are usually bad," Yoongi said, sounding too casual. "You figure it out."

You could feel Hoseok squirming beside you, the way his leg kept jiggling against the carpet.

"I kissed someone," Hoseok blurted. "Last weekend. Kinda."

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

"Oh?" Yoongi raised a brow. "Kinda?"

"It was just a stupid dare thing," Hoseok rushed to say, looking vaguely embarrassed. "Doesn't count, right?"

Yoongi snorted. "Still a kiss, dumbass."

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust yourself to. The words stuck somewhere behind your teeth, thick and aching.

You wished you could laugh it off too. Wished it didn’t feel like you’d swallowed something sharp and bitter.

Hoseok glanced at you again, sheepish. "Not a big deal, Star," he said, nudging your shoulder with his. Like he could sense you withdrawing without even realizing why.

You managed a weak smile. "Yeah. Not a big deal."

But it was. It was.

You were thirteen, and you didn’t have the words for it yet. Didn’t know how to say that you already felt the world tilting — already felt him slipping just a little out of reach.

And Hoseok, still laughing, still right there beside you, didn’t realize he was breaking your heart.

Not yet.

After the conversation about kisses — the one that made your chest feel tight and your breath shaky — the night carried on like nothing had changed. You could still hear Hoseok’s easy laugh. Could still feel his presence next to you, warm and constant.

But somehow, it felt a little quieter. A little farther away.

You weren’t sure if it was just in your head or if something was really shifting. But when Hoseok threw an arm around you later, like he always did when he was feeling too goofy to sit still, it didn’t feel the same.

His arm was heavy around your shoulders, but the touch wasn’t familiar anymore. It didn’t make you feel safe or right in the way it had before. It just felt... wrong. Like you had outgrown it, even if you weren’t ready to let it go.

You let him pull you closer, resting your head against his shoulder, even though your heart wasn’t in it.

"Relax, Star," Hoseok teased, his voice light and playful. "I know you want me to steal the show with all my charm."

You should’ve laughed. You should’ve made a joke back, like you always did.

But you couldn’t. Not tonight.

Instead, you stayed quiet, letting your eyes drift to the dark window, wishing it was easier to ignore the way your heart was pulling in the wrong direction.

When you shifted, trying to get comfortable under his arm, Hoseok didn’t notice. He was already talking to Yoongi about something else, something that made him laugh again — bright, carefree. The kind of laugh that didn’t reach you anymore.

And when he looked down at you, his eyes full of playful energy, you wondered if he had ever really seen you at all. If he ever would again.

"Come on, kid," Hoseok said, giving your shoulder a little shake, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You gotta have more fun on my birthday eve. Got it?"

You looked up at him, forcing a smile. "Yeah, sure," you mumbled, voice hollow.

He didn’t seem to notice. He never did.

But the ache was there, deep in your chest, each beat of your heart a reminder of how everything was already starting to change.

And Hoseok, so lost in the excitement of his almost-birthday, didn’t see it. Didn’t see that even now, you were already slipping further away from him — and he didn’t even know.

At fourteen, you decided you had enough. You had always been the kind of person who, when something really clicked, when you truly wanted it, could put your entire heart into it. And now, as you started becoming aware of the things you didn’t want, the parts of yourself that felt like they were suffocating — that’s when you finally took it seriously.

You’d spent so many years in Yoongi and Hoseok’s orbit. It was almost like you didn’t need anyone else. They were your world — they were your friends, your brothers. It was easier to just be with them. Their laughter, their chaos, their endless antics filled up the spaces where you might’ve needed something else.

But as you turned fourteen, you started noticing the cracks. It wasn’t that you were falling apart from their crew, not exactly. You weren’t leaving them behind or anything, but something inside you was shifting. You weren’t just the girl who hung out with her older brother and his best friend anymore. You were growing into something else — someone else.

You started hanging out with your own friends, something you never really had the chance to do before. Not because you didn't want to, but because Hoseok and Yoongi were around all the time, always the first ones to grab your attention, to fill up your time. But now, with a new sense of self, you realized that you didn’t have to always be the younger one, the one trailing behind, laughing at jokes that only Yoongi and Hoseok found funny.

Jungkook, for instance — he wasn’t the first person you’d met, but somehow, he was the one who stayed. You had something with him that didn’t require much explanation. It wasn’t intense, not like the kind of connection you felt with Yoongi or Hoseok, but there was something comforting about it. Jungkook was just... there. And that mattered.

Then there was Yeji. Slowly, over time, she became a part of your circle, and she had this effortless way of making you feel seen, like you didn’t have to always be the side character in someone else’s story. She made you laugh in ways you didn’t know you needed, and more than that, she made you feel like you could stand on your own.

At fourteen, your world started to look different.

You had Yeji.

It was funny, because you never realized how much you needed a girl like her in your life until she was right there. You had always been with the boys, never really having a close girlfriend. Sure, you’d gotten along with other girls in school, but it was different. Yeji was different.

It wasn’t just that she understood the girl things you never had anyone to talk about before. It was more than that. It was the way she would pull you into her world, the way she could turn a casual conversation into an hour-long talk about everything. She was the kind of girl who would share her deepest thoughts and her biggest secrets, and for the first time, you could do the same. You found yourself talking about things you never thought you’d share with anyone: crushes, the weird shifts in your body you didn’t quite understand yet, or the moments of pure frustration with everything around you that made you feel like you didn’t fit.

Yeji didn’t judge. She just listened, and that made her someone you could trust. A girl who would get it.

You weren’t sure if it was because she was the first girl who really saw you — understood you, without needing to ask the typical “girl” questions, but there was a comfort in her presence that you hadn’t realized was missing. She wasn’t just a friend; she was becoming a part of your inner circle, a person who could share those moments with you that only a girl would understand. The girl things. The little giggles, the late-night secrets, the makeup tutorials, and even the way you both could laugh at something that no one else understood.

And then there was Jungkook. He was... different.

A boy, but so effortlessly part of your world. It wasn’t because he tried to be — it was because he was. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would try to outshine everyone or act like he was too cool for the girls. Jungkook was soft, respectful, and the kind of person who understood when to step back and when to step in. There was something so honorable about him, the way he treated you, Yeji, and everyone around him like equals. Not like the girls were some kind of afterthought, but the kind of respect that made him an important part of the crew, without needing to prove anything.

He was the boy who listened. The one who would just show up, no questions asked. The one who would hand you a hoodie without a second thought when it got chilly, or quietly offer to carry your books without making it a big deal. It wasn’t anything special on the surface, but it was. He was a gentleman in the truest sense, without even trying.

With Jungkook, you never felt like you had to second-guess his intentions. He wasn’t trying to fit into a mold; he was just being himself. And that made it easy to talk to him. Easy to be around him. Easy to let him be a part of the little group that was starting to feel like it was growing into something more.

Your world had expanded beyond Yoongi and Hoseok. You still shared everything with them, of course, but now it was different. You weren’t just the girl hanging around their world anymore. You had your own people, your own circle, your own way of being.

Yeji and Jungkook made sure you never felt alone in this transition. They were there when you needed them, and without even realizing it, they filled spaces you didn’t even know existed.

The three of you, together, were something else. You had your own rhythm. You didn’t need to worry about fitting into the mold anymore because with them, you were finally becoming yourself.

You were growing, yes. And you were growing with them.

Not away from Yoongi and Hoseok, but into something more.

At fifteen, the three of you had an unspoken ritual — after school, you’d all meet up at the small café near your school. It was a cozy little place, tucked away on a quiet street, away from the bustling crowds. The soft hum of conversations, the gentle clinking of coffee cups, and the comforting smell of freshly baked pastries always made it feel like a small haven — a space where you could just be yourselves, without anyone expecting anything more.

It was the kind of place that felt like home, even if it wasn’t. You’d sit for hours, talking about everything and nothing at all. It was where you laughed the loudest, where your hearts felt the lightest, and where things between you, Yeji, and Jungkook just… made sense.

Today, however, the usual comfort of the café felt different. Yeji, usually the life of the group, was quieter than usual. Her eyes, usually bright with laughter, were clouded with something you couldn’t place. You, on the other hand, sat there, trying to make sense of the shift in the air, and Jungkook, the ever-soft and caring presence, seemed to sense it too.

The silence between you felt like a weight, one that only seemed to get heavier as the minutes ticked by. Yeji wasn’t talking, wasn’t joking, wasn’t even smiling. And it bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

Finally, you couldn’t take it any longer. “Yeji,” you asked softly, your voice cutting through the stillness, “What’s going on?”

She looked at you, her eyes wide, as if she hadn’t expected you to ask. And then, after a long pause, she let out a shaky breath and spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can keep pretending,” she admitted, her words fragile and heavy. “Like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine.”

The words landed with a weight in your chest. Yeji had always been the strong one, the one who laughed through the tough moments, who pulled everyone else up when things got hard. To hear her say those words, to see her vulnerability like that — it hit you in a way that made your heart ache.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice quieter now, the concern creeping in as you reached for her hand, gently brushing your fingers over her trembling skin.

She swallowed hard, her eyes cast downward. “It’s my parents,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “They’re always fighting. Yelling at each other all the time. I don’t know how to deal with it anymore. I feel like… like I’m falling apart. And I don’t even know how to talk to anyone about it.”

You felt your heart twist, an ache forming deep in your chest. It was the kind of pain that hurt but made you want to do something about it, to ease the weight that was pressing on her. Yeji had always been the bright one, the one who made you laugh even when you didn’t want to. To see her like this was jarring, unsettling.

You squeezed her hand gently, trying to offer the kind of comfort she’d given you so many times before. “You don’t have to carry it all alone,” you whispered, your voice firm with quiet determination. “We’re here. You can talk to us. You don’t have to hide it from us. Not anymore.”

She looked at you, her expression softening just a little, but the rawness of her pain was still there, lingering beneath the surface. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was filled with understanding. Jungkook, who had been watching from across the table, finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with warmth. “We’ve got your back. Always.”

Yeji’s lips trembled as she tried to smile, though it was small, fragile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

And in that moment, as you sat there with your friends, it felt like time slowed down. Everything else in the world faded away, and the three of you were the only ones that mattered. The love between you wasn’t perfect — it wasn’t even always easy — but it was real, and that was enough. No matter what came next, you would face it together.

It was the kind of evening that made the house feel warmer than it actually was. The laughter from the living room carried through the walls, but you found yourself alone in the kitchen. Your parents were hosting their usual get-together with friends, their voices filling the air like background noise to your thoughts.

You were fifteen, not quite ready to step into the world, but also not quite ready to stay in the same place. Everything was in that limbo, like you were floating somewhere between childhood and something else, something that felt exciting and terrifying. The taste of adulthood, or at least the idea of it, was closer than ever, and tonight, something was off. You felt restless.

The kitchen was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge. Your eyes wandered to a glass on the counter, its pink hue promising something sweet, something light. It didn’t smell strong, just sugary, like it was meant for someone your age. Maybe a cocktail, but not something too serious, not something you couldn’t handle. Or so you thought.

You grabbed the glass without a second thought, sipping it slowly, then quickly, as it spread warmth through you, making the edge of your thoughts blur a little. There was a lightness in your chest, but a nagging sensation too—something you couldn’t explain, like you were caught in between.

And then there was Hoseok. He appeared in the doorway, his presence warm like always, but there was a tension in the air that you couldn’t quite place.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual, like he was concerned, but still playful. His eyes settled on the glass in your hand, then back to your face.

You blinked at him, your mind fuzzy, but still clear enough to notice how his gaze softened. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though it felt like everything was spinning in slow motion. “Just a little... fun. You know?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he stepped closer, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You sure about that? You’ve had a lot to drink, Star.”

You only half-heard him. You didn’t care. The world felt too far away, and all you could focus on was him—Hoseok, the one person who had always been there. The one person who never made you feel small, who always made you feel... important. You didn’t know why that mattered so much at this moment, but it did.

You took a step forward, unsteady on your feet, but you didn’t notice the way Hoseok’s face tightened with concern. “Hoseok,” you said, your voice soft, slurring just a little, but he could hear the longing in it. “You’ve always been there. Always.”

He hesitated for a second, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you as you swayed slightly, and his touch lingered on your arm for just a moment too long. “Hey, hey, you’re not thinking straight, alright?” His voice was soft but firm. “You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s get you to sit down, okay?”

You shook your head, but your feet didn’t seem to listen to you. You were too close to him now, the air between you charged with something—something you couldn’t understand, but you felt it in your chest, a sharp, aching desire. You looked up at him, eyes wide, searching for something in his gaze, anything to make sense of the confusing feelings inside of you.

“I just...” You paused, and your heart raced as you took another step forward, reaching for his hand. “I just want to be close to you.”

His face softened, but there was a quiet sadness in his eyes. He gently pulled his hand back, just enough to put some space between you. “You don’t want that, not like this.” His voice was gentle, the words not sharp, but carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “You’re drunk. You need to sleep this off, alright?”

You didn’t understand what he meant, but your vision blurred again, the world fading in and out, until all you could focus on was him. You wanted him closer, needed to feel his warmth, but he stepped back, his presence still strong, but now filled with something that felt almost like regret.

“I can’t, Star,” Hoseok murmured, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, his touch warm but careful. “You’re not ready for this.”

And then, as if sensing how lost you were, he gently guided you to sit down on the kitchen counter. His hands were steady, but there was an unease in him, something he wasn’t showing outwardly. He didn’t want you to remember this moment, not like this.

The last thing you remembered was his voice, soft and calm, saying, “You’re not yourself right now. But you will be again.”

You couldn’t remember what happened after that. Everything slipped away like sand through your fingers. The alcohol fogged your memory, and the next morning, when you woke up with a dull headache and no recollection of the night, something in your chest tightened—a dull ache that lingered but couldn’t be explained.

And Hoseok? He never mentioned it. Never brought it up. As if it had never happened. Maybe, in some part of you, you’d been relieved that he hadn’t.

But for him? Maybe it was just another moment he’d quietly tucked away, hoping you’d never remember.

And you never did.

At fifteen, everything felt like it was happening all at once. Your body was changing in ways you didn't understand, and your emotions were even more confusing. One moment, you felt like you could take on the world. The next, you were staring at the mirror, wondering who the stranger was that was starting to appear.

You hated how your body was betraying you, slowly and relentlessly. It wasn’t just your growing boobs that made you self-conscious. It was the little things. The way your clothes fit differently, the tightness in your jeans that made you uncomfortable, the extra curve in places you didn’t know you could have curves. And then there was the damn pimple that appeared out of nowhere—right on the tip of your nose. You’d never felt so aware of your face.

You spent most of the day trying to cover it up with makeup, but nothing worked. All you could think about was how it made you look like a teenager who still didn’t know how to take care of herself. What if Jiwon noticed? What if he thought you were ugly?

The thought of it gnawed at you as you walked to the café after school, where you met Yeji, Jungkook, and Jiwon. It was a weird dynamic. Yeji had been your best friend for so long, but there was something different now. You and Yeji were becoming closer in ways that felt almost… feminine. The kind of friendship that had secrets and whispered conversations about boys, about growing up. It was a side of yourself you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Jungkook, on the other hand, had become a bit like a brother to you. He was always respectful, kind, and effortlessly sweet, but he’d also become part of your growing crew, someone who always made you feel safe and valued.

Then there was Jiwon.

He’d started as just another face in the group, but somewhere along the way, he’d become something more. It wasn’t intentional, but every time he looked at you, it felt like he was seeing you in a way no one else did. It was a weird mix of excitement and fear. You were growing, but you didn’t know what to do with the feelings you had for him. He made you nervous in a way no one else did, and it was all so new.

After the café, the group started walking home, the usual chatter filling the air. But as you neared your house, there was this weird tension between you and Jiwon. He had been close all afternoon, his elbow brushing yours more times than you could count. His smile was easy, but there was something different about how he looked at you. It made your heart race.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you turned the corner to your street. You hadn’t planned for this—this awkwardness, the sudden shift between friends and something else.

“So,” Jiwon said, his voice a little quieter than usual. “You live around here?”

You nodded, suddenly aware of how close you were to your front door. “Yeah. Just up there.”

He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s cool. I’ve been meaning to ask you… want to hang out sometime? Just the two of us?”

Before you could even process the question, he was already stepping closer, his hand lightly brushing your arm. You looked up at him, and for a moment, it felt like everything stopped. You felt it—the fluttering in your stomach, the heat of your cheeks, the nervousness that made your hands clammy. And then, just like that, he leaned in.

It was quick, sudden, and so soft that you barely had time to react. His lips brushed yours in a gentle, hesitant kiss, and for a split second, everything in your world felt like it was both spinning out of control and perfectly still. Your heart was racing, your thoughts scattering, and the only thing you could focus on was the warmth of his lips against yours.

And then, just as quickly as it had happened, he pulled back, a shy smile on his face. "Sorry," he said, his voice almost apologetic. "I didn’t want to make it weird. But, uh… I liked that."

You were speechless, your heart still thudding in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to process the flood of emotions rushing through you.

But just then, you heard a voice—a familiar, distant voice—calling out from the porch.

“Oh?”

It was Yoongi. He had been standing there, watching the whole thing unfold. Your heart dropped. You hadn’t even realized he was home, let alone that he’d seen everything. You turned to him, wide-eyed, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

Yoongi didn’t say anything at first, just stared at the two of you with a look you couldn’t quite read. His eyes flickered between you and Jiwon, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Uh, hey, Yoongi,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice was high-pitched, like you were a deer caught in headlights.

Yoongi shrugged, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t know you were hanging out with this guy.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but you knew he was trying to hide it.

Jiwon, being the brave soul he was, chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I think we’re getting to know each other better.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything more. He turned and disappeared into the house without another word. You felt a wave of relief wash over you, but the awkwardness lingered. You looked back at Jiwon, your heart still racing, and for a moment, neither of you knew what to say.

“Well,” Jiwon said, his grin returning, “I guess I’ll see you around, huh?”

You nodded, still a little dazed, but your lips curved into a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

As he walked away, you stood there for a moment, still trying to process what had just happened. Everything was changing—your body, your feelings, your relationships—and it was all moving so fast that you didn’t know how to catch up. But one thing was for sure: you were no longer the same person you’d been just a few months ago.

And that kiss? It was the first taste of a world you didn’t yet understand, a world that was both exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

It had been a few minutes after that kiss—the kiss with Jiwon—and you were figuring out what the hell it even meant. Honestly, it was nice in a way, but you couldn’t help feeling a bit... awkward about it. That kiss was just one small thing in a much bigger world of changes you didn’t know how to handle.

The thing that made it a hundred times worse? Yoongi.

You should’ve known since Yoongi saw both of you. You should’ve know. You could almost hear his smirk as you walked into the living room, his eyes lighting up when he saw you.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the girl who’s been kissed.” Yoongi’s voice was casual, but you could hear the amusement dancing in his words.

You froze, feeling your heart drop into your stomach. “I’m not dealing with this right now,” you muttered, trying to walk past him.

Yoongi blocked your path with ease, his arms folded. “Oh no, you’re dealing with this. So, how was it?” His grin was mischievous, the kind that made you want to disappear into the floor.

You sighed, exasperated. “Yoongi, stop.”

He didn’t stop. He never stopped.

“Oh come on,” he teased, his voice light but edged with that playful brotherly tone you knew all too well. “You’re turning into a real heartbreaker, huh? First kiss and all, with Jiwon of all people.” He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment way too much.

You bit your lip, trying to hide your embarrassment. “It was just a kiss, Yoongi. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh, really?” Yoongi raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Then why do you look like you’re about to burst into flames when I mention his name?” He took a step closer, his teasing growing more intense. “It’s obvious. You’ve got a crush. No need to be shy about it.”

You could feel your face burning. “I don’t!” you protested, but it came out weaker than you intended.

He smirked. “You don’t, huh? Then why did you hide the whole thing for so long? You didn’t want to tell me? You were trying to keep it a secret?”

Before you could reply, Yoongi took it a step further, and you heard the worst possible thing.

“Hey, Hoseok,” Yoongi called out to the other room. He was there too, shit. “Guess what? Our little girl got her first kiss. From Jiwon! Can you believe it?” He gave you a sly wink, as if this was all just a funny game.

Hoseok’s voice echoed from the room. “Wait, what? Friend Jiwon? She did?” He appeared in the doorway, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “You kissed him, huh? Nice one!” Hoseok’s grin was like the cherry on top of your misery.

“No, I didn’t—” you started, but it was no use. Yoongi was already on a roll, and Hoseok had joined in, both of them feeding off each other’s energy like they had no mercy.

You couldn’t even get a word in edgewise. It was like Yoongi and Hoseok had become one unstoppable force of teasing. You buried your face in your hands, wishing for the ground to swallow you up.

You couldn’t even look at Yoongi the same after that. He was the worst kind of older brother—the one who knew all your embarrassing moments and made sure everyone else knew too. He’d throw a random “Hey, don’t forget about Jiwon!” at you while you were in the middle of trying have dinner alone. And Hoseok? Hoseok joined in like it was his new favorite hobby, throwing in his own playful jabs.

But, deep down, you knew they didn’t mean any harm. They were just teasing, and in their own way, they were showing that they noticed—that you were growing up, and that they saw you in a different light.

It had been a couple of days since the kiss with Jiwon. You hadn’t really talked about it with anyone—not with Yoongi, who had been unbearable with his teasing, and certainly not with Hoseok, who had an uncanny way of making everything feel like a joke. But now, as you sat across from Yeji at your usual spot in the park, the weight of it all seemed harder to ignore.

Yeji was always easy to talk to. She had this calm, steady way about her that made everything feel less complicated. You had known her long enough to know that she didn’t judge, and she wasn’t afraid to call you out if she thought you were being ridiculous. And right now, you were feeling ridiculous.

"So, how was it? With Jiwon?" Yeji asked, casually nibbling on a snack, though you could see the curiosity in her eyes. You could never hide anything from her for long.

You shifted uncomfortably, staring at the ground. “It was... nice. But also weird,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what I’m doing, Yeji. It’s just... everything’s changing so fast.”

Yeji nodded, her expression softening with understanding. “You’re not alone in that, you know. I remember feeling all over the place when things started shifting for me. Our bodies change, we start liking people differently, and sometimes we feel like we don’t even recognize ourselves. It’s okay to feel confused.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “It’s like... one minute I’m fine, and the next, my heart’s racing and I can’t even think straight. And then Jiwon kisses me, and it’s all I can think about for days. But then it’s like... am I even ready for all this?”

Yeji leaned forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “No one’s ever really ready for it, you know? Love, or whatever this is. But it doesn’t mean you’re not worth it or that you can’t figure it out as you go along. If Jiwon makes you feel good about yourself, that’s all that matters for now.”

You smiled, grateful for her words. It was simple, but it made you feel less alone in all the confusion. “Thanks, Yeji,” you said softly.

A few days later, you found yourself sitting next to Jungkook during lunch. He had this way of making you feel like everything was less serious, even when your mind was racing with a thousand questions. He was always so laid-back, but you knew he was thoughtful in his own way.

“So, Jiwon, huh?” Jungkook asked, nudging your shoulder with his. “You two still going strong?”

You laughed nervously, looking away for a moment. “I don’t know, Kook. It’s all just... confusing. I mean, I like him, but I don’t even know if I know what I’m doing.” You paused, feeling a little embarrassed by how unsure you sounded. “Is that weird?”

Jungkook shrugged, his smile small but comforting. “Nah, not weird at all. You’re still figuring things out. You’re not supposed to have it all figured out. I don’t think anyone does.” He leaned back, glancing at you with those warm, soft eyes that made everything feel more okay. “And if you like him, then you like him. That’s enough, right?”

You couldn’t help but feel lighter after hearing that from him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said with a sigh. “It’s just... I never thought it would be like this, you know? It’s hard to just... go with the flow when everything’s changing.”

“I get it,” Jungkook said, his voice sincere. “But you’re not alone in it. I mean, I’m here, Yeji’s here... we all are. And no matter what happens with Jiwon, you’ve got us.”

His words felt like a quiet reassurance, like a promise that things would be okay, no matter how messy they felt right now. You looked over at him, feeling grateful for how much he cared, and for the way he never made you feel like you had to be anything other than yourself around him.

“I’m glad you’re here, Kook,” you said softly.

He smiled at you, a little shy but warm. “Always. That’s what friends are for.”

As you laid on your bed later, reflecting on everything—Jiwon, Yeji’s advice, Jungkook’s words—you realized something important. It wasn’t that you needed to have everything figured out, or that you needed to rush through your feelings. You just needed to be honest with yourself, and to trust that whatever was happening with Jiwon was part of your journey. You didn’t need to have all the answers, just the courage to keep going.

And maybe that was the first step toward learning what real love and friendship meant.

Yoongi’s graduation ceremony was a quiet celebration of change. You watched him—your older brother, the one who had always been there in ways only he could—standing in his cap and gown, the weight of it all settling in your chest. He wasn’t just growing up; he was stepping into a future that was further and further from you, and that realization was a strange kind of ache.

He was leaving for Seoul next month to attend SNU, and with each passing day, it felt more real. He wasn’t just your brother anymore. He was someone on his own path, and soon enough, that path would take him places that you wouldn’t always be able to follow.

For the first time, you could feel that distance creeping in—not in the obvious ways, but in the subtle, unspoken shifts. You both understood that things were changing.

“You okay?” Yoongi asked, his voice soft but teasing, as if he already knew what was going through your head. He nudged you lightly with his elbow, the same small, familiar gesture he had always done.

You nodded, but there was a lingering ache in your chest. "Yeah, just... thinking. It’s just weird, you know? You’re going to SNU. Things are really changing, aren’t they?”

Yoongi's gaze softened, the teasing edge to his smile replaced with something quieter, something that seemed to settle between the two of you. “Yeah, they are,” he agreed, pausing for a moment, as though searching for the right words. “But I’m still gonna be around. I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he said it wasn’t just reassurance. It was an understanding. He was making a promise, but you both knew it wasn’t about physical presence—it was about knowing that no matter where life took him, you were still part of the same story. Always.

You swallowed, trying to push past the emotions rising in your chest. “It’s just... you’ve always been my favorite person,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “You’ve always been the one I could count on.”

For a moment, Yoongi was silent, the air between you two thick with everything unsaid. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice soft but full of that quiet certainty you’d always loved.

“And so you are to me, kiddo,” he said, his voice breaking through the ache in your heart. It was simple, but there was so much meaning behind it.

It wasn’t just a throwaway line. It was Yoongi, admitting, in the quietest way possible, how much you meant to him. He didn’t need grand gestures or words to express it; it was in the weight of those few words, the sincerity behind them.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your eyes welled up just slightly, not from sadness, but from the realization that even though things were changing, this—this bond between you two—wasn’t going anywhere. It would stretch, it would bend, but it would never break.

“I’m proud of you,” you said, your voice unsteady. “So proud of you. You’ve always known exactly what you wanted, and now you’re doing it.”

Yoongi looked at you, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. He reached out, his hand ruffling your hair in that familiar way that felt like home.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, alright?” he teased, his usual smirk returning, but it was softer now. “You’re a big girl now. You can’t cry over a stupid graduation.”

But there was no hiding the pride in his voice, the pride he felt in you, too. It was the unspoken connection that tied you both together. Even as he took this next step in his life, he knew you were always going to be there, just as you knew he would be.

“Yeah, I know,” you said, forcing a laugh, but it was laced with the emotions you couldn’t quite explain. “But you’re still my favorite person, Yoongi. Even if you’re going to Seoul. Even if things change.”

Before he could respond, Hoseok, ever the interrupter, popped up behind you, his grin wide and mischievous. “I swear, if you two keep this up, I’m going to need a tissue,” he said, laughing. “Come on, man, don’t get all sappy on us. You’re supposed to be the cool one, Yoongi.”

Yoongi shot Hoseok a look, rolling his eyes but with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Shut up, Hoseok. I’m allowed to be sentimental every once in a while, right?”

Hoseok laughed, shaking his head. “Only because it’s your graduation day. After that, you’re back to being the stoic, mysterious guy we all know and love.”

You smiled at the two of them, the warmth between you all unmistakable. Hoseok had always been the one to break the tension, and right now, his presence reminded you of the little crew you had—Yoongi, Hoseok, and you. Even as things were shifting, that bond was unshakable.

Yoongi took a deep breath, his gaze briefly softening before he spoke again. “I’m gonna miss you, kid,” he said, his voice quieter now, the teasing edge gone. “But I’ll be back. And when I am, we’ll make up for all this sappy stuff.”

You nodded, smiling as you fought back the small knot of emotions in your throat. “I know. Just... make sure you come back and visit, okay?”

“I’ll be back,” Yoongi assured, his tone full of quiet certainty. “And when I do, we’ll do this whole thing all over again.”

You both stood there, in that shared moment of understanding, as Hoseok cracked another joke, but the feeling between you all was deep and lasting. The future was starting to pull them away, but the bond you all shared wasn’t something that would fade with time. You really hoped for that though.

At sixteen, or more accurately, soon to turn sixteen—your birthday just two weeks away—you broke up with Jiwon. It was the kind of breakup that didn’t feel dramatic or full of shouting, but it left an emptiness in its wake, a quiet ache you couldn’t quite place.

You started this whole relationship—or whatever it was—with excitement. You imagined butterflies in your stomach, the thrill of late-night texts, the kind of sweet, innocent things you had read about in books or seen in movies. But, as time passed, it all started to feel... cold. Not in a harsh way, but in a way that made you realize it wasn’t what you had thought it would be.

Jiwon, he was sweet, funny, and yes—he made your heart race in a way that was new, in a way you hadn’t experienced before. But for some reason, that racing heart wasn’t enough to keep you going.

It wasn’t that he had done anything wrong. Jiwon was a good guy. But when you looked at him, you didn’t feel the same pull that you thought you would. The butterflies had faded, and all you could hear was the quiet thrum of uncertainty growing louder inside you.

Part of it was the distance. He was moving to Seoul soon, only a couple of hours away by train, but that felt like the distance of an entire world. And you weren’t sure if you were willing to hold onto something that wasn’t fully there.

Your heart wasn’t in it—not the way it should be, at least. It was a confusing, uncomfortable feeling—like you were floating just outside the lines of what you were supposed to feel. You were supposed to be devastated, right? To have that gut-wrenching pain that everyone talks about after a breakup. But instead, all you felt was a strange kind of relief, mixed with guilt, like you had let something slip through your fingers before you could truly understand it.

“You’re making the right choice,” Yeji had told you, her voice gentle, almost knowing. She was always good at reading you, especially when you didn’t know what to say yourself. “It’s not about him, you know. It’s about where you’re at. You’ve changed. You’re not the same girl you were when you started this.”

And she was right. You had changed, slowly but surely. You didn’t need Jiwon to make you feel complete anymore. You were starting to realize that you needed more than just the idea of a relationship. You needed something real, something that stirred you at a deeper level—something that felt like it would last longer than a few fleeting months of puppy love.

Jiwon wasn’t the one who did it for you. And that was okay. It wasn’t his fault. You just weren’t the same person you had been when you first started the relationship. You weren’t the same person you were at the beginning of the year, at fifteen, with all your emotions so easily tangled up in the idea of romance.

As you sat there in your room, phone in hand, the message you sent him still lingering in the drafts—I think we should take a break—you couldn’t help but wonder if you were making a mistake. But then again, you couldn’t keep pretending either.

There was a subtle ache in your chest, but it was the kind of ache you knew would fade. Maybe not now, but eventually. It was a lesson you had to learn, one that had come a little too soon, but one you were glad you were starting to figure out.

At sixteen, you didn’t fully understand what heartache was until the day you got heartbroken, and even then, you pretended like you didn’t know why it hurt. But you did. You always knew, deep down, but you had never admitted it to yourself. That was the day it all came rushing back—the feelings you had tucked away for so long, buried under layers of denial and distraction. They had always been there, quietly creeping inside your heart, only now did you finally recognize them for what they were.

It was a nice day, the kind of summery warmth that hung in the air before school started again, full of the easy, laid-back vibe of the final days of summer. You were out shopping with Jungkook, a typical day in the life of your friendship. He was excited, nervous even, about buying Eunbi a present. Jungkook, your sweet, loyal friend, had the biggest crush on her, and you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him overthink the smallest details. The way he talked about her, the shy look in his eyes, it was the cutest thing, honestly. Puppy love, you called it with a teasing laugh, but deep down, you couldn’t deny the twinge of something else.

You, being the good best friend, were helping him choose something perfect. Yeji wasn’t with you today—she had to go to a wedding in Seoul, a family relative’s, and she had given Jungkook some advice before leaving. So, there you were, navigating the jewelry stores with him, pointing out earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, trying to find the one that screamed “perfect” for Eunbi.

It was supposed to be a fun day, but then, it happened. Right after Jungkook paid for the gift, his face lighting up with that pleased, nervous smile, you turned and saw something—no, someone.

You saw him.

You saw Hoseok.

See, the thing was, you had seen Hoseok kiss someone before—just once by accident, then again because, well, you were curious. There was that one time when you caught him with a girl at the park, their lips locked in a moment that was more heated than you expected. You remembered feeling something then, something that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand. It wasn’t the kiss that bothered you. It was how he was with her, how natural it looked, how right it felt in a way you hadn’t felt about him in a long time.

But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was when you realized what you had been denying all along.

Hoseok had grown up. He wasn’t the same playful older brother you used to cling to, the one who made you laugh with his dumb jokes or wrapped you in his warm hugs. That version of him had faded, and you hadn’t even noticed it until now. He was taller, more defined, his features sharper. And it wasn’t just his body that had changed—it was how he carried himself. He was different, and in a way that made him... hot. You hated that word. You had never used it to describe him, but now, it was the only word that fit.

His hair, that messy, wild style he used to wear had evolved into something effortlessly cool. He looked older. He looked... like a man, and suddenly, you were curious. You wanted to know what it would be like to see him as someone who was more than just Yoongi’s best friend, more than just that guy who always teased you. You wanted to know what it would be like to feel that about him.

But standing there, frozen in the doorway of the store, you realized you didn’t just want to know. You already did.

And then, you saw it.

Hoseok was standing there, near his car—his car now, because he was nineteen, he was grown up. The girl beside him was someone you recognized, but you hadn’t paid much attention to her before. She was older, confident, and the way she leaned into him was enough to send a wave of unease through your chest.

You weren’t sure what made you step closer, what made you want to see this so badly, but your feet moved before your brain could catch up. And then, it happened.

Hoseok’s hand slipped under the girl’s skirt, his fingers barely brushing the fabric, sliding upward with a confidence that made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t know were possible. You didn’t want to look, but you couldn’t look away.

They weren’t kissing now, not in the way you had seen before. This was... different. More private. More intimate. More inappropriate. His hand, so sure of itself, was moving against her, and the girl’s breath hitched, a soft sound that shouldn’t have been heard by someone standing across the parking lot. You didn’t know how long you stood there, watching, feeling like the world had suddenly gone silent around you. It wasn’t just that you didn’t want to see it—it was that you didn’t want to feel this, didn’t want to feel the ache in your chest, the twisting of your heart as if someone had squeezed it in a vise.

You had known, deep down, that Hoseok wasn’t yours. You had known it in your mind, but your heart... it had been clinging to that hope, to that quiet, secret wish that maybe, just maybe, one day you could be the one who stood next to him like that girl did.

But here you were, watching him with someone else, and everything inside you felt like it was collapsing.

As they pulled away, laughing, Hoseok’s eyes scanned the lot—and for a second, they met yours. His smile faltered just slightly, like he recognized you, but the moment was fleeting.

You quickly turned away, retreating into the store with Jungkook, who was oblivious, still holding his little bag of jewelry for Eunbi. You were glad he didn’t notice the way your hands shook, the way your heart was still racing for reasons you didn’t want to admit.

And as you walked out into the warm summer air, your mind was full of confusion. You had thought you’d moved on from Hoseok. You had told yourself you didn’t feel that way about him anymore. But now, everything felt different. You weren’t sure if it was the kiss, the girl, or something else entirely, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had just seen something that would change everything.

The ache in your chest wasn’t going away, not anytime soon.

Hoseok and you acted like nothing had happened. Like the image of him, his hand slipping under another girl’s skirt, hadn’t been burned into your mind. Like you hadn’t seen it, like you hadn’t felt every inch of that uncomfortable, aching feeling in your chest. You went on, pretending nothing was wrong. You saw him, of course, passing by your house just like he always did, his presence familiar, his smile as easy as it had ever been.

But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t.

Sometimes, he’d stop by to chat with your parents, always charming them with his usual warmth, always the one who knew how to make everyone feel comfortable. And sometimes, he’d linger just a little longer, waiting for you to walk through the door or step out into the yard, as if you were still the girl who had his attention without question, as if you were still the one he came to see.

"Star who shines the brightest," he’d call out, that playful nickname he used to tease you with, his voice light, but underneath, there was an unspoken layer of familiarity. You hadn’t heard it in so long, hadn’t felt it in the way it used to make you smile. You would freeze at the sound of it, that little pang of nostalgia hitting you before you could brush it off.

“Hey, Hoseok,” you’d reply, trying to sound casual, trying to pretend like the knot in your stomach wasn’t there. “I’m sure whatever it is, I can help you with it.” You said it like you meant it, like it was all just another normal day, but the words felt hollow in your mouth. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same.

He’d smile that easy, wide smile, the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay, the one that used to fill the spaces between your heartbeats. "I’m sure you can," he’d say, but there was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite read. Something that lingered in the air between you two—an unspoken tension, a shift, a feeling that neither of you were willing to acknowledge, but that was there nonetheless.

You couldn’t look at him the same way anymore. Not after that day. Not after seeing him with her. Not after you had realized that all these years, you’d been in love with him without even knowing it. How could you face him and pretend everything was fine when you were carrying this heavy ache inside? How could you laugh at his stupid jokes and pretend you weren’t desperately trying to keep your distance, to stop the feelings that you had hidden for so long from bubbling to the surface?

But you didn’t know how to stop pretending. How to stop being the girl who had always been by his side, the one who had grown up with him, who had been his little sister in every sense of the word. You didn’t know how to say what you were really feeling because it was messy, and it hurt too much. And maybe, just maybe, you were still afraid of what would happen if you said it out loud.

So, you went on like nothing had changed, like it didn’t eat you up inside every time he said your name. Every time he smiled at you, so casually, so easily. You pretended, because you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, even if the person you were pretending to be wasn’t the real you anymore.

And Hoseok? He acted like nothing had happened, too. Maybe he didn’t know what to do either. Or maybe he knew and just didn’t want to face it. He’d still show up, still ask for your help with the dumbest things—little things, like helping him with some paperwork or giving him advice on something small. But it always felt like it was more than that. It felt like he was searching for an excuse to be near you, to hold on to that familiarity. Maybe he wasn’t ready to admit that something had shifted between you, either.

But you were the one who felt it. The weight of it. The aching, quiet realization that you couldn’t stay the same. That things had changed, but you couldn’t stop pretending that they hadn’t.

You had to live with it. Live with the feeling of wanting him so much it hurt, and the knowledge that he was with someone else, that he was out there, living his life without even realizing how deeply you were still affected by him. You had to live with the silence that followed him every time he left, that feeling of emptiness that lingered long after he was gone. The feeling that no matter how many times he smiled at you, you’d never be able to go back to the way things used to be.

You couldn’t go back to being the girl who didn’t know how much you needed him, how much you loved him, until it was too late.

Later that year, after playing this endless tug-of-war with Hoseok, pretending that nothing had changed—pretending that you hadn’t seen him with that girl, pretending that the weight in your chest wasn’t there—you finally felt a little bit of freedom. Freedom in the most unexpected of places.

It was the night of Hoseok’s graduation, and the air felt magical, like something out of a dream. The stars hung low in the sky, not too cold, not too warm—just the perfect night. Perfect for him. Perfect for the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. He was leaving Gwangju, heading to Seoul, and you knew this time, it wasn’t just about the transition from high school to university. This was a bigger shift, one that meant he was starting to move away from everything familiar, from everyone who had always known him as the guy who could light up any room.

You tried not to think about how you couldn’t remember the last time you had looked at him without feeling that quiet ache. How it used to be so easy, how everything about your relationship had been so comfortable until suddenly, it wasn’t. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? This ache had always been there, creeping in the shadows, just waiting for the right moment to show itself. You had tried to ignore it, tried to pretend it wasn’t real, but tonight—it was too much to hide anymore.

“Never thought you’d be good at math,” you joked, trying to sound light, to ease the tension that had settled between you.

“Neither did I,” he murmured, his eyes momentarily drifting away from you. He was always so good at pretending nothing was wrong, so good at hiding what was really going on behind his smile. And yet, you could see it in the way his shoulders had squared, in the little lines that formed between his brows. It wasn’t all just about the graduation for him, either.

“Shouldn’t you be happy?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant. It wasn’t the question you had meant to ask. But it was the one that slipped out. Because you couldn’t ignore it anymore—the way his eyes never quite met yours, the way his smile seemed forced tonight.

“I am,” he said, but his words were laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “I’m happy. I wanted something practical, something I can do for the long term. I’ll be teaching dance on the weekends, but I’ve got my degree to fall back on.”

You laughed, a small sound that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’ve always had a plan, haven’t you?”

He smiled that crooked, easy smile. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

You nodded, but inside, it all felt so much heavier than you expected. You had been expecting this—his quiet confidence, his carefully constructed path, the way he could make everything sound so easy. But you couldn’t help feeling like he was already slipping away. And in a way, you had been preparing yourself for this moment, even if you didn’t know how to let go.

The thing is, you had loved him long before this night. Long before any of this became complicated. You realized that now. The feeling that had been there for so long, the one you had buried deep down—only now, it wasn’t something you could deny. It wasn’t something you could push away anymore. You had loved him for so long that it had become a part of you, woven into the very fabric of who you were. And when you finally accepted that, it was like a heavy curtain had been pulled back, and you saw him clearly for the first time. And that scared you. Because it wasn’t just the boy you had grown up with anymore.

This was Hoseok, the one who had always been there, and now, the one who was leaving.

And yet, tonight—tonight was a new beginning, wasn’t it? He had invited you. Specifically. He had wanted you there. Even now, as he was on the cusp of leaving everything behind to start something new, he had reached out to you. It felt like the perfect chance to close the gap between you two, to break down the walls that had been building over the past months.

He wasn’t just someone you had known for years anymore. He was someone you cared about deeply, someone you had wanted to be close to for so long, even when it hurt. And now, you weren’t sure where this moment would lead.

“Star,” he said suddenly, and your heart skipped at the familiar nickname. “I’m glad you came. I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed tonight as much without you here.”

The ache in your chest deepened. The old, familiar feeling of being the one who belonged to him—the one who had always been his “Star”—seemed to echo in his voice. But there was something more, something heavier in it now. And you didn’t know if it was because he was leaving or because you were finally facing the truth.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” you said softly, your voice trembling just slightly, even though you tried to hide it. “You know I’ll always be here for you, right?”

He smiled, his eyes softening for a moment, just the smallest crack in his facade. “I know, Star. You’ve always been here for me.”

And for a moment, you just stood there, the silence between you heavy, but warm. You were both standing on the edge of something, not quite sure what was next. But you knew that even though he was leaving, there was no way you could forget how much you had cared for him. No matter how hard you tried to push it down, no matter how hard you tried to pretend, he had always been there. Always.

And maybe, just maybe, tonight—this night, the perfect night with the stars shining down on you both—was a way for you to let go of the past and finally take that first step toward whatever was coming next.

At seventeen, life felt like it was finally yours. For the first time, you were truly free, unencumbered by the shadow of your older brother or the weight of expectations. Yoongi wasn’t around already, neither was Hoseok, no more pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. The world suddenly seemed vast, and you were ready to chase it on your own terms.

Yeji and Jungkook were still your crew, always your foundation, but along the way, you had adopted Jimin and Taehyung into your world. It felt natural, like they’d always been a part of the group, like they just fit. And they were the ones who pulled you into a world you hadn’t quite been ready for but somehow felt like you were meant to step into. The world of parties, the world of carefree fun, the world of no boundaries, of dancing until your legs ached and laughing until you forgot how to stop.

Jimin and Taehyung were the life of every party, always at the center of things, pulling everyone into their orbit. And that night, they had invited you. Your first real party. You had never felt so alive—so free.

It was a Friday, and you had already asked your parents for permission. It wasn’t even about convincing them; they knew you were growing up. They trusted you. Your mom reminded you to call at 1 a.m. if you needed a ride, but that was it. They gave you a little money for a cab, just in case. And then, they let you go. It wasn’t the first time you’d gone out, but it felt different—like you were finally stepping into a new chapter of your life, a life that wasn’t so tightly monitored, a life where you were free to make your own decisions.

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived. Music thumped through the walls, and the warm summer night air wrapped around you like a blanket. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and perfume filled the air, but you didn’t mind. You were here. You were finally here, in this world that felt so different, but so right. Yeji was already there, her laughter carrying across the room as she caught sight of you. And then Jungkook, who always seemed to know just what you needed—an easy smile, a warm greeting, a constant source of comfort.

And then, of course, Jimin and Taehyung. They were already in the middle of things, as always, pulling you into their circle, making you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. But the night had barely started when the shots began. Taehyung had the mischievous glint in his eyes that told you this was about to get out of hand. “Come on, it’s one shot,” he had said, grinning. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

You had laughed it off. Just one shot, you told yourself. But somehow, it never stopped at one.

By the time you had lost track of how many shots you’d had, the world felt like it was spinning in the most wonderful way. The music was louder, the people around you felt closer, and your laughter was genuine, unburdened. You felt light, like you could float away.

That was when the words spilled out, uninvited, like a confession you had been keeping for far too long. You didn’t even think about it. You were just there, surrounded by your closest friends, and somehow, it all just came out.

“I think... I think I’m still looking for someone else,” you said, your voice slurring just a little, but there was truth in it that couldn’t be ignored. “I keep meeting people, and they’re nice, and they’re... good. But it’s just not enough. I keep looking for him.”

They all stopped, eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t even need to say his name. They all knew. They had always known. Everyone had always known who him was. Who Hoseok was.

Jimin raised an eyebrow, his usual playful smirk fading for just a moment, replaced with something softer. “You’ve always been obsessed with him, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice teasing but warm.

You looked at them—Jimin, Taehyung, Yeji, Jungkook—and realized how much they understood. How much they cared for you, how they could read you without you even saying a word. They had all seen it: the way you carried Hoseok’s memory with you, the way you tried to ignore it, push it away, but always came back to it. Always came back to him.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, almost ashamed of how much you had let it affect you. “I didn’t mean to. But I think I always have.”

The group went silent for a moment, each of them processing your confession in their own way. But then Taehyung, ever the one to bring the mood back to light, clapped his hands and grinned. “Well, now we know,” he said, raising his cup in a mock toast. “The mystery is solved. You’re still in love with Hoseok. And you’re not fooling anyone.”

You laughed, but it was bittersweet. Because the truth of it settled in your chest. It had always been Hoseok. All those feelings you tried to bury, all that distance you had created between yourself and the truth—it was never going to go away. No matter how many parties you went to, no matter how many people you met, you were always looking for him.

The night continued, but it felt like it had changed. You were still with your friends, still laughing, still part of the group. But in the quiet moments, you couldn’t shake the truth that had just spilled from your lips. Hoseok had always been there, lurking in the background, and now—now that you had confessed it out loud—you weren’t sure what to do with it.

You needed to move on, to let go, to forget—but you couldn’t. Not when he was still the one you kept looking for in everyone else.

And as the night went on, you realized something: You couldn’t hide from your feelings anymore. You couldn’t bury them deep enough that they wouldn’t come back up. He wasn’t coming back either. And at seventeen he wasn’t going to take you seriously. At seventeen, him being twenty, nothing was going to happen. It ached, but it was okay too. He had no fault in this.

At nineteen, you were finally graduating. It was a mix of excitement and relief. The years leading up to this moment had blurred together—endless laughs with your group: Yeji, Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung. They’d always been there, constant in their own ways. Yoongi still dropped by whenever he could, despite his busy schedule at med school, but he wasn’t home much these days. Hoseok? You saw him only when Yoongi was around. He and Yoongi were at the same university in Seoul, but despite both being on the same campus, their paths didn’t cross too often.

It was exactly one week before graduation.

And today? Hoseok had come over on his own. Yoongi had left with Sunhee—his first girlfriend to officially meet your family—and it was just you at home with Yeji.

You were in the middle of an easy conversation with Yeji when Hoseok arrived. The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway, a bottle of soju in hand, a sheepish smile on his face. He was tipsy but not out of control. —just enough to give him that carefree energy, a hint of something else in his eyes. Still weird though. What was he doing here anyway?

“Hey, Star,” Hoseok greeted you, his voice warm but quiet. You hadn't heard him call you that in a while. It hit you more than you expected.

“Hey, what’s up?” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual, though a part of you couldn’t help but feel that old familiarity and something else—a pull that felt like comfort mixed with something a little more complicated.

“I need your help with something,” he said, grinning like he was trying to hide his real reason for coming over. His eyes flicked to Yeji, who was standing near the couch, clearly trying to figure out what to make of his presence.

“Oh?” you raised an eyebrow, teasing him. “I’m sure it’s something more than just that.”

Before Hoseok could answer, Yeji, sensing the shift, stood up. “I’m gonna head out for a bit, y’know, errands and stuff,” she said, clearly making her exit. You could tell she was giving you and Hoseok some space—she always did, when it felt like it was time. “Don’t stay up too late, alright?” she added with a smile, disappearing out the door.

And just like that, you and Hoseok were alone.

The silence between you two hung in the air, thick and palpable. Hoseok took a few steps closer, and for a moment, you thought he was going to say something. But instead, he just stood there, holding the bottle loosely in his hand.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” you said, almost as a way to break the silence, but the words felt hollow the moment they left your mouth. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him before, but right now, things felt different—off. Maybe it was because you hadn’t spent time with him alone in so long. Maybe it was just the way everything was changing, slowly, but undeniably.

Hoseok’s gaze softened for a moment, a flash of something you couldn’t quite place. He shrugged and took a step closer to the couch. “Yeah, I know. I don’t know why I came, really... just felt like I needed to be around something... familiar. I guess,” he said, his voice trailing off like he was still trying to make sense of his own words.

Familiar. You. The word settled in the pit of your stomach.

“I get it,” you said quietly, your heart a little heavier than you expected. There was a quiet ache, but you weren’t sure where it came from. Hoseok had always been there. In your life, in your space, your family. And yet, something had shifted. Not just with him, but with you, too.

He let out a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I mean... I guess things have been weird lately. I don’t know how to explain it.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess, I don’t want to feel like everything’s changing. I don’t know... does that make sense?”

You nodded, even though it kind of didn’t. “It does,” you said, but your voice sounded distant, even to your own ears.

Hoseok looked at you for a long moment, his gaze lingering, almost searching, but also filled with a kind of exhaustion you hadn’t noticed before. It was the same exhaustion you saw in Yoongi sometimes when he came back from school, looking like he was carrying more than he could handle.

You didn’t know what else to say.

But the air between you two felt thick, not with the ease of how it used to be, but with the strange tension of something—maybe old memories, maybe feelings that didn’t have names yet. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar, and you both clung to that. Even though you didn’t know where this feeling was coming from, you both knew it was there, hanging in the room, unspoken and heavy.

Finally, Hoseok took a deep breath, like he was ready to change the subject, but before he could speak, you heard the soft sound of Yeji’s car pulling out of the driveway, her engine fading in the distance.

Hoseok stood up, walking to the window as if he didn’t want to break the silence too quickly. “I should probably go,” he said, his voice softer now, more like he was saying it to himself than to you.

You didn’t want him to go, not really. But you didn’t know how to stop him, or if you should.

“Yeah, maybe,” you said, standing up and walking over to where he stood by the window. Your heart was pounding, but you couldn’t tell if it was from the ache or from the weirdness of being so close yet so distant. “I’ll see you later, alright?”

He turned to look at you, his expression still unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that made you want to reach out, but you didn’t. He nodded slowly, giving you a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Later, Star.”

And with that, he left, leaving you standing by the window, still feeling that strange mix of comfort, hope, and confusion, unsure of what was happening or what would come next.

Graduation day arrived in a burst of light, and you had never felt more alive. The air was crisp, carrying the buzz of excitement, and everything seemed perfect. Yeji was by your side, her fingers expertly applying makeup as you both laughed at the absurdity of trying to look perfect for a day that would soon be over. You helped her with her makeup, too, and despite the nerves, there was warmth in the moment. It felt like all the years of hard work were finally culminating in this one day, and you were here—alive, surrounded by your closest friends and family.

Yoongi made sure to make a scene when they called your name. His proud grin was unmistakable, and your dad, smiling broadly, stood next to your mom, both of them cheering you on like they always had. It was the kind of moment that felt timeless, as if you could hold onto the warmth of their pride forever.

But then... there was Hoseok.

Hoseok, standing on the other side of the ceremony hall, his voice almost booming as he yelled, "I knew my Star would make it big!" The words were loud, filled with genuine joy, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. His happiness was infectious, and you couldn’t help but smile, even though the warmth of his voice didn’t quite reach your chest in the same way it used to.

The moment passed quickly, but that smile stayed on your face as you took the family picture, standing between Yoongi and your parents. They all stood so close, like a unit, and as Yoongi whispered in your ear, his voice quiet but full of emotion, “I’m proud of you,” you felt the lump in your throat. This was it—the moment you had been working towards.

But when you looked around, something felt off.

The crowd began to disperse, the noise around you dying down, and you caught sight of Hoseok lingering near the side. His smile had softened, but there was a strange distance in his eyes, something you hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle—just a flicker, but you could see it. His usual brightness was muted, replaced with something heavier. His gaze wasn’t focused on anyone in particular, but on something in the distance, like he was lost in thought.

You excused yourself from your family and made your way toward him. The moment felt inevitable. You had to speak to him—had to acknowledge the strange tension between you two that had been growing ever since the night of your graduation. It wasn’t anything overt, but it lingered.

“Hey,” you said, your voice tentative as you approached him. “I didn’t know you’d be this quiet today. You’re always so loud.”

Hoseok glanced at you, his lips pulling into a small, tight smile. “Yeah, well, things are different now, aren’t they?” His voice was light, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t match the tone.

“Different how?” You pressed, your curiosity edging out the cautious distance you felt between you.

He shifted his weight, hands stuffed in his pockets as he looked away again, almost like he was searching for something in the crowd. “I don’t know.” There was a hesitation in his voice, a hint of something that didn’t belong. “Just... feels like the end of one thing, you know?”

You frowned slightly, your chest tightening. “Yeah... I get that,” you said quietly, suddenly unsure of where the conversation was going. “But it’s not really the end, right? We’ll see each other more.”

His eyes flickered back to you, but they weren’t as bright as they used to be. There was a sadness in them, subtle yet unmistakable. “Yeah, but...” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, it seemed like he didn’t know how to finish the thought. “You know, I’ve always been here. But I feel like we’re all heading in different directions now, and I guess it’s just... hard to tell what’s next.”

Your stomach twisted as you processed his words. There was an ache in his voice, a rawness that you hadn’t expected. Hoseok was always the one who seemed certain of everything—the one who could brighten any room with his presence. And yet now, he sounded uncertain, hesitant, like he wasn’t quite sure where he fit anymore.

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the growing distance between the two of you. “I thought things would feel... different,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But now I’m not so sure.”

He finally looked at you, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t in a long time—like he wanted to say something, but the words were stuck. The sadness in his eyes deepened, but he masked it with a quick flash of a smile. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I get that. I think we’re all figuring things out, in our own way.”

There was something unsaid between you, something that neither of you wanted to face, but the silence spoke louder than anything else. Hoseok wasn’t just any friend anymore—he wasn’t the boy who used to be part of your world in such a seamless way. And somehow, that truth hurt more than anything.

“I’ll always be here, you know that, right?” Hoseok said after a long pause, his voice sincere, but with an edge of something unspoken. “But maybe... maybe things are just changing, and we have to let them.”

You nodded, though the ache in your chest was heavier than ever. “Yeah. I think I’m starting to understand that.”

Hoseok gave you one last lingering look, his eyes softening as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I’m proud of you, Star. You’ve got a bright future ahead.”

And with that, he turned, slipping back into the crowd, leaving you standing there, with a heart full of confusion and a lingering sense of longing that you couldn’t explain. You had always known Hoseok, but suddenly, it felt like you didn’t know him at all.

You shocked your parents—and honestly, everyone—when you told them you wouldn’t be going to university in Seoul. Yonsei University had accepted you, and that should have been the dream. It was everything you’d worked for, everything you thought you wanted. But somehow, something didn’t feel right. The more you thought about it, the more the doubt started creeping in. Something about it felt... wrong.

You had always been the person who sought out logic, who found comfort in planning, in structure. Marketing made sense. It was creative but stable, a perfect balance of ambition and practicality. You could see yourself working in that field, building a career, maybe even making something of it. But every time you imagined yourself walking through Yonsei’s gates, something deep inside you twisted. It wasn’t fear, exactly—just a sense of being trapped. A nagging feeling that if you stayed in Seoul, you’d be stuck.

Was it fear of being tied down to a place that wasn’t really yours? Or was it fear of growing into a life you hadn’t chosen for yourself?

You had always done what was expected of you. Your family’s pride was always there, lingering, and you couldn’t shake the idea of disappointing them. But in the quiet of your thoughts, a voice kept telling you it wasn’t enough—this life wasn’t enough. You weren’t meant to be confined to one place, to live the same life your parents had lived. You wanted more.

It wasn’t an easy decision. It wasn’t something you made lightly. You felt a pull toward something different, something far away from the expectations that had been sewn into you from a young age. So you did what you had always done when faced with uncertainty: you pushed forward, took the leap. You applied for scholarships, even though you knew it was a last-minute decision. The kind of decision that could either change everything or fall apart completely.

When the letter from New York University arrived, everything felt surreal. You’d made it. But in the quiet after the excitement, there was this strange mix of relief and confusion. Why didn’t this feel like the victory you thought it would?

Marketing. The major was still there, and it made sense. But now, tucked in the margins of your future was something no one knew about—something for you. A minor in creative writing. It was a part of you that no one expected, not even you at first. You had always been a quiet dreamer, someone who got lost in words but never really let anyone see that part of you.

As you sat there, staring at the acceptance letter, the weight of it all settled in. You could finally take control of your future. But it didn’t come without a price. You’d be far from home, far from the people who had always been there—Yoongi, your family, your old friends.

Was it selfish to choose yourself now? Was it selfish to want something more than what was expected?

But in the end, you didn’t care. You knew this was the right path for you. It didn’t matter that it was scary or uncertain—it felt like freedom. A chance to break away from the life everyone thought you should have and create one that was all your own. But it also felt like a goodbye, like you were walking away from a part of yourself you weren’t sure you were ready to leave behind.

It was bittersweet. It felt like stepping into the unknown, like taking a leap off the edge of a cliff and hoping there was something—anything—to catch you. You didn’t know what your future would look like, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you were going to be the one to define it. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Yoongi was still your rock, even if things felt different now. The distance between you two, now that you were in another country, had stretched the connection in ways you didn’t quite expect. Sure, you had more conversations than when you lived under the same roof, but they were always brief and less meaningful. Med school had swallowed Yoongi whole, his residency demanding so much of his time and energy. Still, he always found a moment to check in. It was like a habit now—quick messages, updates on his day, sometimes more about his exhaustion than anything else.

“Residency’s kicking my ass, but I’m surviving,” he’d text. You could tell he was tired, not just from the demands of his profession but from the weight of the years he’d put into his studies. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was something that still kept him grounded. He’d mention how music, in the form of an old music set up he found in a second-hand store had become his salvation. It had become an unexpected escape for him.

As for Hoseok, things had changed too. It wasn’t that you and Hoseok didn’t care about each other—it was just that the busy lives you both led had naturally created more distance. Hoseok, now in business school, was submerged in the grind of classes, networking, and all the pressures of pursuing a future that had little to do with dance these days. You were glad he didn’t abandon dance completely though. The spontaneous texts, the late-night talks—all of that had faded away. It wasn’t intentional, just life pulling you both in different directions.

Yoongi would bring him up from time to time “Hoseok’s still in business school, right? He doesn’t have much time to hang out anymore.” It wasn’t a judgment, just a statement of fact. But then Yoongi would chuckle, and you could hear the amusement in his voice when he’d mention Hoseok’s latest endeavor. “He actually joined a street dance crew recently. I think he needed something to balance out the stress. You know how he is.”

But even with all of this change, you knew Yoongi and Hoseok still made time for each other. It wasn’t often, but sometimes, after a long week of med school or business school, they’d find a moment to grab coffee or hang out. It was rare—sometimes it was just a few hours, sometimes it was a quiet evening catching up. But you could feel, even from afar, that those moments meant something. They were still holding on to what they had, even if it was different now. Even when with you it was different. It was bound to happen you guess.

It was sometime during your second semester of Marketing when you met Daniel. Daniel—your first everything, really. Well, everything except for a kiss. You weren't quite sure what you had expected love to feel like when it finally arrived, but with Daniel, it wasn’t the way the movies had promised. There were no fireworks exploding in your chest, no immediate breathlessness. Instead, it felt... right. For the first time in a long time, your heart didn’t ache for someone you couldn't have. It didn’t hurt at all. It just settled, quietly, almost shyly, into something that felt warm and safe.

You remember how desperate you were to tell someone about him. Yeji and Jungkook were the first to hear, of course—dragged into a half-asleep conversation at three in the morning because you couldn't keep it to yourself. You whispered about him through your phone, clutching your pillow, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Jimin and Taehyung hadn’t been there for the call, but they heard about Daniel soon after, when you couldn’t resist gushing in your group chat. There’s someone, you had typed with trembling fingers. And I think he’s...different.

Your friends were supportive, naturally. They urged you to give it a shot, to open your heart a little. So you did. Hesitantly at first, like stepping into a pool and letting the water slowly rise up around your ankles.

Daniel was sweet—almost painfully so. He held doors open without thinking about it. He remembered the little things, like how you preferred hot chocolate over coffee, or how you always carried a book in your bag even if you knew you wouldn’t have time to read it. He listened—really listened—to your dreams, your fears, your stupid little stories from when you were a kid. He made you laugh, made you feel seen.

Your first date was cute in the way first dates should be. Nervous smiles, accidental brushes of hands, endless conversations about everything and nothing. You wore your favorite sweater, the one you always wore when you needed a little extra courage. You didn’t kiss him that night. You both wanted to, you could feel it, but somehow it felt more important to savor it, to not rush. To let it mean something.

The second date felt like an extension of the first—effortless, bright. He took you to a bookstore downtown and then for ice cream, and you thought, Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be like. You liked the way he looked at you, like you were some sort of wonder he couldn't believe was real.

And by the time three months had passed—after countless late-night texts, studying together until you fell asleep on FaceTime, clumsy jokes and shy confessions—you were officially dating.

You didn’t know it then, but this was your coming-of-age in motion. You were living it, one soft, uncertain step at a time. You were discovering how thrilling and terrifying it was to be vulnerable with someone, how it meant giving them all the parts of you you usually kept tucked away. There were nights when insecurity gnawed at you, when you wondered if you were saying the right things, doing the right things, being enough. But there were also nights when you felt braver than you ever had—when you realized that maybe growing up wasn't about erasing the fear, but learning to move through it anyway.

Daniel didn’t erase your insecurities. But he stayed. He held your hand through them. He was gentle with you, and in turn, you learned to be gentle with yourself.

It was imperfect. It was real. It was yours.

He was your first.

It was strange, in a way you hadn’t expected. Not bad—just unfamiliar, like stepping into a space you had only seen through windows your whole life. You tried to prepare yourself. You asked your friends at university about it, half-whispered questions between classes or after late-night study sessions, trying to piece together what it was supposed to feel like. You texted Yeji one night, fingers hovering over your phone before finally hitting send: "Is it normal to feel nervous even if you really like someone?" She replied almost immediately. "Of course. Just make sure you’re doing it because you want to, not because you feel like you have to. Trust yourself."

You trusted yourself. You were sure. You liked Daniel—you really liked him. He was sweet, patient, and never once made you feel rushed. He always waited for you to meet him halfway. If anything, you felt lucky to be figuring it out with someone like him.

Still, when the moment finally came, everything felt...awkward. Not wrong, just clumsy, new. You fumbled with your own nerves, overthinking every little thing—the way your hand should move, whether you were supposed to say something, how you were supposed to breathe. Daniel noticed, of course. He noticed everything. But instead of making it worse, he laughed softly and kissed your forehead, whispering something like, "It's just me. No pressure." And somehow, that made you exhale. That made you brave enough to keep going.

The experience wasn’t perfect. It was a little bit messy and a little bit shy, full of quiet giggles and whispered apologies when you bumped into each other awkwardly. But that was part of it, wasn't it? It was supposed to be a little messy. It was your first time learning someone else's body, learning how to be open and vulnerable in a way you had only ever imagined before.

Later that night, lying next to him with your heart still pounding from both adrenaline and tenderness, you texted Yeji again: "It felt weird but...good. Like...like it mattered." And she sent back a long line of hearts and a simple, "It should matter."

You realized then that growing up didn’t mean shedding the nerves or the awkwardness—it meant embracing them, allowing yourself to be imperfect and afraid and still moving forward anyway.

Daniel made it easier. He kissed the top of your head when you overthought. He held your hand when your mind raced ahead of your body. He was gentle with you in every way a person could be gentle, and you knew—even with the doubts, the clumsy moments—you were safe here. You were seen.

It wasn’t a grand, cinematic first. It didn’t look like the movies. It looked like two people trying. Two people caring. And maybe that was even better.

Your friends came to the US, and for a little while, everything felt perfect again.

It was supposed to be a vacation, a treat for surviving your first exhausting semesters abroad—but in so many ways, it felt like reality hitting, too. You were all growing up, you realized. No longer just kids hanging around the same streets, no longer seeing each other every day without trying. You were still tied together, still orbiting around each other's lives, but now there were new paths carving distances between you.

Jimin was specializing in dance at Korea University, pouring every bit of passion into perfecting his craft. Taehyung had decided he wanted to build something of his own, diving headfirst into Business at Yonsei University with a confidence only he could carry. Yeji—steady, kind, wise Yeji—had always known how to listen, how to see people, so it made perfect sense that she found her way into Psychology, also at Yonsei. And then there was Jungkook. Dreamy, sweet, endlessly respectful Jungkook who had once seemed like he could be anything and still somehow managed to surprise you by choosing the uncertain path: photography. He wanted to create things that made people feel, and for the first time, he was serious about it. Really serious.

They all had their own lives now. Their own dreams, their own schedules. And yet—they still chose to come see you. They saved up. They planned it months in advance. Because you weren’t going back home that winter.

The storm had ruined everything. Flights canceled, alarms going crazy, streets flooded and closed. You got your money back, sure, but it didn’t fix the hollow ache that came with realizing you wouldn’t be home for the holidays. You missed your parents. You missed your brother. You missed the warmth of Seoul, the comfort of streets you knew by heart. You missed your friends. You missed Hoseok.

You hadn’t even realized how much until you saw them at the airport, standing there with wide grins and sleepy eyes, dragging their suitcases behind them like lost kids finally found again. You ran to them without thinking, laughter bubbling out of you so fast it almost hurt. They pulled you into a messy, loud group hug, everyone talking at once, the smell of airport coffee and the sound of Yeji’s familiar giggle making your chest squeeze in the most beautiful, painful way.

It felt like nothing had changed. It felt like everything had changed.

The week they stayed was a blur of late-night talks, messy takeout dinners, walking around the city pretending you weren't all a little bit lost. You caught up on everything—Jimin’s dance competitions, Taehyung’s wild business ideas, Yeji’s long, quiet talks about the things people carry inside without ever saying them out loud. Jungkook showed you photos he hadn't shared with anyone else, images that looked a little like homesickness and a little like hope.

Somewhere in between the laughter and the stories, you introduced them to Daniel. It felt big, in a way. Daniel—sweet, kind Daniel who had quietly carved a space in your life over the past few months. The first person who made your heart feel less like an open wound and more like something steady and alive again.

They were curious, naturally. Protective, in the way old friends always are when they meet someone new in your world. But Daniel was... well, Daniel. Gentle, funny, endlessly patient with your friends’ teasing and Jungkook’s wide, curious eyes.

It was surreal to watch your old world meet your new one, to see them laugh together, to realize that somehow, you were weaving all these separate pieces of yourself into something that still made sense. Something that still felt like home.

When they left, you cried. Quietly, after they boarded the plane, tucked away in a corner of the airport where no one could see you. Not because you were sad, exactly. But because you had been reminded—so vividly, so achingly—that even across oceans and time zones, even as life pulled you all in different directions, some things were too deeply rooted to ever really be lost.

You had people worth missing.

Time moved faster than you ever thought it would. One minute you were adjusting to your first year in a foreign country, clinging to calls from home and late-night talks with your friends, and the next—you were standing on the edge of something new, about to graduate.

Somewhere between the lectures and late submissions, you’d found an internship at a mid-sized IT company. It wasn’t exactly where you pictured yourself when you first applied to University, but it taught you things you didn’t know you needed: how to hold your own in meetings, how to send a proper follow-up email, how to find small corners of pride in the work you did, even if no one else noticed it. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, that was enough.

Your parents had visited you throughout the four years you spent abroad—sometimes once a year, sometimes less if things at home got too busy. You made it back to Korea too, but only for the holidays. Sometimes for Chuseok, sometimes for Christmas. Always a week at most, a blink and you were gone again. There were years you saw Yoongi in those short trips, catching him between his packed shifts at the hospital, and there were years you missed him entirely, your schedules never quite aligning the way they used to. As for Hoseok—you hadn’t seen him properly in a long time. You heard about him through Yoongi mostly: how he got a corporate job, how he’d somewhat still found time to dance, chasing that old part of himself he couldn’t bear to leave behind. It was strange, the way time stretched between you and the people you once thought you'd never drift from. But you supposed that was just another part of growing up too.

Things with Daniel changed, as things sometimes do. You spent nearly two years together—growing, learning, falling in and out of rhythm. He met your parents during one of their visits to the U.S., and later, you introduced him to Yoongi too, when you finally managed a trip back home that lasted more than a handful of rushed days. Even Hoseok had been there that time, crashing a casual dinner you hadn’t planned on becoming so emotional. It had been... sweet, in a way. A small blending of past and present. You could still remember the way Daniel smiled nervously, how Hoseok had clapped him on the shoulder and said something that made your mother laugh until she was wiping tears from her eyes. For a little while, it felt like everything fit.

But life, as it tends to do, kept moving. Slowly at first, then faster. You both knew it was ending before either of you could say it out loud. He had plans that would take him across the country; you had dreams that hadn’t fully found their shape yet. The breakup wasn’t dramatic or messy—it was mutual, full of quiet sadness and lingering kindness. The kind of ending that didn’t leave you bitter, only a little older, a little wiser, a little more aware that love, no matter how good, sometimes simply isn’t enough to anchor two people in the same place.

By the time your graduation day arrived, it felt like everything had come full circle. Your parents flew in, proud and beaming, holding signs that embarrassed you more than you'd ever admit. You stood there in your cap and gown, diploma in hand, watching the last four years stretch out behind you like a film reel. There were so many things you still didn’t know. But standing there, blinking against the sun and the weight of it all, you realized maybe that was okay.

You had made it.

You hadn’t planned on coming back to Seoul right after graduation.

The original idea — the one you clung to through endless library nights and lonely winters — was to stay in the U.S. a little longer. Find a job. Maybe move to New York or Boston, chase the skyline, lose yourself in the noise. You had dreamed of it for so long it almost felt real. A life crackling with endless, towering possibilities.

But sometimes, life quietly rearranged your plans without asking first.

It was Yoongi who made the choice easier — or maybe just a little less terrifying. He was already a doctor by then, deep into the grind of hospital shifts that stretched until morning, his voice always a little rough around the edges when he called. But he still called. Somehow, despite the impossible hours and the exhaustion you could hear even through the static, he made time.

"You can figure things out here," he said simply. "You don’t have to do it alone."

And somehow, those few words — casual, tossed out like no big deal — cracked something open inside you.

Your parents had been supportive, too. Telling you there was always a place for you back home, a kitchen table with your seat still waiting. A life you could step back into if you wanted.

You thought about it. Really thought about it. About coming back to your childhood home, about building something steady and safe. About giving up the version of yourself you had fought so hard to create on your own.

But the truth was — you didn’t fit there anymore. Not in that version of yourself. Not in that house where the walls still remembered who you used to be.

And Seoul — restless, ruthless, electric Seoul — felt closer to who you were now. Or who you wanted to be, even if you didn’t quite know her yet.

So you said yes.

Landing back home was surreal. The airport smelled like coffee and humidity, like childhood and heartbreak all at once.

Your parents were there, waiting with open arms and bright, shining smiles that made your chest ache. Yoongi too — a little thinner, a little sharper, his white coat slung carelessly over his shoulder. He had carved two whole hours out of a packed schedule to have lunch with you all.

The food was delicious. The conversation was easy. For a little while, it felt like slipping on a favorite hoodie — familiar, broken-in, safe. Your brother teased you over side dishes. Your mother asked if you were eating enough vegetables. Your father told bad jokes that still somehow made you laugh.

It was perfect. Maybe too perfect.

Because later — after the plates were cleared and the hugs exchanged — you found yourself alone in Yoongi’s apartment. The afternoon light slipped in through the windows in muted gold streaks. Your suitcase sat half-unpacked by the door. Your phone buzzed weakly with half-hearted texts from your U.S. friends.

And you sat there, cross-legged on a couch that wasn’t yours, in a city that should have felt like home, with a degree tucked safely into your bag — proof that you had done it. You had finished what you set out to do.

You should have felt proud. You should have felt invincible.

Instead, you just felt... small. Small, and out of place, and a little bit scared.

Because no one told you how hollow it would feel to come back a different person — to find the same streets, the same shops, the same skyline — and realize you didn’t know how to fit yourself into it anymore.

No one told you that success could taste so much like loneliness.

You curled your arms around your knees, your forehead resting against them, feeling the old, familiar ache building quietly behind your ribs.

What if you weren’t enough here? What if you had changed too much — or not enough? What if all the growth you fought for overseas wasn't visible to anyone but yourself?

You stared at the muted blue of the carpet, your chest tight, your breath shallow.

Everyone kept telling you you were doing great. Everyone kept smiling like you had already won.

But they didn’t see the way your hands trembled sometimes when you opened a job application. They didn’t see the doubt gnawing at the back of your mind, whispering that maybe you weren’t as capable, as brilliant, as brave as you had tried so hard to seem.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push the noise away.

You were home. You were supposed to be happy.

But sitting there, in the golden hush of Yoongi’s living room, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe — deep down — you were more lost than you had ever been.

Yoongi had warned you before you even sat down at lunch. "I'm on call tonight," he said, raking a hand through his hair, the circles under his eyes deeper than you remembered. "Might have to leave early if the hospital needs me."

You nodded, smiled — understanding the way you always had with him. Yoongi didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. But he also belonged to the world now, not just to you.

Still, when his phone buzzed halfway through the meal and he stood with a sigh heavy enough to pull the air out of the room, it hit you harder than you expected.

"Sorry, kid," he said, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. "We’ll catch up properly soon, okay? I swear."

And just like that, you were alone.

You thought, maybe, you could call Yeji. But she wasn’t in Seoul.

She had left for a volunteer project months ago — tucked away somewhere in the countryside, helping rebuild after the floods that summer. She sent photos sometimes: muddy boots, cracked hands, wide fields stretching past the horizon. She was doing something good, something real. But it meant that for now, she was a hundred miles away and unreachable.

You thought about Jungkook too. But he was gone, too.

A last-minute opportunity had whisked him across the world — a creative residency in London, something about music and exhibitions and a chance he couldn’t afford to miss. You had seen the announcement two weeks ago, his excited face lit up under the headline. You had smiled, proud of him, even as a little piece of you folded up inside.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Everyone was growing, reaching, becoming more than the little lives you used to share.

You were proud. You really were.

But it didn’t stop the quiet from pressing against your ribs now, in the backseat of the taxi, as the city blurred past — neon-bright, indifferent.

Yoongi’s apartment greeted you with nothing but stillness.

The keys scraped awkwardly in the lock. The door swung open onto spotless wood floors, pale walls, a couch too neat to be truly lived in. A few framed photos leaned on the shelves — crooked smiles, memories that didn’t include you anymore. A half-wilted plant sagged in the corner, stubborn and tired.

You dropped your suitcase by the door. Your sneakers thudded against the floor, the noise too loud, too sharp.

You stood there for a moment, your backpack still slung over one shoulder, your jacket still clutched in your hands — waiting, stupidly, for something to happen.

Nothing did.

You wandered to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, closed it again. The fridge buzzed, empty except for some yogurt cups and two lonely bottles of water.

You weren’t hungry. You weren’t tired either.

You were just... dislodged. Suspended between the life you had built so far away, and the life you were supposed to rebuild here.

You curled up on the worn couch, dragging an old blanket over your shoulders. Your phone sat face-down beside you, buzzing occasionally with messages you didn’t have the energy to answer.

The city pulsed just outside the windows — relentless, glittering, alive.

You stayed very still.

You thought about the degree tucked away carefully in your suitcase — proof that you had finished something, proof that you were supposed to be somebody now.

You thought about the friends who were oceans away, chasing their futures.

You thought about Hoseok, for a brief, aching second — but shoved the thought away before it could bloom into something dangerous.

And you realized, for the first time in months — maybe years — that you were really, truly on your own.

You buried your face into the scratchy fabric of the couch cushion, breathing in the faint scent of detergent and city dust.

You had made it home. You had done everything right.

So why did it feel like you had never been farther away?

Two weeks back in Seoul, and you were going crazy.

At first, it hadn’t seemed so bad. You told yourself you deserved a few days off — a few mornings sleeping in, a few afternoons wandering old streets like a ghost trying to recognize the bones of her old life.

But the days stretched, and the silence thickened, and the applications piled up.

You sat at Yoongi’s kitchen table every morning with your laptop open, wearing the same pair of sweatpants, staring blankly at cover letters you didn’t know how to finish.

Every listing sounded the same: dynamic self-starter. fast-paced environment. salary based on experience.

Experience you didn’t have. Confidence you were quickly losing.

You clicked "submit" on half-hearted applications and tried not to feel like you were throwing little pieces of yourself into a void.

You refreshed your inbox obsessively. Nothing. Or worse — polite rejections that started to feel like tiny fractures spider-webbing through your chest.

By the tenth day, even Yoongi noticed.

"You gotta get out of the house, kid," he said one night between bites of cold takeout, not even looking up from his medical journals. "You’re driving yourself insane."

You had flipped him off half-heartedly, too tired to argue.

He wasn’t wrong.

The walls of his apartment felt closer every day, pressing in. Your own brain felt like it was buzzing, restless and too loud.

You weren’t even sure who you were anymore. A college graduate? A jobless daughter? A drifting stranger in her own hometown?

You scrolled through your phone late at night, seeing snapshots of your old friends — the ones who had stayed in the U.S., the ones who had gotten promotions, internships, shiny new apartments.

Meanwhile, you were stuck here, pressing "apply" over and over into the abyss.

The only thing tethering you to sanity was the news that Yeji was coming back soon. Finally.

She texted you late one night, her photo blurry and grainy from bad countryside signal — muddy boots, windblown hair, wide grin. coming back next weekend, babe🌟 get ready for me 💥

You stared at the text for a long time, heart pinching.

Yeji — your Yeji — the one person who had always known how to pull you back when you drifted too far. Maybe once she got back, things would start to make sense again.

Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lost anymore.

Maybe.

You set your phone down on the nightstand, rolled onto your side, and stared at the pale ceiling above Yoongi’s borrowed bed.

You had thought coming back to Seoul would make you feel whole again. Instead, you felt like a puzzle with pieces missing — scattered and unfinished.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, breathing out slowly into the empty room.

Two weeks back, and you still didn’t know who you were supposed to be now.

It was a strange thing, feeling out of place in a city you had once dreamed about.

When you were a kid growing up in Gwangju, Seoul had always felt like the answer to everything — a glittering world just out of reach, buzzing with possibility. You were supposed to come here for university, supposed to start your life under these neon skies.

But life had shifted — the U.S. happened — and now, somehow, you were here years later, a little older, a little more worn down, and nothing felt the way you thought it would.

You told yourself this disorientation was new. Something about coming back after so long.

But if you were honest — if you stripped everything else away — maybe it had always been there, waiting underneath.

You had done what you were supposed to do. You had graduated. You had succeeded. You had come back to Korea because it felt safe. Familiar. Because a part of you still believed Seoul was the dream.

But sitting here, drowning in unanswered job applications, scrolling endlessly through postings you couldn't care less about, you were starting to realize: You hadn't just missed your family. You hadn't just missed the comfort of home.

You had missed yourself.

The version of you who moved through life with want instead of fear. The version who chased things for the thrill of it, not to prove a point. The version who said yes to a creative writing minor just because it set her chest on fire — not because it would ever fit neatly on a resume.

The internship at the mid-sized company? You had done that for the validation. For the polished bullet point you could show people back home, proof that you weren't wasting your time.

You sat back in Yoongi’s too-quiet apartment, your chest aching with the weight of all the things you hadn’t admitted until now.

Maybe the scariest part wasn’t that you didn’t know where you belonged. Maybe it was realizing you had built a life chasing a version of yourself you didn’t even recognize anymore.

The front door buzzed, sharp and sudden.

You blinked. You weren’t expecting anyone.

Another buzz, louder this time.

You stumbled up, crossing the room barefoot, and pressed the intercom.

"Star, open the damn door! I’m freezing!" a familiar voice crackled through — blurry but unmistakably Yeji.

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest.

You flung the door open without even checking, and there she was — Yeji, standing in the hallway, messy ponytail, cheeks pink from the cold, dragging a battered duffel bag that looked about three times her size.

"You look like crap," she announced gleefully, before you could even say hi.

You laughed — this wild, cracked sound that burst out of your chest — and launched yourself at her.

Yeji caught you in a bone-crushing hug, the kind that squeezed the breath right out of you, and you held on like the ground might give out if you let go.

"I missed you, idiot," she muttered into your hair.

"I missed you too," you said, your voice splintering.

Later, you ended up sprawled on Yoongi’s worn-out couch, two mugs of cheap instant coffee between you, legs tangled together like you were sixteen again.

Yeji talked first — about the countryside, about building homes with her bare hands, about the long nights and longer bus rides. You listened, soaking up every word like sunlight after a long winter.

Then it was your turn.

You told her about the job applications, about the quiet panic that crept into your chest when you opened your laptop every morning. You told her how weird it felt to finally be living in Seoul — the Seoul you had dreamed about — and still feel like you didn’t fit.

Yeji didn’t interrupt. She didn’t laugh. She just listened, her face serious, her hand steady on the coffee mug between her palms.

"You don't have to figure it all out right now, you know," she said eventually, her voice soft but certain. "You’re allowed to just... be lost for a bit."

You looked down at your hands — at the invisible tremor you felt deep in your bones.

"But what if I forgot who I’m supposed to be?" you whispered.

Yeji smiled — the kind of smile that was a little sad, a little proud.

"Then maybe it’s time to figure out who you actually are," she said. "And not who you thought you had to be."

You swallowed hard.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t about going back to who you were before. Maybe it was about giving yourself permission to start over — here, in this messy, uncertain, imperfect Seoul that didn’t look like your childhood dreams anymore.

Insecurities aside, you and Yeji had a sleepover — and it was pure, chaotic magic.

You dragged every pillow and blanket you could find into a giant mess on the living room floor, ordered enough fried chicken for a small army, and let yourselves be twenty again — loud, messy, unfiltered.

"Babe," Yeji said dramatically, waving a chicken drumstick like a magic wand. "You have missed so much, it’s actually criminal."

You snorted, reaching for a soda. "I was getting a whole-ass degree across the world, Yeji."

She rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. "Babe, that’s not an excuse. Life was happening here!"

And then — casually, like she wasn’t about to emotionally assassinate you — she dropped it:

"Anyway, Jungkook set me up on a blind date."

You choked so hard on your drink you actually saw stars.

"WAIT. WHAT?!"

Yeji grinned like the evil little gremlin she was. "Yup. Your sweet little golden boy decided I was 'emotionally constipated' — his words, babe — and said I needed to get laid or I’d wither into a husk."

You howled with laughter, slapping the couch cushions.

"That sounds like Jungkook," you gasped. "I leave for five minutes and you’re getting pimped out like a drama character?!"

Yeji cackled. "AND GUESS WHAT. The guy? Actually hot. Actually amazing."

You sat up, alert. "Okay, DETAILS, BABE. I need the whole menu."

She leaned in like she was telling you state secrets.

"His name’s Namjoon. Works in publishing or editing or something sexy like that. He’s tall — like skyscraper tall — and he has dimples, babe. DIM. PLES." She clutched her chest like she was actually in physical pain.

You shrieked into a pillow.

"And he’s smart — like scary smart. He was talking about some book project and I swear, half the words he used aren’t even in the dictionary. I just sat there nodding like an idiot while falling in love."

You were CRYING laughing at this point. Yeji was full-body storytelling, waving her arms, reenacting every single moment.

"And THEN," she said, grabbing your wrist dramatically, "he took off his jacket, right? And — babe — the forearms. I was actually fighting for my life."

You wheezed. "Yeji, please, I’m BEGGING you."

"I’m not even joking, babe," she said solemnly. "The veins? The watch? I almost proposed."

You were half-sobbing, half-wheezing, sprawled backwards on the floor.

"And he listens, babe. Like actually listens when I talk. No pretending, no glazed-over look. Just... full attention. Like I’m saying something important."

Yeji’s voice softened a little then, and you caught the shine in her eyes.

You sat up properly, resting your chin on your knees. "You deserve that," you said, meaning it with your whole heart. "You deserve someone who looks at you like that."

Yeji smiled — that crumpled, overwhelmed smile she only got when she was trying really hard not to cry.

"And so do you, babe," she said fiercely, pointing a chicken bone at you for emphasis. "You deserve someone who doesn’t make you feel like you have to earn being loved."

Your throat closed up a little.

You grabbed a pillow and chucked it at her head instead of answering.

Yeji caught it, laughing, and for a little while, you just stayed like that — two girls in a blanket fort, talking about hot boys and scary feelings, trying to stitch yourselves back together with bad jokes and too much fried chicken.

The future could wait. Tonight, you had each other.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The door swung closed behind him with a soft thud.

You stood frozen, blanket slipping off your shoulders, heart crawling painfully up your throat.

It wasn’t Yoongi.

It was Hoseok.

You stared — half-awake, half-shocked — as he stepped inside, keys dangling from his fingers, a bag of takeout clutched in one hand.

It had been a long time.

Too long.

He looked different.

Not drastically, not in a way most people would notice. But you noticed.

The set of his jaw was a little sharper. The shadows under his eyes, a little deeper. The way he carried himself now — less bounce, more quiet gravity — it was all there, woven into the lines of his body like threads only you could see.

Still, he smiled when he saw you — easy, warm, familiar.

Like he always did.

"Long time no see, Star," he said, voice low, a little rough around the edges from sleep and travel.

And you —

You, who had loved him quietly, hopelessly, across countless summers and half-shared glances — you felt the name hit you square in the chest.

You forced a smile back, your fingers tightening unconsciously in the sleeves of Yoongi’s hoodie.

"Yeah," you managed, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. "It’s been a while."

The words hung awkwardly between you, like wet clothes refusing to dry.

Hoseok shifted, scratching the back of his neck, glancing around the apartment without really seeing it.

He didn’t seem uncomfortable, exactly. Just... unsure.

Like he felt the weight of the years too — heavy and clumsy on his shoulders — but didn’t know what to do with it.

You watched him set the bag of food down carefully on the counter, his movements slower, more measured than you remembered.

You wondered if he noticed it too — the space between you, cracked and uneven now.

Life had pulled you apart. Not in a dramatic, explosive way. No fights, no betrayals.

Just... time.

The slow, inevitable erosion of closeness when neither side tries quite hard enough to hold on.

And it hurt, in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

Because you remembered — God, you remembered — every stupid little moment from when he was a permanent fixture in your life.

The late nights talking about nothing. The way he used to steal your fries and pretend it was a fair trade. The way he used to laugh — head thrown back, completely unguarded — like nothing in the world could touch him.

You remembered all of it. And looking at him now — older, quieter, somehow lonelier — you realized with a slow, sick twist of your heart:

He probably didn’t.

Or if he did, it wasn’t etched into his bones the way it was for you.

He was just here. Dropping off food. Smiling at you like you were an old photo he forgot he ever loved.

And yet — in the way his eyes softened when they landed on you, in the small crease that appeared between his brows when you hugged your arms tighter around yourself —

you saw something.

A flicker.

A question he didn’t know how to ask.

He felt something too. He just didn’t know what it was yet.

Yeji stirred on the couch behind you, groaning loudly and kicking off a blanket.

You both startled, breaking the heavy, fragile eye contact like it hurt.

Yeji cracked one eye open and grinned sleepily.

"Morning," she mumbled. "Hope I’m not interrupting a moment."

You flushed, ducking your head, while Hoseok huffed a laugh — easy, thoughtless — and turned toward the kitchen.

"No moment," he said lightly.

And it was true.

There was no moment.

Not really.

Just a hundred thousand memories humming between you — all the things you never said, and all the versions of yourselves you could never go back to.

You watched his back as he unpacked the food, your heart heavier than you wanted to admit.

You were older now. You were supposed to know better.

But you still wanted — in quiet, stupid, impossible ways — for him to turn around and see you.

Really see you.

For the first time.

The second his plane touched down in Seoul, Hoseok called Yoongi.

It was instinct, not thought — muscle memory after all these years.

He leaned back in the taxi seat, exhaustion creeping deep into his bones, phone pressed loosely against his ear. The scent of rain on hot pavement bled in through the half-open window.

Three weeks away — three weeks of conferences and endless business dinners in Singapore. It had been good, objectively. A success, by anyone’s standards.

But Hoseok couldn’t shake the hollow feeling that clung to him — something he didn’t want to name.

It wasn’t that he hated what he was doing. It was secure. It was safe.

It just... wasn't the same.

Not the way dancing had been. Not the way it set his veins alight and made him feel like he was alive instead of just existing.

He pushed the thought away, listening as the call rang through.

It went to voicemail.

Typical.

Yoongi was busier these days — a head doctor now, constantly sprinting from one emergency to the next. Hoseok didn’t take it personally. He just shot a lazy text instead: yo you home? just landed.

Yoongi’s reply came a few minutes later: not till lunch. you can wait there if you want. key still works.

No details. No explanations. Just Yoongi.

Hoseok smiled faintly, the way you do when you miss someone without even realizing it.

He checked the time — almost noon.

He figured he had enough time to swing by the old place — their favorite little restaurant tucked behind a pharmacy on the corner — grab some takeout, and settle in at Yoongi’s apartment to wait.

No big deal.

He wasn’t expecting anything.

Definitely not... you.

When he unlocked the door with his copy of the key (because yes, they were those friends — the kind who shared everything without ever needing to ask), he thought he’d find an empty apartment, cold and still.

He did not expect the first thing he saw to be you.

Blankets everywhere. Messy hair. Oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

And you — standing there barefoot, half-blinking at him like you were still halfway inside a dream.

For a second — a full, frozen second — Hoseok's entire brain short-circuited.

Star.

The name crashed into him like a freight train.

He hadn’t thought about you in months — or maybe he had, in small, quiet ways he hadn’t dared to admit.

You looked... different.

Not in the way that was easy to name. Not just the longer hair or the softer shape of your face.

It was deeper than that.

You held yourself differently now — a little heavier, a little slower, like life had settled into your skin instead of sitting lightly on your shoulders like it used to.

Your body, too — he noticed it before he could stop himself.

The curve of your waist, softer and fuller than he remembered. The slight dip where your hips met the hem of the hoodie, barely hidden, barely decent. The way your legs — longer, stronger — braced you instinctively like you were ready to run, or maybe stay.

You were a woman now.

Not the messy little girl who used to chase after him and Yoongi, trying to keep up. Not the bright-eyed teenager he used to laugh with in the summers.

A woman.

And fuck, it hit him so hard he actually forgot how to breathe for a second.

You were still you — still that soft, stubborn, reckless light he remembered — but everything about you was heavier now, richer. Alive in ways that made something deep inside him ache and burn all at once.

You stared at him like you couldn’t quite believe he was real either.

He managed to pull himself together — just barely — and smiled.

It wasn’t the easy, boyish grin he used to throw at you years ago. It was something smaller. Older. Sadder, maybe.

"Long time no see, Star," he said, voice low and a little rougher than he meant.

You flinched — not in fear, but in recognition.

Like hearing that name had broken something open between you, something you had both tried so hard to bury.

He watched as you fumbled for words, clutching the hem of your hoodie, cheeks coloring even as you tried to act casual.

He could see everything — the nervous twitch of your hands, the way your breath caught at the back of your throat, the way your gaze flickered over him like you didn’t know where to land.

It mirrored the way he felt: unsteady, too full, too much.

You said something — something about Yoongi not being there — but Hoseok barely heard it.

He was too busy memorizing you all over again.

The small things. The new things. The old things you still carried, tucked carefully inside yourself.

Something twisted in his chest — something dangerous and familiar.

He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected you.

And standing there, with your bare feet on the hardwood, hair tangled, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at him like he was a ghost — he realized, dimly, terrifyingly:

He was completely fucked.

Hoseok had always been a happy teenager. Full of energy, full of noise, full of this impossible need to fill every room he entered.

But there had always been a sadness, too — quiet, stubborn, tucked deep in the marrow of his bones.

Something about him made people notice. Maybe it was his laughter — loud and reckless, daring the world to keep up. Maybe it was the way he carried his heart in his hands without apology.

But there were moments —moments even then where all that light would slip through the cracks, where he felt older than he had any right to be.

He was sixteen when he first realized it — that feeling of being too much and not enough all at once.

He hid it well. With teasing, mostly. With jokes and grins and a devil-may-care attitude that made it easy for everyone else to believe he was fine.

And he was. Mostly.

Especially around you.

You, who he loved to tease more than anyone.

You, his Star — though you didn’t know it then.

You never really knew why he called you that. You never asked. And he never told you.

But it was a memory he kept tucked carefully inside him — something small and sharp he would trace with his fingers when the world got too loud.

It had been a bad day. Not catastrophic. Just... bad in the quiet, ordinary ways that left bruises you couldn’t see.

His parents arguing again like they did sometimes — voices rising, anger curling under the doors. He was fourteen. Reckless, restless, angry at everything and nothing.

So he ran. Not far — just far enough.

He ran to the one place that still felt safe. Your house.

His second home.

And there you were — not waiting for him, not expecting anything—just there.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a book propped open in your lap, your tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

You were eleven. Far too young to understand the heaviness he carried in his chest.

Far too young to realize you saved him that day without even trying.

He remembered pausing in the doorway, breathless from running, heart pounding against his ribs — and for once, not from movement.

He watched you for a second. Just breathing.

You, who were calm where he was chaos. You, who were stubborn and sweet — to everyone except him. (He liked it that way. He liked that he had to work for your smiles.)

You noticed him eventually — glanced up, wide-eyed and bright.

And without hesitation, you started talking — telling him about whatever story you were reading, voice eager, stumbling over the words in your excitement.

He didn’t hear a single thing you said. Not really.

He just watched.

Listened.

Let the sound of your voice — full of something he had almost forgotten how to feel — wrap around the cracks inside him.

He didn't understand why it mattered so much. Not then.

All he knew was that, for a few stolen minutes, the sadness in him quieted.

And when you smiled God, when you smiled

It was like a whole new universe cracked open right in front of him.

You were so full of life it made his chest ache. So bright it hurt a little to look at you.

So he called you Star.

Because you were.

Because you were light when he needed it most. Because you reminded him — in that stupid, reckless, perfect moment — that not everything in his world was broken.

And even years later — even now, older and quieter and heavier — he remembered.

That day. That smile. That moment of peace he hadn’t known how to ask for but found anyway.

His Star.

Always his Star.

Even if he never told you.

Even if you never knew.

[ddaenqqvantae]

gosh lorddd amaazinggg

In honor of Mona Lisa can we get a jhope fic please Mona Lisa inspired ofc😔👉🏾👈🏾

A/n: so sorry for how long this took but ohhhh my god I loved writing this lmao this was good. it was also lowkey intimidating to write this bc I kinda had to write "mona lisa" as closely as hobi describes her in the song but I think I did a pretty good job lol I hope you loved this!!

Mona Lisa, Yeah I Need Ya (Jhope)

Summary: After a painful breakup, Y/N cautiously reenters the nightlife scene, where an unexpected encounter with the charming Hoseok awakens new desires and challenges her emotional boundaries. Themes: softdom!Hobi, PleasureDom!Hobi, Independent!Reader, Self-Possessed!Reader, Fem recieving oral and fingering, protected sex, alcohol consumption Word Count: 5.2k

It had been a few months since the breakup, and by the second month, you had started to feel like yourself again—steady, clear-headed, no longer unravelling at the sight of old photos or mutual playlists. Still, you decided to lay low a little longer. There was no rush to be social again, no pressure to be seen. You gave yourself the space to rebuild in peace, focusing on self-care, solitude, and the small comforts that often go neglected in the wake of a relationship’s slow erosion.

The breakup itself hadn’t been dramatic—no screaming, no infidelity, no grand exit. If anything, the ending mirrored the relationship itself: quiet, slow-burning, and far too polite. You’d both simply drifted apart, pulled in different directions by work schedules, emotional needs, and that inevitable, unspoken disinterest. He had been distant for months, and though you'd noticed, you had never demanded answers. You didn’t issue ultimatums or stage a last-ditch confession. You were composed. Stoic, even. So when he ended things on a mild spring evening while the sunset painted your apartment in gold and coral, you simply nodded and offered him a drink before he left.

He had been neglectful, true—but mature enough to do the leaving himself. You didn’t mention that part to anyone. Too considerate. Too loyal, even after the fact. It’s a quiet tragedy: how often women swallow the discomfort in favor of appearing unbothered, offering their partner a gentle exit in the name of dignity. “If you don’t love me anymore, just say so.” But that wasn’t the line you fed him. You simply let go.

By the fourth month, the fog had lifted entirely. And when your best friend Gissele texted you an invite to a party at one of the city’s most talked-about clubs, something in you stirred. Not apprehension—readiness. Excitement, even.

There was a dress hanging in your closet you hadn’t worn yet—bought during an impulsive shopping trip when you’d told yourself you would have something to dress up for eventually. It was sleek and unapologetically bold, black silk and structured seams, still crisp with tags. Tonight was the night.

You and Gissele entered the club hand-in-hand, laughter already dancing on your lips as blue and violet lights swept over the crowd. The bassline of the music thrummed in your chest. A kaleidoscope of bodies moved across the floor, sweat-slicked and electric. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—the ritual of getting dressed up, the chaos of the night, the sense of belonging to your own body again.

“I am so ready,” you said with a grin, glancing at Gissele.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” she teased, dragging you toward the bar. The two of you settled on stools, giggling as you sipped pink Whitney from dewy glasses.

“I’m glad you came,” she added, more serious now, swirling her drink. Her honey-brown eyes shimmered under the strobe lights, and her hot pink lacefront framed her face like a crown. Gissele never did subtle. That’s what made her so magnetic—every movement was intentional, every outfit a declaration.

“I just needed time,” you replied softly, shrugging. “To recalibrate.”

“I get it,” she said. And you believed her.

One of the many reasons you adored her was that she always made you feel safe. She had an eye for detail, a sixth sense for shady behavior, and could destroy a creep’s ego in seconds flat—all without smudging her lipstick. She was your shield, your chaos twin, your anchor.

Tonight, her look was a statement of its own. She wore towering white platform boots that wrapped just under her knees, layered shredded tights in blush and fuchsia, a silky white slip dress, and a structured harness that gave her an edge of danger. She looked like she’d stepped out of a cyberpunk magazine. In contrast, your style was more refined: a black dress with asymmetrical ruffles and heeled boots. Romantic. Reserved. A perfect foil to her explosive palette.

“I swear to god, the men here are insane,” she whispered, eyes scanning the crowd. “Wait—yup. That one’s staring at you.”

You blinked. “Which one?”

But she was already gone, abandoning her stool with a laugh and a wink. “Have fun,” she called over her shoulder, leaving you alone with your drink—and, apparently, under observation.

You didn’t have to wait long.

A few moments later, a hand gently brushed your elbow. You turned, startled, only to meet a pair of warm, expressive eyes and a mouth curved into a smile that was as soft as it was knowing.

“May I buy you a drink?” the man asked, voice velvet-smooth. He slid into the seat beside you—the one Gissele had left vacant—as though it had always been his.

You looked at him—really looked. The subtle shine of sweat on his brow, the warm bronze undertone of his skin, and the twinkle of his grill as he smiled, catching the light like a constellation. Elegant, refined—and yet there was a hint of mischief beneath his charm.

“I’m still working on this,” you said, lifting your half-full pink Whitney and licking the corner of your lip, as if to test his reaction.

A rejection, technically. But not a closed door.

His smirk widened just slightly, like he understood the game. “Fair enough,” he replied, his eyes not leaving yours. The air between you shifted, magnetic. He didn’t press—but he didn’t leave either.

You crossed one leg over the other, sitting up straighter, aware of the way his eyes briefly flicked down and back up. “Your friend seemed eager to disappear.”

“She saw you coming,” you replied, letting a slow smile curl your lips. “Thought she’d give us a moment.”

“Smart woman,” he said, clearly amused.

“I’m Y/N.”

You extended your hand, and instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—light, gentlemanly, deliberate.

“Hoseok,” he said. “Pleasure.”

You felt your stomach flutter—ridiculous, you told yourself. It’s just the alcohol. But you knew better.

“Is this your usual scene?” you asked, easing into conversation, trying to keep your tone casual despite the way his presence kept pulling your attention like a gravitational force.

“I show up when I feel like dressing up and flirting shamelessly with beautiful women,” he replied without a trace of irony. His gaze locked with yours. “So tonight, yes.”

You laughed. “That a line you use often?”

“No,” he said, “I save it for when it’s true.”

The banter had an easy rhythm, but it was laced with a sincerity you weren’t prepared for. He wasn’t just trying to charm you—he meant what he said. Every compliment had weight, every glance held intention.

And still, there was no pressure. Just presence. Just a man leaning in slightly, his fingers ghosting the rim of his glass as he listened to you speak. You told him about your job, your last girls’ trip, your recent obsession with 90s R&B. He told you about his travels, his work in dance and music, his deep affection for old vinyl records and lavender-scented candles.

The two of you slipped into a corner booth after the second drink. The crowd pulsed on around you, a blur of motion and noise. But the space you occupied felt insulated—separate, private, like a soft secret between the two of you.

He leaned closer.

“You have a way of being still in chaos,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “It’s... rare. That calm.”

You raised a brow, caught off guard by the poetry in his tone. “You talk like that to all the girls?”

“No,” he said again. “Only when I mean it.”

This time, the blush crept to your ears. Hoseok watched the shift in your expression with barely concealed satisfaction, like a man who knew the power of words and wielded them carefully. He didn’t reach for your thigh. He didn’t try to kiss you. But every movement, every word, made it clear: he was interested. And he was in no hurry. This wasn’t conquest—it was intrigue. And the longer you sat with him, the harder it became to look away.

“Come dance with me,” he said, standing and offering you his hand.

You hesitated only for a second before slipping your fingers into his, letting him guide you onto the floor. The music shifted to something sultry and slow, the kind of rhythm that curled around your limbs and made the space between bodies feel charged.

And when he placed his hands—gentle, respectful—on your hips, guiding you to move with him, you felt the heat settle into your skin.

Maybe it wasn’t the alcohol after all.

The music thrummed low and seductive, a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with the beat of your heart as Hoseok guided you into the tangle of swaying bodies. His grip was light at your waist—two fingers resting just enough to suggest control without taking it. You settled into the tempo, allowing yourself to relax into the motion. He moved close, not too close, but close enough to feel the heat of his body through the thin black silk of your dress.

“You dance like someone who doesn’t come out often,” he murmured, leaning just enough that his breath stirred the strands near your ear.

Your lips curved. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said smoothly. “It means I get to watch you rediscover it.”

You turned your head to glance at him, amused and a little intrigued. “And what exactly am I rediscovering?”

His eyes flicked down, just once, before settling back on your face. “What it feels like to be wanted.”

That one hit deeper than you expected. But you didn’t falter. You just tilted your head with a coy, polished smile, like he hadn’t just said something that made your stomach twist with heat.

“Is that what this is?” you asked, voice even. “You wanting me?”

“Undeniably,” he said.

A beat passed. You looked away first, the corners of your mouth twitching upward in unspoken amusement.

He didn’t press. Instead, he shifted closer—so slowly it was imperceptible at first. His chest barely grazed yours now, and his hand had migrated, palm resting against the dip of your spine. He kept the movement subtle, his other hand lifting to brush a stray hair from your cheek, fingertips skimming along the line of your jaw. Polite, still. But loaded.

“So,” he said, voice smooth as honey, “what brings you out tonight? You don’t strike me as someone who comes here for the drinks.”

Your gaze flicked up to his, your brow lifting. “I could say the same to you.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the push and pull. “Touché. But I asked first.”

You paused, just for effect, before answering. “I needed the reminder that I still exist outside my apartment. Outside my routines.”

“A reawakening,” he said, the word drawn out thoughtfully, like he was tasting it.

“Something like that.”

He nodded, hand pressing a little more firmly against your back now. You stepped forward slightly to keep your balance, and he didn’t move back. Your bodies were close enough now that you could feel the bass of the music reverberating between you.

“And the dress?” he asked, eyes sweeping over you again—but not lewdly. Thoughtfully. “Bought for tonight?”

“No,” you replied, tone playful. “It’s been waiting in my closet for months.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling faintly. “Then I feel incredibly lucky.”

You raised a brow. “To see it?”

“To be the reason it came out.”

Your laugh was soft, reluctant. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m honest,” he corrected. “And observant.”

His hand drifted just slightly lower, the heat of his palm lingering now at the curve where your spine met your hips. You felt the warmth climb your neck, but your expression remained neutral—poised.

“You move like someone who doesn’t just dance,” he said. “You move like you know exactly what kind of attention you command.”

Your mouth parted slightly, caught off guard by the comment, but you recovered quickly, tipping your head in mock consideration. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a fact,” he said, voice dipping lower, lips brushing dangerously close to your ear now. “And a turn-on.”

This time, the flush threatened to betray you. Your stomach coiled with something sharp and satisfying, and though you didn’t respond immediately, your eyes met his again with that same unreadable smile.

He searched your expression, but you gave him nothing—just subtle amusement and polished restraint. That only seemed to intrigue him more.

“You’re good at this,” you said at last.

“At what?”

“This slow burn thing. Drawing people in.”

“I could say the same to you.”

A silence settled between you—thick, charged. His hand still rested against your lower back, and your arms had looped, almost instinctively, behind his neck. There was no distance left between your bodies. You were moving in sync, slow, deliberate, the music now secondary to the tension blooming between you.

You leaned in slightly, voice low. “I should probably check on my friend.”

Hoseok glanced across the floor, spotting Gissele leaning against a far wall, already deep in conversation with two girls and laughing over something shared on a phone screen.

“She looks... occupied,” he said, then turned back to you. “But if you want to leave, I’ll walk you both out.”

You studied him for a moment. His posture, his ease, the way he never once made you feel boxed in despite the magnetism between you. He didn’t ask for anything—but the possibility hung heavy in the air.

You took a breath. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

There was a pause—brief, electric.

“My hotel’s nearby,” he said, simply. No edge, no pressure. Just suggestion. “If you’d like to keep talking somewhere quieter.”

“Talking,” you echoed with a knowing smile.

His own smile widened. “I did say I was honest.”

You didn’t answer right away. You turned toward the crowd, eyes finding Gissele again. She caught your gaze immediately and raised a brow, already knowing. You mouthed something across the distance—going to head out—and she responded with a wink and a thumbs up before returning to her new entourage.

You turned back to Hoseok.

“Well,” you said, brushing invisible lint from your dress and adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Lead the way.”

He offered you his hand again—this time not for the dance floor, but for the descent into something far more intimate. You took it without hesitation.

As the two of you exited the club, the air outside wrapped cool around your legs, balancing the heat that still lingered across your skin. Hoseok pressed the hotel’s location into his phone with one hand, the other still cradling yours like it was second nature.

And all the while, you walked beside him, steady, unreadable—but your pulse betrayed you, thrumming in places he hadn’t even touched.

Not yet. Not quite yet.

The elevator ride was quiet at first. Not awkward—just charged. A kind of silence that hung heavy between you both, weighted by everything unsaid but fully understood.

Hoseok leaned back against the elevator wall, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other running through his dark hair as his eyes traveled over you again, unapologetically this time. The overhead lighting softened his features, casting delicate shadows across the sharp lines of his face. His bottom lip caught slightly between his teeth before he spoke.

“You know,” he began, voice lower now in the confined space, “I wasn’t expecting much tonight. A few drinks, some polite conversation. Maybe a dance.”

You arched a brow, arms folded loosely, your smile just barely present—soft, knowing.

“But then I saw you,” he continued. “And you were… still.”

Still?

“Everyone else was moving, talking, laughing. But you were just there. Still and deliberate. Like you didn’t have to do anything to be seen.”

He pushed off the wall just slightly, not closing the distance between you, but enough to shift the tension in the air.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “But it’s something else. Something about you makes me want more than just tonight.”

You tilted your head slightly, lips pressing into a faint line of amusement, not revealing much. Your posture hadn’t changed—you remained poised, calm, with that same unshakable grace—but the warmth that bloomed in your chest betrayed your exterior.

“I’m not saying I’m expecting anything,” he added, quickly but not nervously. “I mean that. I just want to talk to you. Maybe get to know what it is that makes someone like you walk into a place like that and look like you already own it.”

You glanced sideways at him. “Smooth,” you said, your voice light but your eyes sharp. “Again.”

His grin deepened, dimple flashing. “Told you—I’m honest.”

The elevator chimed, and the doors parted.

Hoseok stepped out first and held the door without needing to look back, like it was muscle memory. You walked past him with that same unbothered elegance, and he fell into step beside you as the two of you moved down the hall toward his room.

Once inside, he didn’t rush. The suite was wide and open, the lights dimmed low and the view of the city glittering through the glass balcony doors. You made your way there without needing an invitation, pushing them open and stepping outside into the night air.

The wind was soft, almost warm, carrying the sounds of distant traffic and nightlife up to the high floor. Hoseok joined you moments later, two glasses of something amber in hand—he offered one to you silently, and you took it without comment.

The silence returned, this time more companionable. The city stretched out before you in every direction, glittering like it existed just for the two of you.

“So,” you said, finally. “What brings you here?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, sipping from his glass before replying. “Work. Mostly.”

You nodded. “What kind of work?”

He turned to you, leaning one elbow on the railing. “Creative consulting. For artists. A little bit of choreography. A little bit of producing.”

Your brow lifted slightly. “That’s vague.���

He laughed, the sound quiet and unforced. “It is. That’s on purpose. I’m not really supposed to name names.”

You hummed. “Discretion. That’s attractive.”

“And rare,” he said, eyes flicking to yours again. “But I don’t just come here for work. Sometimes it’s a reset. Different city, different pace. New people.”

You sipped. “New distractions.”

“Maybe.” He glanced sideways at you again. “You don’t seem like one.”

You smirked. “No?”

“No. You feel more like a disruption.”

That word hung in the air between you.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the railing, letting the wind lift the ends of your hair. The glass in your hand caught a glimmer of moonlight, casting tiny golden flecks onto the concrete floor beneath you.

He watched you. Carefully. And when you looked back at him—slow, deliberate—his gaze didn’t shift away.

You held it.

That’s when the space between you shortened.

He didn’t move all at once. Just a step, and then another. His hand rested lightly on the curve of the railing beside yours, knuckles brushing your wrist.

“I’ve been trying not to stare,” he said, almost under his breath. “But you make it hard.”

Still, your smile didn’t waver. You simply turned your face toward his, eyes locked, unreadable.

The kiss was inevitable.

It didn’t happen in a rush—it happened in the quiet pause between glances. His hand rose to touch your cheek, thumb trailing just beneath your bottom lip, eyes watching the way your mouth parted the slightest bit at the contact. He didn’t ask, didn’t need to. When he leaned in, your lips met in a soft, exploratory kiss—slow at first, like the two of you were testing gravity itself.

When you didn’t pull away, when your fingers found the lapel of his jacket and held him there, he deepened it.

The glass in your hand tilted dangerously. You broke apart just long enough to set it down on the balcony table, then turned back to him with a heat now undeniable in your eyes.

He took your hand, no words this time, and led you back inside.

The room was cool, draped in shadows and city light. He paused at the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning your face once more.

“You’re sure?” he asked, quiet now.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his neck. “If I wasn’t, you’d know.”

That was all the permission he needed.

“I want to take my time with you,” he whispered, voice velvet. “Is that alright?”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you let your hands slide beneath his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders in one smooth motion. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

Hoseok’s hands were reverent, moving to the hem of your dress but not lifting it—yet. First, his fingertips traced along the fabric, following the curve of your hips, the line of your thigh. His palms flattened over your sides as he leaned in again, lips brushing just below your ear.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been holding back,” he said, exhaling slowly. “How much I’ve wanted to touch you like this… see how far I can push you before you ask for it.”

You inhaled slowly, your lips parted in the half-light, but your expression stayed controlled—poised, as ever. “I don’t ask.”

And that thrilled him.

He knelt then, lowering himself with grace until he was eye-level with your thighs. Your breath caught—not from nerves, but from the gravity of the gesture. The way he looked up at you, hands now sliding under the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric slowly to your waist, was enough to make your knees threaten betrayal.

He pressed a kiss to your knee. Then higher. Then higher still.

“Sit back,” he said, voice quiet but firm, “and let me make you feel good.”

You obeyed without speaking. Still wordless, still elegant—but when you leaned back onto the bed and rested on your elbows, your eyes stayed locked on his.

The pleasure was slow at first.

His mouth on you was deliberate, exploratory, taking his time with every flick, every suck, every drawn-out breath against your most sensitive skin. His hands pressed down on your thighs—not to hold you still, but to anchor you. To remind you where you were. With him.

You bit your bottom lip, hard. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.

But Hoseok could read the tremble in your thighs, the subtle curve of your back arching slightly more with every languid sweep of his tongue. He didn’t need the moans—you were giving him everything already.

He pulled back just briefly, lips slick, eyes hooded with restrained desire.

“You're doing so well,” he praised, voice rougher now. “So fucking beautiful like this.”

Your lashes fluttered, mouth finally parting with a soft gasp as he moved back in and kept going—more confident now, more focused. One of his hands slid up to hold your waist, feeling the way your stomach tensed and relaxed with every wave of pressure he delivered.

And when you finally let your head fall back and exhaled a soft, trembling moan—he smiled against your skin.

It wasn’t about power, not really. Not domination in the way most understood it.

It was about control—his of himself, and yours of how far you’d let go.

You came undone in his mouth, tension bursting like light behind your eyes. Still elegant, still quiet—but shaken in a way that made your hands reach for his shoulders, grounding yourself as you rode the high out in stunned silence.

Hoseok rose slowly, reverently, kissing the inside of your thigh one last time before pulling you gently up to meet him.

He kissed you again—slow and soft—like he wasn’t trying to erase what just happened, but let it linger.

“Not done with you,” he whispered into your mouth.

Then he stood, reaching back to unbutton his shirt, eyes never leaving yours. “But only if you let me keep going.”

You smiled.

A real one this time. No teasing, no mask.

“Go ahead,” you said, voice soft but steady. 

He stepped back just enough to pull the shirt from his shoulders, the faint light catching on the hard lines of his chest and the soft sheen of sweat that had started to gather at his collarbones. Every movement he made was fluid, unhurried, as though undressing in front of you was its own performance—one he wanted you to watch.

And you did. Reclined now against the plush pillows, one leg slightly bent and the other stretched long across the bed, you watched him like art. Quiet, composed, with only the slight tug of your bottom lip between your teeth giving you away.

Hoseok crawled back onto the bed, his hands brushing the sides of your thighs as he moved over you. He leaned in to kiss you again—slower this time, deeper. Like he was memorizing your mouth.

“You taste like my name,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “And now I want to hear it.”

Your lips curled in a small, knowing smirk. “Then earn it.”

He laughed softly—low, rich, aroused. “Oh, sweetheart…” he exhaled, trailing his mouth along your jaw, “I already am.”

This time, he didn’t rush. He took his time laying you bare—unzipping your dress with care, helping you shift out of it like he was unwrapping silk. His hands explored in unhurried strokes, tracing the dips and curves of your body with open admiration. Every glance he gave you was appreciative, worshipful, but not the least bit cloying. It was honest. Hungry, but controlled.

He kissed your sternum. The curve of your breast. The space just below your navel. His hands pushed your thighs apart gently, and when you let him, you saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

He spent the next while reacquainting himself with you—like a second act to the performance before, only this time slower, deeper. His fingers were skilled, precise, coaxing out reactions you tried to smother, and his mouth followed wherever your body arched.

"That's it..." he whispered against your skin, lips brushing your inner thigh. "Just like that. Let go." His fingers gently reach deeper.

You were close again—faster this time. You could feel your composure slip, inch by inch, but not in a way that embarrassed you. It felt safe, wrapped in the cocoon of his body, his words, the sheer focus he gave to your pleasure. “Hoseok.” You nearly whined, surprising yourself.

And when you did come, he didn’t rush you through it. He kissed your trembling thighs as they shook, gently massaging your hips with open palms. His voice stayed low and sweet.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Every sound, every breath—you’re fucking perfect.”

You were still catching your breath when he hovered above you again. The weight of him between your legs felt like gravity—solid, anchoring. He was hard, thick against your thigh, and you could feel the tension in him, the restraint.

He kissed you again—deep, open-mouthed, and a little desperate this time.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Your turn.”

That same smirk from earlier flickered on his lips. “Only if you still want more.”

You nodded slowly, letting your hand trail down between your bodies, fingers brushing over the outline of him through his pants. “I want it.”

Those three words flipped a switch.

In seconds, he was out of the rest of his clothes, and you were guiding him back between your legs. He ripped open a metallic packet and rolled on a condom. He pressed against you gently, pausing at your entrance, watching your eyes.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and your breath caught in your throat. His hands gripped your hips, his forehead resting against yours as he whispered a near-silent curse.

“Fuck—you feel like you were made for me.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “That’s a line.”

“It’s a truth.” He pulled out almost entirely, then pushed back in, deeper. “And I’ll prove it.”

What followed was nothing rushed. No frenzied thrusts, no hurried movements. Hoseok fucked you like he meant it. Like every slow grind of his hips was a conversation. Like every breathless moan from your lips was a secret he wanted to keep in his mouth forever.

He kept one hand at your waist, another tangled with your fingers, grounding you together. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, and he groaned into your neck.

“I could lose myself in this,” he breathed. “In you.”

The rhythm built—still slow, still controlled, but more desperate now. Like he was trying not to come too soon, and you were trying not to fall apart again. You kissed, gasped, touched, pressed—until the tension coiled tighter than either of you could stand.

When you came again, this time it was together.

Bodies trembling, breaths mingling, hands gripping tightly like you didn’t want to let go. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, his mouth parted in bliss.

The silence afterward was comfortable—thick with heat and something else you didn’t dare name yet. He slowly pulled out, then settled beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as you turned into his chest.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just breathing.

Just being.

Then he kissed the top of your head, his voice softer than you’d heard it all night.

“Stay the night?”

You let out a quiet laugh against his chest.

“Didn’t realize I had a choice.”

-

The sun was barely up when you stumbled through Giselle’s front door, barefoot heels in hand, hair tousled and lips still tingling but still as put together as you could be. She was exactly where you expected her to be—sprawled on the couch in last night’s chaos of pink and white, a satin eye mask crooked on her forehead and a slice of cold pizza hanging limply from her fingers.

She peeled the mask off and blinked at you. “Oh my god,” she groaned, sitting up. “You look like sin.”

You grinned, tossing your shoes down and flopping onto the couch beside her. “You have no idea.”

She gasped. “Y/N—tell me everything. Who was that man? Where did you go? Did he ruin your life or just rearrange it a little?”

You laughed, burying your face into the throw pillow for a moment before lifting your head. “His name’s Hoseok. And...he’s dangerously charming.”

“Dangerous how?”

“Like—he kissed my hand when he introduced himself. Like, who does that?” You paused, smiling to yourself. “He made me feel like the only girl in the room without even trying. And he didn’t rush anything. He...listened. A lot.”

Giselle squinted suspiciously. “Was he hot?”

You let out a short breath. “He was beautiful. Like warm smile, honey voice, perfectly tailored pants beautiful.”

Giselle clutched her chest dramatically. “I’m gonna scream. Did you kiss him?”

“Giselle.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

You gave her a look.

Her mouth dropped open. “YOU DID.”

You laughed again, hands covering your face. “It was… good. Like, really, really good.”

“I’m so proud,” she said, hugging you from the side like she was sending you off to war. “Godspeed, you emotionally available goddess.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, still a little dazed. “It was just one night.”

She grinned. “Yeah. But sometimes, one night’s enough to shake you a little, right?”

You paused, thinking of Hoseok's hands, his words, the way he looked at you like there was no one else worth looking at.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It really is.”

“You should have given him your number.” she sat up. 

“Who says I didn't?” 

➽ Kpop Masterlist ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Yoongi Masterlist ➽ G Dragon Masterlist ➽ Buy Me a Coffee

[ddaenqqvantae]

Contract of Cravings

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst, Contractual Relationship AU

Word Count: ~8k+

Warnings: Explicit smut (18+), unprotected sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), dirty talk, light dom/sub dynamics, spanking, overstimulation, phone/video call sex, breeding kink, pregnancy, bickering, obsessive behavior, emotional chaos, detailed sexual content.

Summary: A contract meant for pleasure spirals into an all-consuming obsession. What started as a no-strings-attached arrangement with Jung Hoseok becomes a chaotic dance of desire, bickering, and unexpected love, culminating in a life-changing revelation.

The first time you met Jung Hoseok, it was at a dimly lit bar in Gangnam, the kind of place where the air was thick with expensive perfume and the promise of bad decisions. You were nursing a martini, your third of the night, after a brutal week at your corporate job. He was across the room, leaning against the bar, his tailored suit hugging his lean frame like it was made for him. His smile was disarming, all sunshine and mischief, and his eyes—God, those eyes—locked onto yours like you were the only person in the room.

You weren’t looking for anything serious. At 28, you’d sworn off relationships after a string of heartbreaks that left you jaded. But Hoseok? He was a walking temptation, and you were too tipsy to care about consequences.

He sauntered over, his movements fluid, like he was dancing to a beat only he could hear. “Is that martini doing you justice, or should I order you something better?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You smirked, swirling the olive in your glass. “Depends. Can you keep up with me?”

His laugh was infectious, bright and unfiltered. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

That night, you talked for hours—about nothing and everything. He was a choreographer, he said, working with K-pop idols and international artists. His passion for dance spilled into every word, his hands gesturing wildly as he described his latest project. You told him about your soul-sucking job as a marketing analyst, how you craved something more but didn’t know what. The conversation flowed effortlessly, laced with flirtation and just enough tension to make your skin tingle.

By 2 a.m., you were in the backseat of a taxi, his lips on yours, his hands roaming under your dress. The kiss was desperate, all teeth and tongue, like you’d both been starving for it. You ended up at his penthouse, a sleek space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of Seoul’s glittering skyline. Clothes hit the floor before you even made it to the bedroom.

That first night was a blur of heat and need. Hoseok fucked you like he was claiming you, his body moving with the same precision he used in his choreography. Every thrust, every touch, was deliberate, designed to unravel you. You came undone on his tongue, his fingers, his cock, until you were a trembling mess beneath him, begging for more.

When you woke up the next morning, tangled in his sheets, you expected awkwardness. Instead, he was making coffee in the kitchen, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips. “Stay for breakfast,” he said, flashing that infuriatingly charming smile. “I make a mean omelette.”

You stayed. And that was the beginning.

It wasn’t supposed to be more than a one-night stand. But Hoseok texted you the next day, a playful message about how he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you moaned his name. You met up again, and again, and soon it was a regular thing—late-night hookups, stolen moments in his studio, quickies in your apartment. The chemistry was electric, undeniable, but neither of you wanted the baggage of a real relationship.

One night, sprawled across his couch after a particularly intense session, you broached the idea. “What if we made this… official? But, like, without the feelings part.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowed. “What, like a contract?”

“Exactly,” you said, sitting up. “We keep doing this—fucking each other’s brains out—but no commitments, no labels. Just… pleasure.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

You smirked. “So, you in?”

He leaned in, kissing you hard, his hand slipping between your thighs. “I’m in, baby. But you better be ready for me.”

The “contract” was simple, scribbled on a napkin for laughs:

1. Fuck whenever, wherever, as long as both parties consent. 2. No catching feelings. 3. No exclusivity, but no sleeping with others without communication. 4. Either party can end it, no questions asked.

You both signed it, giggling like idiots, then sealed it with a kiss that turned into another round on his living room floor. The napkin ended up framed on his wall, a tongue-in-cheek reminder of your arrangement.

Living with Hoseok was a whirlwind. A month into the contract, he suggested you move into his penthouse. “It’s practical,” he argued. “We’re fucking all the time anyway. Save you the rent.”

You hesitated, wary of blurring lines, but the logic—and the promise of his body every night—won out. You moved in, and the penthouse was more than a home; it was a canvas for your relentless desire, every corner marked by the heat of your bodies and the echo of your gasps. The boundaries of your contract with Jung Hoseok blurred in the haze of lust, and the spaces you shared became sacred in their debauchery.

The Kitchen Counter

It was 3 a.m., the witching hour, when the world was quiet but your hunger for each other roared. You’d woken up restless, padding to the kitchen for a glass of water, your silk slip clinging to your skin. Hoseok followed, his presence a magnetic pull you couldn’t resist. He found you leaning against the marble counter, the city lights spilling through the window, casting shadows over your curves.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, his bare torso gleaming in the dim light. He wore only loose sweatpants, slung low enough to reveal the sharp V of his hips.

You smirked, setting the glass down. “Not when you’re in my head.”

He closed the distance, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. “Good. I like being there.” His lips crashed into yours, a kiss that was all fire and need, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owned it. You moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He spun you around, pressing your stomach against the cold marble, your slip riding up as he yanked it to your waist. “Fuck, you look so good like this,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You arched back, feeling the heat of him through his sweatpants, his erection pressing against your ass.

“Hoseok, please,” you whimpered, already soaked, your body begging for him.

He didn’t make you wait. He tugged your panties down, letting them pool at your ankles, and freed himself from his sweatpants. His cock was hard, glistening, and he teased you with it, sliding it along your folds, coating himself in your slickness. “So wet for me,” he murmured, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

“Stop teasing,” you snapped, pushing back against him.

He chuckled, low and dark, then thrust into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely. You cried out, your hands scrambling for purchase on the counter, the marble biting into your palms. He set a brutal pace, each thrust deep and deliberate, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that mirrored his dance. His hands held you in place, one sliding up to grip your shoulder, the other digging into your hip, anchoring you as he fucked you senseless.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, leaning forward to bite the sensitive skin of your neck, his teeth sending sparks of pain and pleasure through you. The angle shifted, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you screamed his name, your body trembling.

“Come for me, baby,” he commanded, his hand slipping around to rub tight circles on your clit. It was too much—the stretch of him, the pressure on your clit, the heat of his breath against your ear. You shattered, your orgasm crashing through you, your walls clenching around him as you sobbed his name. He followed moments later, his thrusts erratic, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering against yours.

You stayed there, panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the counter cold against your cheek. He kissed your shoulder, soft and reverent, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered, and you laughed, breathless, your heart pounding with something you refused to name.

The Shower

The next evening, after a long day of bickering over whose turn it was to clean the dishes, you found solace in the shower. The glass enclosure was a sanctuary, the hot water cascading over your skin, washing away the tension. You didn’t hear Hoseok enter, but you felt him, his presence electric as he stepped in behind you, his naked body pressing against yours.

“Thought I’d join you,” he said, his lips brushing your ear, his hands sliding over your wet skin, tracing the curve of your waist.

You turned, smirking, the water plastering your hair to your face. “You just want to get me dirty again.”

“Guilty,” he grinned, his eyes dark with want. He kissed you, slow and deep, the water mingling with the taste of him, his hands cupping your face like you were something precious. But the tenderness didn’t last. The kiss grew hungrier, more desperate, and you sank to your knees, the tiles hard against your skin, the water streaming over you.

His cock was already hard, thick and heavy, and you looked up at him, meeting his gaze as you licked a slow stripe along the underside. He groaned, his head tipping back, one hand bracing against the glass. “Fuck, baby, don’t tease.”

You didn’t. You took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling over the tip. He tasted of salt and him, and you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, your hand wrapping around the base to stroke what your mouth couldn’t reach. His moans were music, raw and unfiltered, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust too hard.

“Look at you,” he panted, his hand tangling in your wet hair, guiding your movements. “So fucking perfect, taking me like that.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip tightening. You worked him with your mouth and hand, slow then fast, teasing the head before taking him deep, your throat relaxing to accommodate him. The water made it messy, slick and sloppy, but you didn’t care. You wanted him undone, wanted to feel him lose control.

He warned you, his voice strained. “Gonna come, baby—fuck—” You didn’t pull away, doubling your efforts, your eyes locked on his as he came, hot and thick, spilling down your throat. You swallowed, licking him clean, savoring the way he trembled, his breaths ragged.

He pulled you up, kissing you fiercely, tasting himself on your tongue. “You’re fucking unreal,” he murmured, and you grinned, your body buzzing with pride and need.

The Balcony

The balcony was your favorite, a private oasis above Seoul’s glittering skyline. One night, after too much wine and laughter, Hoseok led you outside, the air cool against your heated skin. You wore only his oversized shirt, the hem barely covering your thighs, and he looked at you like you were his entire world.

“Out here?” you teased, leaning against the railing, the city sprawling below, the stars above.

“Out here,” he confirmed, his voice low, his hands already lifting the shirt, baring you to the night. He dropped to his knees, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh, and you shivered, not from the cold but from the promise in his touch.

He spread your legs, hooking one over his shoulder, his hands gripping your ass to hold you steady. His mouth was on you before you could brace yourself, his tongue lapping at your folds, slow and deliberate, savoring you. You gasped, your hands clutching the railing, the metal cool under your palms.

“Hoseok,” you moaned, your voice carrying into the night, unashamed. He hummed against you, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through you, his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision. He knew exactly how to unravel you, alternating between soft licks and hard sucks, his fingers slipping inside you, curling to hit that perfect spot.

The city lights blurred, the stars spun, and all you could feel was him—his mouth, his fingers, his breath. Your moans grew louder, reckless, echoing into the Seoul night as he drove you higher, relentless in his worship. When you came, it was explosive, your body shaking, your cries raw and desperate. He didn’t stop, lapping at you until you were oversensitive, begging him to stop, to keep going, your mind a haze of pleasure.

He stood, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “You’re fucking addictive,” he said, and you pulled him closer, needing more, always more.

Hoseok’s business trips were a special kind of torture. When he was gone, the penthouse transformed from a vibrant, chaotic haven into a hollow shell, stripped of his infectious laughter, his scattered dance shoes, and the warmth of his presence. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of the city below, and it gnawed at you. You hated the ache that settled in your chest, a longing that went beyond the physical need for his touch. It was the absence of his energy, his teasing grin, the way he’d hum off-key while making coffee. You missed him in ways that made your heart clench, and you loathed admitting it, even to yourself.

The first time he called from Tokyo, you were sprawled across his king-sized bed, drowning in one of his oversized shirts, the fabric smelling faintly of his cologne—citrus and cedar, a scent that made your stomach flip. It was late, the Seoul skyline glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and you were restless, your body thrumming with unmet need. The phone buzzed on the nightstand, his name lighting up the screen, and your heart skipped despite your best efforts to play it cool.

“Miss me?” Hoseok’s voice was husky, laced with that playful edge that always made your pulse race. You could hear the faint hum of his hotel room, the distant sound of Tokyo’s nightlife filtering through an open window.

“Nope,” you lied, your voice teasing, your fingers already toying with the hem of his shirt, tracing the edge where it brushed your thighs. The fabric was soft, worn, and it felt like a poor substitute for his skin.

“Liar,” he shot back, his chuckle low and knowing. “What’re you wearing?”

You smirked, leaning back against the pillows, the phone pressed to your ear. “Your shirt. Nothing else.”

He groaned, the sound raw and unfiltered, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Fuck, baby. You’re killing me.” His voice dropped, darker, more commanding. “Touch yourself. Tell me how it feels.”

Your breath hitched, your body responding before your mind could catch up. You slid your hand under the shirt, your fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing yourself, drawing out the anticipation. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice already breathy. “I’m touching my thighs… soft, warm. Wish it was your hands.”

“God, I wish that too,” he murmured, his voice thick with want. “Keep going. Tell me everything.”

You obeyed, your fingers slipping higher, brushing over your folds, already slick with arousal. “I’m… wet,” you said, your voice trembling with need. “So wet for you, Hobi. I’m rubbing slow circles on my clit, just like you do.”

He moaned, the sound low and guttural, and you could hear the faint rustle of fabric, the slick sound of his hand moving over himself. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Imagine it’s me, my fingers on you, my tongue. How’s it feel?”

“So good,” you gasped, your fingers moving faster, dipping inside yourself, your hips bucking against your hand. “But it’s not enough. I need you, Hobi. Need your cock inside me.”

“Shit,” he hissed, his breaths ragged, the sound of him stroking himself growing faster, more desperate. “I’d fuck you so hard right now, baby. Pin you to that bed, make you scream my name. Keep touching yourself. Fuck your fingers, pretend it’s me.”

You did, sliding two fingers inside, curling them to hit that spot that made you see stars. Your moans filled the room, mingling with his through the phone, a symphony of desperation. “Hoseok, I’m so close,” you whimpered, your thumb circling your clit, your body trembling.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice tight, on the edge. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You shattered, your orgasm crashing through you, your walls clenching around your fingers as you cried his name, your voice raw and needy. His moans followed, broken and desperate, his breath hitching as he came, the sound of his pleasure pushing you even higher. You lay there, panting, your body slick with sweat, the phone still pressed to your ear.

“Fuck, I miss you,” he said, his voice soft now, vulnerable, and you pretended you didn’t hear the weight behind it, the emotion that threatened to crack your carefully built walls.

“Miss you too,” you whispered, before you could stop yourself, and hung up quickly, your heart pounding with something you weren’t ready to name.

Video calls were a different beast, a cruel tease that made the distance feel sharper. One night, a week into his trip, he called from his hotel room in LA, the screen lighting up with his face—shirtless, hair messy from running his hands through it, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored your own. He was sprawled on the bed, the city’s glow spilling through the window, and the sight of him, all lean muscle and heated gaze, made your mouth dry.

“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You look too good in my shirt.”

You grinned, angling the phone to show you were wearing another of his tees, the fabric barely covering your thighs as you sat cross-legged on the bed. “It’s all I’ve got of you right now,” you teased, your voice laced with longing.

“Not for long,” he said, his smirk widening. He propped his phone on a pillow, giving you a full view of his body, his hand already trailing down his chest, over the taut planes of his abs, to the waistband of his boxers. “Wanna play?”

Your breath caught, heat pooling in your core. “Always,” you said, shifting to mirror him, your fingers brushing the hem of the shirt, lifting it to reveal the lace of your panties.

His eyes darkened, his hand slipping beneath his boxers, freeing his cock—hard, glistening with precum, the sight making you ache. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, stroking himself slowly, his hips bucking slightly. “Wish this was you, baby. Wish I was fucking you right now.”

You moaned, your hand slipping beneath your panties, your fingers finding your clit, already swollen with need. “Me too,” you gasped, your other hand pushing the shirt up to expose your breasts, your nipples hardening under his gaze. “I’m so wet, Hobi. Thinking about you all day.”

“Show me,” he growled, his strokes growing faster, his eyes locked on the screen. You angled the phone lower, spreading your legs to give him a view as you pushed your panties aside, your fingers sliding through your slick folds, dipping inside yourself. His groan was visceral, his hand moving faster, his cock twitching in his grip.

You matched his rhythm, riding a pillow you’d grabbed from the bed, the friction against your core sending sparks through you. Your moans mingled with his through the screen, the sound of his voice, his ragged breaths, driving you wild. “Hoseok, I need you,” you whined, your hips grinding harder, your fingers circling your clit in time with his strokes.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he panted, his voice breaking. “Gonna fuck you so good when I’m back, baby. Gonna make you come so hard you forget your name.”

The promise pushed you over the edge, your orgasm hitting like a tidal wave, your body shaking as you cried his name, your moans echoing in the empty penthouse. He followed, his hips jerking, his cock pulsing as he came, thick ropes spilling over his hand, his groans raw and desperate.

You both stayed there, breathless, the screen a fragile tether between you. “Not enough,” you whispered, your voice small, and he nodded, his eyes soft with something unspoken.

“Never enough,” he agreed, and you both hung up, the ache in your chest sharper than ever.

When Hoseok finally returned, the air crackled with anticipation. You’d been counting the hours, your body buzzing with need, your heart traitorously loud in its longing. The moment you heard the key in the lock, you were on your feet, pacing the foyer like a caged animal. The door swung open, and there he was—tired, disheveled, but so fucking beautiful, his grin bright enough to light up the room.

He barely had time to drop his bags before you were on him, your hands tearing at his jacket, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that bordered on feral. “Fuck, I missed you,” you gasped against his mouth, your fingers clawing at his shirt, pulling it over his head.

He groaned, his hands gripping your ass, lifting you against him as he kicked the door shut. “Missed you more,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You didn’t care. You wanted him to mark you, to claim you, to erase the weeks of distance.

He backed you against the door, the wood cool against your back, your legs wrapping around his waist. His kisses were frantic, all teeth and tongue, his hands roaming under your shirt—his shirt—cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples until you moaned. “Need you now,” you begged, your hands fumbling with his belt, freeing him from his jeans.

He didn’t hesitate, yanking your panties down, his fingers brushing your folds, finding you soaked. “Fuck, baby, you’re dripping,” he growled, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing you for a moment before he thrust in, hard and deep.

You screamed, your nails digging into his shoulders, the stretch of him filling you perfectly, like he was made for you. He set a punishing pace, each thrust slamming you against the door, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the penthouse. It was hard, fast, desperate, no time for foreplay, no patience for anything but this.

“Missed this,” he panted, his lips brushing your ear, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place. “Missed you.”

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the feel of him, the way he hit that spot inside you with every thrust, the way his pelvis ground against your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. Your orgasm hit fast, a white-hot explosion that left you trembling, your walls clenching around him as you sobbed his name. He followed, his thrusts erratic, spilling inside you with a groan that vibrated through you both.

You stayed there, pinned against the door, your bodies slick with sweat, his forehead resting against yours. “Missed you,” he whispered again, softer now, and you pretended you didn’t hear the weight in his words, the love that lingered beneath them. You kissed him instead, slow and deep, your heart pounding with a truth you weren’t ready to face.

The contract was supposed to keep things simple, but it was anything but. You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop wanting him, needing him, craving the way he made you feel. It wasn’t just the sex—though that was mind-blowing. It was the way he looked at you, like you were his entire world. The way he held you after, his arms tight around you, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

You started noticing little things. The way his eyes softened when you laughed. The way he’d kiss your forehead when he thought you were asleep. The way he’d linger in the doorway, watching you work, a small smile on his lips. It scared you, how much you liked it. How much you wanted more.

One night, you were lying in bed, his head on your chest, your fingers tangled through his hair. “Hoseok,” you said softly, your heart pounding. “What are we doing?”

He stilled, then looked up at you, his eyes searching. “Whatever we want,” he said, but his voice was unsteady.

You wanted to push, to ask what he meant, but fear stopped you. Instead, you kissed him, slow and deep, pouring everything you couldn’t say into it. He responded with a hunger that matched your own, his hands roaming, his body pressing closer. That night, you made love—not fucked—slowly, deliberately, every touch a confession neither of you would voice.

It came to a head during a rare moment of calm. You were cooking dinner together, a rare domestic scene, when he accidentally knocked over a glass of wine. It shattered on the floor, red liquid pooling like blood.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing a towel.

“It’s fine,” you snapped, sharper than you meant. You were on edge, the unspoken tension between you fraying your nerves.

He looked at you, hurt flashing in his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” you shot back. “Maybe it’s the fact that we’re pretending this is normal when it’s not!”

He froze, the towel dangling from his hand. “What do you mean?”

You threw your hands up, exasperated. “This! Us! We’re fucking obsessed with each other, Hoseok. We live together, we fuck every chance we get, we act like a couple, but we’re not. What the hell are we?”

He stepped closer, his voice low. “You’re the one who wanted no labels. You wanted the contract.”

“And you signed it!” you yelled, tears pricking your eyes. “But now I don’t know what I want anymore, and it’s fucking terrifying!”

He dropped the towel, pulling you into his arms. “Hey, hey, breathe. I’m scared too, okay? I’m fucking terrified because I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

You looked up at him, your heart racing. “What are you saying?”

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “I’m saying I love you, you idiot. I’ve loved you for months, contract or no contract.”

The words hit you like a tidal wave. You wanted to run, to hide, but his eyes held you in place. “Hoseok…”

“You don’t have to say it back,” he said quickly. “Just… don’t leave. Please.”

You didn’t leave. Instead, you kissed him, your hands trembling as you clung to him. The sex that night was different—raw, emotional, a tangle of limbs and whispered confessions. When you came, tears streamed down your face, and he kissed them away, holding you like you were his everything.

For weeks, you carried the secret like a stone in your chest, its weight growing heavier with each passing day. The pregnancy test, hidden in the back of your bathroom drawer, had confirmed it one quiet morning—two pink lines that shifted the axis of your world. You hadn’t told Hoseok. The contract, the fragile love you’d only begun to embrace, the fear of upending everything—it all kept you silent. You wanted to protect this thing between you, to hold it close until you could make sense of the chaos it unleashed inside you. But your body had other plans.

It was a Sunday evening, the penthouse bathed in the golden glow of dusk, the Seoul skyline a quiet backdrop. You and Hoseok were in the kitchen, a rare moment of domesticity as you chopped vegetables for dinner, his playlist humming softly in the background. He was behind you, arms loosely around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, teasing you about your knife skills. “You’re gonna lose a finger if you keep chopping like that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, his voice warm with laughter.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into him, savoring the solid heat of his body. “Says the guy who burns toast.”

He chuckled, kissing your neck, and for a moment, everything felt perfect—too perfect, like the calm before a storm. Then it hit: a wave of nausea, sharper than the usual morning sickness you’d been hiding, followed by a dizzying rush that made the room tilt. Your grip on the knife faltered, the blade clattering to the counter, and you swayed, your vision spotting with black.

“Y/N?” Hoseok’s voice was sharp, his arms tightening around you as you slumped against him, your legs buckling. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You tried to speak, to brush it off, but your tongue felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish. The world narrowed to the pounding in your head, the frantic beat of your heart, and then—nothing. You collapsed in his arms, your body limp, the kitchen fading into darkness.

When you came to senses, you were on the couch, Hoseok kneeling beside you, his face pale, his eyes wide with a fear you’d never seen before. His hands were on your face, trembling as he brushed your hair back, his voice low and urgent. “Y/N, come on, talk to me. What happened? You’re scaring me.”

Your mouth was dry, your head throbbing, but the sight of him—so undone, so raw—cracked something open inside you. “I’m okay,” you croaked, reaching for his hand, your fingers weak but desperate to reassure him. “Just… dizzy.”

“Dizzy?” His voice rose, edged with panic. “You fucking collapsed, Y/N. That’s not okay. We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

“No, wait,” you said, gripping his hand tighter, your heart racing. You couldn’t let him take you there, not yet, not when they’d find out and the truth would spill before you were ready. But his eyes, dark with worry, held yours, and you knew you couldn’t keep it from him any longer. The secret was choking you, and he deserved to know.

“Hoseok,” you whispered, your voice breaking, tears prickling your eyes. “I need to tell you something.”

He froze, his hand stilling on your cheek, his brow furrowing. “What is it?”

You swallowed, the words heavy, terrifying, but inevitable. “I’m pregnant.” Your voice was barely audible, but it hit the air like a thunderclap. “I’ve known for a few weeks. I… I didn’t know how to tell you.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours, as if waiting for you to take it back. Then his breath hitched, his hand dropping to your stomach, his touch tentative, like he was afraid to believe it. “Pregnant?” he repeated, his voice soft, almost reverent. “You’re… we’re having a baby?”

You nodded, tears spilling over, your chest tight with fear and hope and everything in between. “I was scared, Hobi. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t know if you’d want this, if we were ready—”

“Scared?” he cut you off, his voice cracking, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” He pulled you into his arms, careful but fierce, like you were the most precious thing in the world. “I thought you were sick, thought I was losing you.” His voice broke, his face buried in your hair, his hands trembling as they held you close.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, clinging to him, your fingers digging into his shirt. “I didn’t want to ruin us. I love you, and I was so afraid this would change everything.”

He pulled back, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “Ruin us?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Y/N, you’re everything to me. This—” his hand slid to your stomach, soft and protective, “—this is us. Our baby. I want this. I want you. I want it all.”

The weight of his words, the love in his eyes, unraveled you. You laughed through your tears, a shaky, relieved sound, and he smiled, bright and blinding, like the sun breaking through clouds. “We’re having a baby,” he said again, as if testing the words, his voice filled with wonder.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your hand covering his on your stomach. “We are.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken promise into it, his lips tasting of salt and hope. Then he pulled back, his forehead against yours, his voice low and fierce. “Marry me. Not just because of the baby, but because I can’t imagine my life without you. Contract or not, you’re my forever.”

You searched his eyes, seeing the truth, the depth of his love, and your heart answered before your mind could catch up. “Yes,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears. “Yes, Hobi.”

The wedding was intimate, a small gathering of friends, the framed napkin from your contract hung in your new home as a reminder of the wild, messy journey that brought you here. The pregnancy was a rollercoaster—sickness, cravings, moments of doubt—but Hoseok was your constant, holding your hand, kissing your fears away, his excitement for your future infectious.

When your daughter was born, with Hoseok’s bright eyes and your stubborn smile, you looked at him, exhausted but whole, and knew this was real. The contract had been a spark, but this—love, family, forever—was the fire that would burn eternal.

A/N: For my Tumblr readers, I hope this warmed your hearts. Hoseok’s sunshine and spice are a lethal combo, and I poured all my love into this. Let me know your thoughts, and stay thirsty for more! 😘

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @mindurbuzznezz . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts

[ddaenqqvantae]

5 SECONDS TO FREEDOM

-˚ a story about neon-lit races & masks that slip at 200kph ˚-

"They say in street racing, everything is decided in the first five seconds. But with him? The race was lost the moment he looked at you across the starting line—and smiled like he already knew how this would end."

ೃ༄ quick links ༄ೃ

read on ao3

read on wattpad

ೃ༄ synopsis ༄ೃ

You've spent years building the perfect reputation on Tokyo's underground racing circuit. By day: the dutiful heiress to Hayashi Motors. By night: "Hachiroku," the untouchable street queen who's never lost a race worth mentioning.

Until him.

The Latino street racer who everyone only knows as "Jaque." Midnight purple Skyline R34. Spanish curses and a smile that spells trouble.

Racing for pink slips during midnight runs, trading insults that feel too much like foreplay, and falling into a physical arrangement was never in your plans.

And honestly? Between your fiancé waiting at home, your family's expectations, and this man who speaks filthy promises in Spanish against your skin—someone's bound to crash and burn.

Too bad the adrenaline feels too good to stop.

✧ details ✧

main ship: jimin x f!reader side ships: takeshi x soojin, taeyang x maya genre: rivals to lovers, double life drama, slow burn, street racing, fuck buddies rating: explicit (18+ only) words: - chapters: -

status: upcoming

ೃ༄ chapter guide ༄ೃ

volume one: midnight runs & dangerous curves

➵ #01 | ➵ #02 | ➵ #03 | ➵ #04 | ➵ #05 | ➵ #06 | ➵ #07 | ➵ #08 | ➵ #09 | ➵ #10 | ➵ #11 | ➵ #12 | ➵ #13 | ➵ #14 | ➵ #15 |

fragments & memories

BEFORE THE RACE

➵ first collision: her POV ➵ first collision: his POV [WIP] ➵ garage confessions ➵ skyline whispers

DOUBLE LIVES

➵ hayashi family dinner ➵ midnight calls home ➵ engagement party ➵ the wrench ring

AFTER HOURS

➵ mountaintop surrender ➵ spanish lessons ➵ borrowed jacket ➵ engine grease kisses ➵ what happens in neutral ground ➵ mechanical failures

Key:

Regular titles: safe to read if up-to-date with main story.

[WIP]: fragments currently being written

Strikethrough: future content & concept ideas

Read order: chronological by volume, fragments can be read anytime

✧ content includes ✧

♡ explicit sexual content ♡ street racing & illegal activities ♡ complicated double lives ♡ multilingual dirty talk (Spanish/Japanese/English) ♡ infidelity/cheating (arranged relationship) ♡ class differences & cultural tensions ♡ xenophobia & racism ♡ family trauma & expectations ♡ rivals-to-lovers

ೃ༄ extras ༄ೃ

✧ playlists:

five seconds to freedom - the soundtrack

songs jimin plays while working on his skyline 🔧

✧ pinterest: aesthetic board

✧ moodboards: characters | racing scenes

✧ car specs: detailed modifications

jimin's skyline r34

y/n's toyota ae86

✧ tidbits/headcanons: here

✧ lyrics that remind me of 5STF: share your own with #5STFlyrics

✧ disclaimer ✧

this is purely a work of fiction. characters, cars, and racing scenes are fictional and not meant to encourage illegal activities. all intimate scenes feature consenting adults in fictional scenarios.

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[ddaenqqvantae]

NAH NAH SHUT UP

SHUT UP WHAT THE HELL.... HE LOOKS INSANE

I don't even know 😭😭

[ddaenqqvantae]

😭😭😭😭 too good

heaven sent - JHS

01. sometimes your best friend sleeps with you. no literally, you share a bed whenever either of you want some cuddles and need to vent. did you stop once to think that those harmless cuddles would cause a heap of buried feelings to resurface? no. did you stop to think that your best friend nuzzling into your neck with his d*ck pressed between your butt cheeks might be deleterious to your health? no.

but here you are, falling madly in love with jung hoseok — after one particular incident — who’s so out of your league. or is he?

༄moodboard

or; you might’ve drunkenly confessed to hoseok, but his reaction is not what you expected.

pairing — soccer player!hoseok x nerdy!reader

genre/rating — R | fluff, smut, angst, roommate au, bff2l

word count — 24.1K

play — heaven sent by tevomxntana

warnings/tags — strong language, bestfriendstofriendswithbenefitstolovers! kinda situation, athlete/academic love story <3, bad boy!hobi, PINING, hoseok is kind of a flirt, literally everyone wants him, fluffy hair hobi, he’s fit 😵‍💫, bed sharing, angy hobi, oc is so clueless, hottie!oc, alcoh0l consumption, manhandling, bickering, did i mention pining?, some tears, too much tension & teasing oml, feelings, confusion, jealousy, smidge of angst, multiple smvt scenes, explicit smvt — d!rty talk, praise k!nk, b!ting/scratch!ng, b0dy worship, exhibit!onism, voyeur!sm, ice play, spank!ng, finger!ng, oral (f), cvm eating, doggy, dry hvmping, some butt stuff, sp!tting, hair pulling, edg!ng, overstim, protected s*x, aftercare <3

note: based on a dream i had :’) this is part 01 of 02 !! when the 🎶🎶 emojis show up pls hit play on the song i linked^^^ for the full experience ‹𝟹

❂ The Secret Garden

⁂ hosted by: Professor Dia @yoonia​ through @bangtansorciere​ ⤐ au type: blooming petals - best friends to lovers au ⤐ themes: bed sharing & mutual pining ⤐ k!nks: marking, spank!ng, begging, praise, bre*st play, sensory play (ice play), delayed/controlled 0rgasm, overstimulat!on

‘Everyone’s on the edge of their seats, Matt. It’s a far shot even for Jung Hoseok himself.’

Keep reading

[ddaenqqvantae]

cutieeee

Pairing: Namjoon x reader (afab)

Genre: a little pwp but a little established something, friends-to-lovers

Summary: Namjoon accidentally sends a text intended for you to your roommate.

Word count: 3.2k

Content: sexting, shower sex, oral (f receiving)

A/N: for @rpwprpwprpwprw for asking if i have more namjoon (and making me realise that, outside of A Fine Line, I have precious little 😭) this is a repost that has been a little edited and re-titled

Coming Clean

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god,” Yeji repeated over and over as she barged into your room and sat herself on your bed. “Why is Namjoon texting me this?!” 

She thrust her phone into your face and you tried to control your expression as you read. 

Namjoon: I think I'm going to need a cold shower...  

Namjoon: unless you want to join me... 

Ok, you thought, could be worse. Wasn't that bad at all, really. Maybe. A bit suggestive, certainly random, but he had some plausible deniability-- 

Unfortunately, the text was only part of it. Yeji scrolled and your jaw dropped as your eyes lit on a photo that left almost nothing to the imagination. He wasn’t fully naked, but as near as dammit. You could’ve seen his erection from space. The colour drained from your face. You spluttered, choked, didn’t know what to say. And then another message came through. 

Namjoon: FUCK 

And in a second, both previous bubbles disappeared, replaced by ‘This message was deleted’. 

Namjoon: I know you saw that... I can see you read them... 

Namjoon: I’m SO sorry 

Namjoon: Obviously they weren’t meant for you, Yeji 

Namjoon: PLEASE forget you ever saw them 

Namjoon: PLEASE 

Namjoon: PLEASE PLEASE 

Namjoon: I’m so so so so sorry 

“Wow,” was all you could choke out.  

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Yeji screamed, so close to you that you thought your eardrum might burst. “WHO IS HE SEXTING?!” 

The answer was you. Or rather, he was supposed to be sexting you and not Yeji. He had been sexting you recently. Doing a lot more than that, too. You just hadn’t told anyone yet.  

It was an accident, really. Neither of you meant it to happen. It just did. There was nothing ground-breaking about it. Same old story: you drink too much and get a little handsy with each other because you’ve secretly kind of always liked each other; then you get more than a little handsy and then you do it again and again and, suddenly, it’s A Thing. A thing you decide not to tell everyone else about. Not exactly Austen or Shakespeare but good enough for you. 

You sat on your phone as it began to buzz, hoping to hide its sudden, coincidental flurry of activity. You didn’t need to check it to know that it was Namjoon. You didn’t know why he was calling; you and Yeji lived together: of course she was going to run straight to you with this. Of course you wouldn’t be able to answer.  

“I don’t know,” you answered Yeji. “It might just be some person from an app.”  

She looked at you sharply. 

“Why are you not also screaming?! Did you not SEE what I saw?! Are you MAD?!” 

“I saw it! I saw it! But... I don’t know, he’s a grown man; he can sext who he likes.” 

“Not without telling us! Ugh, the gossip! He’s depriving us! Besides, wow, who knew he was packing like that?”  

You nudged her with a grin, trying to play it cool, frantically kicking your legs underwater to smooth this over. 

“Let the man have a couple of secrets, eh? What's the harm? He’ll tell us when he wants to. And I think he probably doesn’t want you to know he’s packing like that. Doesn’t want me to know either,” you added hastily. “He would probably prefer that neither of us had seen that. You shouldn’t have shown me that! He’ll be embarrassed. Just let him have his secrets and his privacy, at least for today.” 

“But I want him to tell me NOW! I’m going to reply to him. The interrogation is starting. I will keep you updated, if you even care.” 

She was already standing and wandering back out of your bedroom.  

“Sure you don’t want to interrogate him with me?” she asked, though she kept walking, knowing you would refuse. 

“I’m sure; I’ve got some stuff to work on.” 

“Suit yourself. I’ll fill you in later.” 

She shut your door as she left and you whipped out your phone. 

Namjoon: oh god i’ve done something bad 

Namjoon: like really bad 

Namjoon: I was trying to text you—I was supposed to send it to YOU 

Namjoon: I accidentally sent a photo of my dick to Yeji 

Namjoon: she definitely saw it 

Namjoon: I don’t know how I get out of this. What do I say? I can’t tell her it was meant to go to you! 

Namjoon: Help me  

You laughed and pressed dial, hoping Yeji was focused enough on her mission to pay no heed to the sound of your voice in the next room. 

“Hey.” He sounded a little breathless, his breathing a little heavy down the phone. 

“Yeah, so Yeji just left my bedroom actually. She showed me what you sent.” 

Namjoon groaned. 

“I’m sorry.”  

“You don’t have to be sorry; it was just a mistake.” 

“But how do we get out of it?”  

“I don’t know. I told her it might just be someone on an app; you could go with that. Pretend to have a casual thing-” 

“But then if we come out and say we’re... whatever we are, the timeline won’t work-” 

You shrugged, alone in your bedroom.  

“That’s a bridge we can cross when we get to it. We can just say you lied to keep it a secret.”  

“I guess.” 

“Seriously, Namjoon, I think it’ll be fine. Yeji will find something else to obsess about soon enough, by tonight probably.” 

You were trying to convince yourself as much as you were trying to convince him. You were right, Yeji would find something else to be distracted by. It probably wouldn’t erupt all over your friendship group; it probably wouldn’t get out of hand. They probably wouldn’t tease him mercilessly about it until you abruptly shouted up that it was you, thus revealing everything.  

Probably. 

It’d be fine.  

He groaned again. 

“Just such a stupid thing to do. And I’ll tell you this for free: a very effective boner killer, too.” 

You laughed. 

“So you don’t want me to come over and shower with you?” 

“Oh, shit, I didn’t say that. My door is always open to you, you know that.” 

You sighed. 

“I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight so I don’t know if I’ll make it.” 

“Ok.” 

“But keep thinking those thoughts, ok?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”  

“Oh and Namjoon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Send me the photo?” 

* 

You didn’t know about Namjoon but you did keep thinking those thoughts. They were driving you to distraction. You had barely read more than a page of your report in the last half-hour. You kept unlocking your phone, looking at your message thread with Namjoon, at that photo. At a certain point, it becomes more efficient to do the distracting thing first and then knuckle down. Get it out of your system so you can concentrate afterwards. It was starting to sound like a very appealing course of action. 

You picked up your phone again.  

You: have you showered yet? 

Namjoon: No, why? 

You: Can I come over? 

Namjoon: Do you even have to ask? 

Namjoon: (that means yes) 

Namjoon: please 

Namjoon: come now 

Namjoon: please 

You shut your laptop; Yeji was similarly sequestered in her bedroom so you were able to sneak out without rousing any sort of curiosity. Thank god. 

* 

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“So about this shower.” 

And the door had barely closed behind you before Namjoon was kissing you, pulling you closer, running his hands up your body.  

“You really want to shower?” he asked. His voice was low and gruff, his words mumbled against your neck. 

You laughed. 

“Transparency: I want you to fuck me in the shower.” 

He responded by nipping at your earlobe.  

“You gonna ask nicely?” 

“No.” 

He gave your nipple a tweak and you jerked against him, your hips knocking into his, drawing a quiet moan from his mouth. He grinned at you and kissed you firmly. 

“That’s my girl.”  

Your clothes littered the floor as they were discarded en-route.  

“Why haven’t we done this already?” Namjoon asked as he hoisted you onto the edge of the counter. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this so much.” 

“You’re a shower sex guy, huh? Noted.”  

“For you? I’m an anywhere-sex guy.”  

Your words were taken from you, from your mouth to his as he pressed his lips to yours and licked into your mouth. You were hot already, even before the shower began to fill the room with steam. That was the thing about Namjoon; he made you so impatient. The mere thought of him had your heart racing. A kiss was enough to get you wet. To make you hot. To have you scrabbling and scrambling to undress him. To have you gasping and moaning before he’d even touched you.  

When he kissed you, your mind was wiped clean, a blank static fuzz. When he sucked hard bruises into your neck, your chest, you were nothing but animal. No shame, no overthinking, no insecurity, just pleasure buzzing all over your skin, shivering down your spine, coiling in your guts, pooling in your core.  

Namjoon sank to his knees on the hard, tiled floor and kissed your inner thighs. He wrapped his arms around them, pulled you a little closer—you clutched the edge of the counter and his hair for balance—then he licked you, firmly from slit to clit and back again, into every fold and then into your cunt. You weren’t backward about coming forward and, when you had first done this with Namjoon, you had been fully prepared to tell him how to do it, how you liked it. He hadn’t needed the instruction. That first time, he’d had you reeling after a screaming orgasm within a minute.  

You didn’t think you’d last even that long this time. Not with his lips around your clit, his tongue warm and wet against it, the soft pressure as he sucked, the harder pressure as he flicked, the feel of his fingers as he rocked them inside you, insistent and unstoppable. He made a mess of you and, moments later, you made a mess of him, coming over his face, your slick dripping down his hand.  

He pressed sticky kisses onto your stomach, his tongue laved over your stiffened nipples, his lips pressed softly against yours and then harder, then his teeth took your lip and he bit down.  

“So about this shower,” he murmured against your lips, his eyes poring over yours.  

You couldn’t speak, could only nod, and he held you steady as you settled your feet back on the floor, your legs still wobbly.  

The room was hot now, the water hotter. As Namjoon crowded you against the shower screen, you felt breathless, a little suffocated but you didn’t know if that was down to the steam or to Namjoon. He ran his hands all over you as you kissed, your bodies pressed tightly together, his flushed, leaking dick trapped between you.  

Where Namjoon made you impatient, he seemed to have an unlimited supply of patience. He soaped you up, every inch of you, and you realised how intimate this was; it suddenly wasn’t just sex. He was touching your body with a different kind of care and attention now. Sex was imminent but this moment, this moment wasn’t about sex really. He turned you around, gently, running his hands down your back and over your backside, all the way down to your feet and all the way back up. He pressed a kiss to your soapy shoulder and wrapped his arms around your waist. His lips then found the shell of your ear. 

“Baby, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered and a spark rushed down your spine.  

You turned your head and kissed him, trying to say with your body what you couldn’t find the words for. And then, 

“Can you fuck me now?” 

Because your heart may have been gripped tight in the fist of your feelings but your cunt was empty, aching, and much louder. 

He grinned, his hands squeezing at your glutes, kneading, then pushing you forward a little, smoothing up your back and along your arms, placing your hands flat on the tiled wall, braced. He held you like that, in suspense, in anticipation, his hands here and there, his lips first on your hip, then the back of your neck, his body distant, then pressed close.  

You begged because you had learnt that he liked it. That he liked it when you sounded a little breathless, a little whiny, your voice catching as you asked him, please, please, to fuck you.  

“Namjoon... Please?” 

You dipped your head, pressing your forehead to the wall, your fingers scratching down the tiles as you continued to clench, your soft, wet walls coming together around nothing. Still.  

“Just one more time, baby. Just ask me one more time.” 

“Please fuck me. Namjoon, ple- ah, fuck—hnn-” 

It was familiar now, the pressure of the stretch as he pushed inside you. You swore quietly again as he bottomed out and dragged backwards, slowly, torturously slowly. He kept a hard grip on your hips, keeping you or him steady or both. The steam swirling around you, the clean, fresh scent of Namjoon’s soap, the water hitting your skin, Namjoon’s lips on your neck as he thrust a little harder now, squeezing past your g-spot, making your legs tremble—it was overwhelming.  

You were transported. No longer just in the shower in Namjoon’s apartment. No longer was this just sordid nor was it mundane. It was you and Namjoon. A thing that had lain dormant in you, something you hadn’t seen coming until it happened and then you couldn’t believe that it hadn’t happened before. This was what you had been looking for. Yes, him fucking you, yes, the way he kissed you and the way he knew which buttons to press, yes, his dick hot and heavy on your tongue, thick and slightly curved and fucking you just right. Yes, all of that but more, too.  

You had not talked about where this was going, what you were to each other, but now you knew and your heart grew three sizes, straining against the vice of your ribcage, thudding heavily against it, making your head dizzy with a rush of blood. 

Namjoon grunted behind you, his breathing becoming laboured. Your name fell off his lips as though it had always lived there. His fingers found their way forward and onto your clit, rubbing in circles that started slow and got faster and faster as you made your way to a second orgasm.  

He wasn’t far behind, his thrusts hard and rhythm faltering before he came with a long drawn-out curse. He pulled you backwards, held you tight against his chest and you were grateful for the support, not sure if you could stand.  

“As good as the fantasy?” you asked, panting, your head tipped sideways and up to look at him. 

He kissed you, deep and slow, making your knees weaker, your hands gripping tight at his arms around your waist.  

“Better. Way better.”  

You twisted and wrapped your arms around his neck. He kissed you again, pushed you backwards, your body meeting the wall. He sucked on your bottom lip, nipping lightly with his teeth, then he opened his mouth and you rolled your tongue with his, still able to taste yourself on him. You traded kisses, still under the persistent patter of water, still hot and wet and soft against the unyielding tile. Namjoon murmured your name against your lips.  

“What should I tell Yeji, huh?” 

“Oh, you’re thinking about Yeji right now? Maybe you did send that text to the right person...” 

Namjoon headbutted you lightly. 

“I’m worried,” he confessed. 

“About what?” 

His eyes were penetrating as he looked at you, trying to see into your mind, know what you were thinking. He did it when he needed reassurance, when he wished he could be more confident about what he had to say. You kissed him, brushed his hair back from his forehead, touched your nose to his.  

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he said, voice still quiet until the rush of the water.  

“How is it ruined?” 

He shrugged, a small twist in his mouth.  

“If people find out...” 

You shrugged back, larger and surer than he. 

"I never minded people knowing. You were the-” 

“No,” he said, pulling back and looking at you quizzically. “What are you talking about? It was you who suggested keeping it a secret.” 

“Not at all! It was you!” 

“No, it wasn’t!” 

“Well, if it was neither of us, then why are we keeping it a secret?!” 

You looked at each other, aghast, bewildered. Then you laughed. You kissed his shoulder and he returned it on your temple.  

“So should we just tell people now?”  

“What exactly do we tell them?”  

“That depends on what you want this to be, I guess,” you answered, acting casual as if your very breath weren’t sparkling in your lungs, making it hard to breathe, making the little shower cubicle airless as the two of you screeched up to a subject you’d been so easily avoiding.  

“What do you want it to be?” 

“I want to be with you. Like, for real. Relationship shit.”  

The sigh of relief that came from Namjoon was so large it was almost comical. He kissed you. Wrapped his arms tight around you and moaned into the kiss. “Thank god. Me, too. Me, too.”  

“So it’s settled then.” 

“Settled.” 

You nodded at each other, once, firmly, and then went back to kissing under the water. 

* 

Later, you sat with Namjoon in his bed, resting between his legs, your back against his chest.  

You: btw, Namjoon meant to send that photo to me 

Yeji: um 

Yeji: WHAT 

You took a photo of the two of you, Namjoon’s topless torso visible, your heads close, your smiles respectively bright and bashful. You sent it to Yeji. 

Yeji: WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

You: yeah it’s kind of a thing 

You: that we’ve been doing 

You: for a bit  

You: probably going to keep doing it some more, tbh 

You: some more or a lot more yk 

When she didn’t reply, you assumed first that she’d had a heart attack. Then that she was busy letting every single person she’d ever met know about the two of you. If you needed news spreading, she was the one to go to.  

“So now everyone knows,” Namjoon said, nuzzling against your neck, dropping light kisses against your skin. 

“Everyone knows,” you replied, tipping your head slightly to give him better access. “Oh, also,” you said, suddenly remembering, “everyone knows about your big dick, too. There’s no way Yeji kept that back.” 

He laughed, hearty and full.  

“I think I’m ok with that, actually.” 

[ddaenqqvantae]

Pairing: Namjoon x reader (afab)

Genre: a little pwp but a little established something, friends-to-lovers

Summary: Namjoon accidentally sends a text intended for you to your roommate.

Word count: 3.2k

Content: sexting, shower sex, oral (f receiving)

A/N: for @rpwprpwprpwprw for asking if i have more namjoon (and making me realise that, outside of A Fine Line, I have precious little 😭) this is a repost that has been a little edited and re-titled

Coming Clean

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god,” Yeji repeated over and over as she barged into your room and sat herself on your bed. “Why is Namjoon texting me this?!” 

She thrust her phone into your face and you tried to control your expression as you read. 

Namjoon: I think I'm going to need a cold shower...  

Namjoon: unless you want to join me... 

Ok, you thought, could be worse. Wasn't that bad at all, really. Maybe. A bit suggestive, certainly random, but he had some plausible deniability-- 

Unfortunately, the text was only part of it. Yeji scrolled and your jaw dropped as your eyes lit on a photo that left almost nothing to the imagination. He wasn’t fully naked, but as near as dammit. You could’ve seen his erection from space. The colour drained from your face. You spluttered, choked, didn’t know what to say. And then another message came through. 

Namjoon: FUCK 

And in a second, both previous bubbles disappeared, replaced by ‘This message was deleted’. 

Namjoon: I know you saw that... I can see you read them... 

Namjoon: I’m SO sorry 

Namjoon: Obviously they weren’t meant for you, Yeji 

Namjoon: PLEASE forget you ever saw them 

Namjoon: PLEASE 

Namjoon: PLEASE PLEASE 

Namjoon: I’m so so so so sorry 

“Wow,” was all you could choke out.  

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Yeji screamed, so close to you that you thought your eardrum might burst. “WHO IS HE SEXTING?!” 

The answer was you. Or rather, he was supposed to be sexting you and not Yeji. He had been sexting you recently. Doing a lot more than that, too. You just hadn’t told anyone yet.  

It was an accident, really. Neither of you meant it to happen. It just did. There was nothing ground-breaking about it. Same old story: you drink too much and get a little handsy with each other because you’ve secretly kind of always liked each other; then you get more than a little handsy and then you do it again and again and, suddenly, it’s A Thing. A thing you decide not to tell everyone else about. Not exactly Austen or Shakespeare but good enough for you. 

You sat on your phone as it began to buzz, hoping to hide its sudden, coincidental flurry of activity. You didn’t need to check it to know that it was Namjoon. You didn’t know why he was calling; you and Yeji lived together: of course she was going to run straight to you with this. Of course you wouldn’t be able to answer.  

“I don’t know,” you answered Yeji. “It might just be some person from an app.”  

She looked at you sharply. 

“Why are you not also screaming?! Did you not SEE what I saw?! Are you MAD?!” 

“I saw it! I saw it! But... I don’t know, he’s a grown man; he can sext who he likes.” 

“Not without telling us! Ugh, the gossip! He’s depriving us! Besides, wow, who knew he was packing like that?”  

You nudged her with a grin, trying to play it cool, frantically kicking your legs underwater to smooth this over. 

“Let the man have a couple of secrets, eh? What's the harm? He’ll tell us when he wants to. And I think he probably doesn’t want you to know he’s packing like that. Doesn’t want me to know either,” you added hastily. “He would probably prefer that neither of us had seen that. You shouldn’t have shown me that! He’ll be embarrassed. Just let him have his secrets and his privacy, at least for today.” 

“But I want him to tell me NOW! I’m going to reply to him. The interrogation is starting. I will keep you updated, if you even care.” 

She was already standing and wandering back out of your bedroom.  

“Sure you don’t want to interrogate him with me?” she asked, though she kept walking, knowing you would refuse. 

“I’m sure; I’ve got some stuff to work on.” 

“Suit yourself. I’ll fill you in later.” 

She shut your door as she left and you whipped out your phone. 

Namjoon: oh god i’ve done something bad 

Namjoon: like really bad 

Namjoon: I was trying to text you—I was supposed to send it to YOU 

Namjoon: I accidentally sent a photo of my dick to Yeji 

Namjoon: she definitely saw it 

Namjoon: I don’t know how I get out of this. What do I say? I can’t tell her it was meant to go to you! 

Namjoon: Help me  

You laughed and pressed dial, hoping Yeji was focused enough on her mission to pay no heed to the sound of your voice in the next room. 

“Hey.” He sounded a little breathless, his breathing a little heavy down the phone. 

“Yeah, so Yeji just left my bedroom actually. She showed me what you sent.” 

Namjoon groaned. 

“I’m sorry.”  

“You don’t have to be sorry; it was just a mistake.” 

“But how do we get out of it?”  

“I don’t know. I told her it might just be someone on an app; you could go with that. Pretend to have a casual thing-” 

“But then if we come out and say we’re... whatever we are, the timeline won’t work-” 

You shrugged, alone in your bedroom.  

“That’s a bridge we can cross when we get to it. We can just say you lied to keep it a secret.”  

“I guess.” 

“Seriously, Namjoon, I think it’ll be fine. Yeji will find something else to obsess about soon enough, by tonight probably.” 

You were trying to convince yourself as much as you were trying to convince him. You were right, Yeji would find something else to be distracted by. It probably wouldn’t erupt all over your friendship group; it probably wouldn’t get out of hand. They probably wouldn’t tease him mercilessly about it until you abruptly shouted up that it was you, thus revealing everything.  

Probably. 

It’d be fine.  

He groaned again. 

“Just such a stupid thing to do. And I’ll tell you this for free: a very effective boner killer, too.” 

You laughed. 

“So you don’t want me to come over and shower with you?” 

“Oh, shit, I didn’t say that. My door is always open to you, you know that.” 

You sighed. 

“I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight so I don’t know if I’ll make it.” 

“Ok.” 

“But keep thinking those thoughts, ok?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”  

“Oh and Namjoon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Send me the photo?” 

* 

You didn’t know about Namjoon but you did keep thinking those thoughts. They were driving you to distraction. You had barely read more than a page of your report in the last half-hour. You kept unlocking your phone, looking at your message thread with Namjoon, at that photo. At a certain point, it becomes more efficient to do the distracting thing first and then knuckle down. Get it out of your system so you can concentrate afterwards. It was starting to sound like a very appealing course of action. 

You picked up your phone again.  

You: have you showered yet? 

Namjoon: No, why? 

You: Can I come over? 

Namjoon: Do you even have to ask? 

Namjoon: (that means yes) 

Namjoon: please 

Namjoon: come now 

Namjoon: please 

You shut your laptop; Yeji was similarly sequestered in her bedroom so you were able to sneak out without rousing any sort of curiosity. Thank god. 

* 

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“So about this shower.” 

And the door had barely closed behind you before Namjoon was kissing you, pulling you closer, running his hands up your body.  

“You really want to shower?” he asked. His voice was low and gruff, his words mumbled against your neck. 

You laughed. 

“Transparency: I want you to fuck me in the shower.” 

He responded by nipping at your earlobe.  

“You gonna ask nicely?” 

“No.” 

He gave your nipple a tweak and you jerked against him, your hips knocking into his, drawing a quiet moan from his mouth. He grinned at you and kissed you firmly. 

“That’s my girl.”  

Your clothes littered the floor as they were discarded en-route.  

“Why haven’t we done this already?” Namjoon asked as he hoisted you onto the edge of the counter. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this so much.” 

“You’re a shower sex guy, huh? Noted.”  

“For you? I’m an anywhere-sex guy.”  

Your words were taken from you, from your mouth to his as he pressed his lips to yours and licked into your mouth. You were hot already, even before the shower began to fill the room with steam. That was the thing about Namjoon; he made you so impatient. The mere thought of him had your heart racing. A kiss was enough to get you wet. To make you hot. To have you scrabbling and scrambling to undress him. To have you gasping and moaning before he’d even touched you.  

When he kissed you, your mind was wiped clean, a blank static fuzz. When he sucked hard bruises into your neck, your chest, you were nothing but animal. No shame, no overthinking, no insecurity, just pleasure buzzing all over your skin, shivering down your spine, coiling in your guts, pooling in your core.  

Namjoon sank to his knees on the hard, tiled floor and kissed your inner thighs. He wrapped his arms around them, pulled you a little closer—you clutched the edge of the counter and his hair for balance—then he licked you, firmly from slit to clit and back again, into every fold and then into your cunt. You weren’t backward about coming forward and, when you had first done this with Namjoon, you had been fully prepared to tell him how to do it, how you liked it. He hadn’t needed the instruction. That first time, he’d had you reeling after a screaming orgasm within a minute.  

You didn’t think you’d last even that long this time. Not with his lips around your clit, his tongue warm and wet against it, the soft pressure as he sucked, the harder pressure as he flicked, the feel of his fingers as he rocked them inside you, insistent and unstoppable. He made a mess of you and, moments later, you made a mess of him, coming over his face, your slick dripping down his hand.  

He pressed sticky kisses onto your stomach, his tongue laved over your stiffened nipples, his lips pressed softly against yours and then harder, then his teeth took your lip and he bit down.  

“So about this shower,” he murmured against your lips, his eyes poring over yours.  

You couldn’t speak, could only nod, and he held you steady as you settled your feet back on the floor, your legs still wobbly.  

The room was hot now, the water hotter. As Namjoon crowded you against the shower screen, you felt breathless, a little suffocated but you didn’t know if that was down to the steam or to Namjoon. He ran his hands all over you as you kissed, your bodies pressed tightly together, his flushed, leaking dick trapped between you.  

Where Namjoon made you impatient, he seemed to have an unlimited supply of patience. He soaped you up, every inch of you, and you realised how intimate this was; it suddenly wasn’t just sex. He was touching your body with a different kind of care and attention now. Sex was imminent but this moment, this moment wasn’t about sex really. He turned you around, gently, running his hands down your back and over your backside, all the way down to your feet and all the way back up. He pressed a kiss to your soapy shoulder and wrapped his arms around your waist. His lips then found the shell of your ear. 

“Baby, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered and a spark rushed down your spine.  

You turned your head and kissed him, trying to say with your body what you couldn’t find the words for. And then, 

“Can you fuck me now?” 

Because your heart may have been gripped tight in the fist of your feelings but your cunt was empty, aching, and much louder. 

He grinned, his hands squeezing at your glutes, kneading, then pushing you forward a little, smoothing up your back and along your arms, placing your hands flat on the tiled wall, braced. He held you like that, in suspense, in anticipation, his hands here and there, his lips first on your hip, then the back of your neck, his body distant, then pressed close.  

You begged because you had learnt that he liked it. That he liked it when you sounded a little breathless, a little whiny, your voice catching as you asked him, please, please, to fuck you.  

“Namjoon... Please?” 

You dipped your head, pressing your forehead to the wall, your fingers scratching down the tiles as you continued to clench, your soft, wet walls coming together around nothing. Still.  

“Just one more time, baby. Just ask me one more time.” 

“Please fuck me. Namjoon, ple- ah, fuck—hnn-” 

It was familiar now, the pressure of the stretch as he pushed inside you. You swore quietly again as he bottomed out and dragged backwards, slowly, torturously slowly. He kept a hard grip on your hips, keeping you or him steady or both. The steam swirling around you, the clean, fresh scent of Namjoon’s soap, the water hitting your skin, Namjoon’s lips on your neck as he thrust a little harder now, squeezing past your g-spot, making your legs tremble—it was overwhelming.  

You were transported. No longer just in the shower in Namjoon’s apartment. No longer was this just sordid nor was it mundane. It was you and Namjoon. A thing that had lain dormant in you, something you hadn’t seen coming until it happened and then you couldn’t believe that it hadn’t happened before. This was what you had been looking for. Yes, him fucking you, yes, the way he kissed you and the way he knew which buttons to press, yes, his dick hot and heavy on your tongue, thick and slightly curved and fucking you just right. Yes, all of that but more, too.  

You had not talked about where this was going, what you were to each other, but now you knew and your heart grew three sizes, straining against the vice of your ribcage, thudding heavily against it, making your head dizzy with a rush of blood. 

Namjoon grunted behind you, his breathing becoming laboured. Your name fell off his lips as though it had always lived there. His fingers found their way forward and onto your clit, rubbing in circles that started slow and got faster and faster as you made your way to a second orgasm.  

He wasn’t far behind, his thrusts hard and rhythm faltering before he came with a long drawn-out curse. He pulled you backwards, held you tight against his chest and you were grateful for the support, not sure if you could stand.  

“As good as the fantasy?” you asked, panting, your head tipped sideways and up to look at him. 

He kissed you, deep and slow, making your knees weaker, your hands gripping tight at his arms around your waist.  

“Better. Way better.”  

You twisted and wrapped your arms around his neck. He kissed you again, pushed you backwards, your body meeting the wall. He sucked on your bottom lip, nipping lightly with his teeth, then he opened his mouth and you rolled your tongue with his, still able to taste yourself on him. You traded kisses, still under the persistent patter of water, still hot and wet and soft against the unyielding tile. Namjoon murmured your name against your lips.  

“What should I tell Yeji, huh?” 

“Oh, you’re thinking about Yeji right now? Maybe you did send that text to the right person...” 

Namjoon headbutted you lightly. 

“I’m worried,” he confessed. 

“About what?” 

His eyes were penetrating as he looked at you, trying to see into your mind, know what you were thinking. He did it when he needed reassurance, when he wished he could be more confident about what he had to say. You kissed him, brushed his hair back from his forehead, touched your nose to his.  

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he said, voice still quiet until the rush of the water.  

“How is it ruined?” 

He shrugged, a small twist in his mouth.  

“If people find out...” 

You shrugged back, larger and surer than he. 

"I never minded people knowing. You were the-” 

“No,” he said, pulling back and looking at you quizzically. “What are you talking about? It was you who suggested keeping it a secret.” 

“Not at all! It was you!” 

“No, it wasn’t!” 

“Well, if it was neither of us, then why are we keeping it a secret?!” 

You looked at each other, aghast, bewildered. Then you laughed. You kissed his shoulder and he returned it on your temple.  

“So should we just tell people now?”  

“What exactly do we tell them?”  

“That depends on what you want this to be, I guess,” you answered, acting casual as if your very breath weren’t sparkling in your lungs, making it hard to breathe, making the little shower cubicle airless as the two of you screeched up to a subject you’d been so easily avoiding.  

“What do you want it to be?” 

“I want to be with you. Like, for real. Relationship shit.”  

The sigh of relief that came from Namjoon was so large it was almost comical. He kissed you. Wrapped his arms tight around you and moaned into the kiss. “Thank god. Me, too. Me, too.”  

“So it’s settled then.” 

“Settled.” 

You nodded at each other, once, firmly, and then went back to kissing under the water. 

* 

Later, you sat with Namjoon in his bed, resting between his legs, your back against his chest.  

You: btw, Namjoon meant to send that photo to me 

Yeji: um 

Yeji: WHAT 

You took a photo of the two of you, Namjoon’s topless torso visible, your heads close, your smiles respectively bright and bashful. You sent it to Yeji. 

Yeji: WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

You: yeah it’s kind of a thing 

You: that we’ve been doing 

You: for a bit  

You: probably going to keep doing it some more, tbh 

You: some more or a lot more yk 

When she didn’t reply, you assumed first that she’d had a heart attack. Then that she was busy letting every single person she’d ever met know about the two of you. If you needed news spreading, she was the one to go to.  

“So now everyone knows,” Namjoon said, nuzzling against your neck, dropping light kisses against your skin. 

“Everyone knows,” you replied, tipping your head slightly to give him better access. “Oh, also,” you said, suddenly remembering, “everyone knows about your big dick, too. There’s no way Yeji kept that back.” 

He laughed, hearty and full.  

“I think I’m ok with that, actually.”