inthelow

[inthelow]

my children i’m cooking a LOT of sht rn but i wanted to interact with u guys hehe and see what would u like to see first

i’m fucking with angst vibes a lottt

no yoongi and nam yet cuz i just posted 2 fics of them so u better go read them if u haven’t 😡😡

btw if u don’t vote i will delete my acc and kms

[inthelow]

SMOKE SPRITE — jeon jungkook (3).

Pairing: fem! reader x jeon jungkook

Summary: you and Jungkook aren’t that close, you were supposedly dating his best friend… then why is he about to fuck you in the back of his car?

Genre/Warning: literally porn with a little plot; mentions of cheating but not really??; some cursing, dry humping; oral sex (fem receiving/cum eating)

author’s note: guys this was supposed to be a cute little blowjob drabble lmao, why am i making it a fanfic for you horny bitches?. You can find part one and part two.

Jungkook was fucked up.

He knew he was doing something wrong, really bad. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, he couldn’t stop thinking about touching you again. He couldn’t stop thinking about making you feel good, make you cum. It was only two days ago that he had tasted you and he was loosing his mind. He hadn’t had any agreement with himself about you. He spent all day thinking that it was definitely wrong wanting you in that way, specially because of his friend who was crazy over you.

He’s supposed to be good. He’s supposed to forget about it and move on. He’s supposed to do so many things that didn’t include you. But he didn’t, he was lying in bed trying not to stroke his cock as he thought about you and those nights in his car. The night you gave him the best head of his life, the night he got to taste you. He was loosing his mind thinking how he could have you alone again. Planning an event with your friends, going to a bar or club. He even thought about throwing a party in his house. He was going absolutely crazy.

And the worst thing was that he knew you weren’t crazy about him. You were probably with Taehyung, going out and giggling like some high school girl. You were probably thinking about your next date with him. Or worse, you were probably fucking him. And he was probably making you feel good, he was probably touching you in ways Jungkook couldn’t right now— Oh, how he hated his mind sometimes.

But even more that day. Because he felt incredibly stupid and embarrassed. It’s been only two days, if he was that horny he knew he could just call someone up and any other girl would be available. Why was he suffering for you?. Why was he acting like a schoolboy about you?. Lying down in his bed, rock-hard, trying not to text… Should he?. Would you answer?. You would probably pretend nothing happened like the first time. Or you would probably say it was just some mistake you shouldn’t repeat—

Ring, Ring, Ring.

Jung-kook’s phone buzzed. He felt guilt creeping up into his skin when he saw the name of the contact. Taehyung.

“Hello?”

“What’s up, dude?” Taehyung’s voice was low and chill. “I saw a fucking spider on my pillow today—”

Taehyung started rambling about something Jungkook didn’t give a fuck about. It was normal for his friend to call him just to say random shit, specially on off days where they were just living their own boring life outside the performance of being idols.

And Jungkook loved Taehyung, he really did. He was one of his best friends. But the guilt and annoyance was something he couldn’t shake every time he talked with him. And he knew he was wrong for it. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling that way. He shouldn’t hate that his friend was the one that could have you loudly. He shouldn’t hate that Taehyung was the one that could have you anytime he wanted. And he definitely shouldn’t hate that feeling of being too late. Why was that now he was so suddenly burning for you?. It was attraction or just a sick obsession of having someone forbidden?. Why was he feeling that now? He knew you for a long time. Why was he now interested? Why now that you and Taehyung decided to see where things could go in the future?.

He felt like a sick fucker. Because even if he hated those feelings… He didn’t want to stop. He just wanted to keep going. He wanted to have you just for himself.

“Hey, I was thinking about throwing a party this weekend in a new bar Downtown. What do you think?” Jungkook said, interrupting whatever his friend was saying.

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Great. I’ll see what I can do. Talk to you later?.”

“Uhm, actually— ” Taehyung hesitated. “I wanted to tell you something.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“So— Y/n, right?” Jungkook blinked. “It’s been a while since we— you know.” Taehyung chuckled nervously. “I was thinking about finally asking her to be my girlfriend tonight.”

Oh.

Oh, okay.

Jungkook felt his blood freeze for a moment. His jaw clenched and his fingers pressed his phone harder. “Ah, I thought you guys were casual.”

“Yeah, we were. But I think I would like to make it official, you know?. I really like her” Taehyung sounded sincere. “Why? Do you think it’s a bad idea?.”

“No— I mean, she’s great.” It almost felt too forced to say it aloud. “If you really like her…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

“I do.” He sighed, sounding more relaxed again. “I was just nervous and needed a boost. Thanks, man.”

“Of course” Jungkook was going to kill himself. “Good luck tonight.”

“Than—.”

Jungkook hang up before Taehyung could finish his sentence. He stood from his bed, walking around his room trying not to scream or punch something. Why was he so bothered about it?. Maybe this was great. Maybe he could finally pretend nothing happened between the two of you and move on.

But as he kept walking around with his jaw clenched, his thoughts making a mess of his mind— He realized maybe he couldn’t forget about you quite yet…

He cursed himself as he dial your number. One ring, two. At the third tone you answered.

“Hello?”

He blinked, his hands sweating “Hey, it’s Kook.”

“I know. I saw the name.” You chuckled. “What’s up?.”

Your voice was unbothered. Calm and slow. You sounded so sexy, Jungkook wanted to fuck you so bad from just that.

“Are you free right now?.”

“Uhm— not really.”

He sighed, trying to find something. “I just— there’s something I need to tell you in person.”

“Can’t it be tomorrow?” you asked, there was some noise in the background. Things were moving, you were getting ready.

“Not really” Jungkook said. The next phrase almost sounding like a pleading. “Are you in your house?. I can drive and make it fast.”

“Well, I’m supposed to leave in less than an hour…”

“Great. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Swear it’ll be fast.”

You paused. There was a silence where he got anxious. “Fine, but hurry up.”

“I’ll see you in twenty”

He didn’t let you say anything else. Hanging up before you could change your mind and grabbing his keys to run to your place. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do but he knew he had to see you before Taehyung.

When Jungkook arrived to your loft parking, you were already waiting for him there.

There weren’t many cars and you were fast to indicate him your parking number so he could stop the car. He watch you walked to him. Wearing a short skirt and stiletto boots. He wanted to roll his eyes and shot himself in the head hating the idea you were looking so pretty for another man. Thinking that if you say yes tonight Taehyung was going to be able to fuck you in that outfit… No, to fuck you any day, any time you wanted. Any time you felt needy.

God, he was mad.

You opened the car and took a seat. Smiling slightly at him and looking gorgeous as always. “Hey, what’s up?.”

He was supposed to invent a lie. He was supposed to say something about how he was feeling. He’s supposed to talk about something or invent something to why he was there. He’s supposed to say something… But he couldn’t. He felt like a horny teenager trying to do contain his hormones in front of the girl he had a crush on. So— Instead of saying something, anything at all —, he quickly moved closer to you and grabbed you by the back of your head to stamp his lips to yours.

He could feel your surprise. But he didn’t give you anytime to doubt, pushing you to the window - even though his tight hit the gear stick- and pushing his other hand to your cheek. At first your hands pressed his chest in order to push him away but he did not back down at any time, kissing you harder. And the true was, you didn’t put that much effort and strength either.

Jungkook kissed you with hunger, like he needed it. His lips grabbed your lower trying to open your mouth and, when you finally did, he slid his tongue to taste you. He missed that, being able to kiss you, to have something from you. Your hands grabbed his wrist and he backdown a little just to kissed you slower so you could feel his desire, his yearning. He wanted you to be able to feel how he wanted you. How bad he wanted to kiss you, to touch you, to make you feel good.

“I’ve missed you.” He said between kisses. “I’ve been thinking about you since last time. Every damn minute.”

“Wait, Jungkook—.”

He kissed you again, not being able to take a rejection. Not when he was kissing you like this. Not when he was burning for you, when his hands were itching to touch every part of your skin. His right hand touched your waist and the other one the back of your neck.

“Let me make you feel good…”

“I’m supposed to…” You sighed when he started kissing your jaw. “I’m supposed to met Taehyung later.”

He stoped, just for a second.

His teeth find your neck and he gave it a little bite. You tried to push him again - a little too effortless- before his tongue found your neck, trying to leave a mark. He sucked slowly before leaving small and soft kisses. Your back arched a little and he wanted to moan in your skin.

“Is that why you look so pretty?” He asked, trying not to sound jealous. “For him?.” He didn’t give you time to answer, his hand in your waist moving to your tummy. “Is that why you’re wearing this little skirt?.” He grabbed the hem of it, moving it slowly. “You want him to touch you?. Do you think he’s going to touch you like me?”

“Jungkook—”

Your voice wasn’t a pleading one, or whinny. It was a warning, like if the subject he was touching was dangerous. Like you weren’t supposed to talk about it. But he wasn’t having it. Because if he had to make Taehyung a loser fucker for you to let him touch you, he was going to do it. He was no saint, and he was definitely going to hell. Specially with that incredible and pathetic obsession he had for you.

His lips brushed yours. “What? Did he touch you better than me?” He asked without shame. “Tell me. And I’ll show you I can do better.”

His fingers slipped under your skirt. His thumb sliding from your thigh to your center. He did some pressure to spread your legs slightly before he could touch you. The pad of his thumb rubbed your clothed clit. You sighed and his mouth found your neck again.

“Wait. Tae—”

“Shut up.” He frowned, his mouth going up to yours again. “Do I have to put something in your mouth so you can shut the fuck about him?.”

His lips pressed against yours. Kissing you with fury and hunger, he wanted you to forget about him, that you would only be able to remember his name by making you scream it so loudly of pleasure. He wanted to make you cry and whine about him, about how he was the only one to make you feel this good. How he was the only one to make you break apart.

His thumb continued to move over your clit for a couple more seconds before pushing your underwear aside. He could feel your wetness on his fingers once he started to touch you further. His index finger collected your juices before he started rubbing your cunt faster, trying to make you feel better. You sighed and he inserted his finger, still playing with your clit. He could feel your warm and tightness. He bit your lip to not moan, fantasizing how it would feel to be inside you.

Shit. He was so hard. He was becoming desperate. He wanted you to feel the same as him, needy, crazy about his touch. He was going mad. Jungkook was falling apart of just thinking of being inside you. And you haven’t even touched him yet.

He kept pushing his finger in and out of you, playing with your clit with fury. You squirmed under his touch, legs trembling slightly. He could feel you getting close. His fingers were covered of your juices, your hole was getting tighter around his finger. You jolt and moan And then, he took his hand away from you. Your hips moved a little trying to find his hand. He pushed away from you, giving you a peck before going back to his seat, still facing you.

“What— What are you doing?.”

Your breathing was heavy, you frowned frustrated. Your cheeks were blushed and your eyes heavy. He looked at you with a little smirk. Jungkook took his two fingers soaked in your juices to his mouth before sucking them so he could taste you. His eyes rolled back slightly and he tried not to moan. His eyes darkened more than before. He was losing it.

Jungkook made a quick jump to move to the back seat. Taking a seat in the middle while spreading his legs and breathing heavily. He looked at you with desire, a hunger you had never seen in anyone before. His palms pressed against his thighs and he pulled his head back slightly without breaking eye contact.

“If you want me— come take me.”

You looked at him for a couple of seconds in silence. And the confidence he exude was making you horny. But Jungkook was actually about to break. The fake confidence was just a shield he put to make a move. He wanted for you to want him. Because if you were to open the door and leave, or reject him with words— he was going to cry for hours about it.

He swallowed hard when he saw you move to him. Jungkook felt a little lighter, like a weight leaving his shoulders. He didn't remove eye contact as you climbed on top of him, putting each leg on the side of his hip before pressing a button of the seat to make him fall backwards. Not all the way back, but enough so that he was leaning back slightly. His hands found your waist and yours tangled in his hair before kissing him hard.

And Jungkook lost every power he had.

He wished he had control, a little bit of power to make you feel like he was the one leading. But he wanted you so much, so fucking much. He wanted to make a mess out of you, he wanted to touch in the right places, The right places no one else could reach. He wanted you so bad he was willing to take anything you could give him. And he wished he had some shame, some backbone. Because when he felt you kiss him like you wanted him again, he could only moan in your mouth.

Your fingers slid down his body, rubbing his muscles gently until they reached his abs. Your lips moved to his jaw and then to his neck. Jungkook sighed with pleasure as your fingers slipped under his shirt to rub his defined abs before moving to unbuckle his belt with ease. He lifted his legs so he could help you pull down his pants. His cock was marked in his underwear. Pre-cum protruding slightly. Your fingers wrapped around it. He bit his lip to not moan again.

Your hand moved slowly up and down on his clothed cock. His tip twitched, now sticking out over his underwear. Red and pretty. Jungkook moved his hands to grip your thighs tightly, fingers leaving a mark. You pressed your thumb in his tip to moved his pre cum around it, slowly and sticky.

“Wait— I’ll come fast. I wanna be inside you.” Jungkook grabbed your wrist. You moved to looked at him. “I wanna feel you, pretty.”

You nodded. “Yeah?.”

“Yeah.” He nodded faster, his hands moving to put his underwear down “. I’ve been dreaming about you. How you feel. Fuck, fuck. I wanna make you feel so good. I wanna fuck you so good, pretty.”

But you laughed. A mean dry laugh that made him froze in place.

Your fingers gently grasped the hem of your skirt so you could pull it up to your hips. Your legs moved up to his waist, moving your underwear to the side. His cock was slapping against his abdomen, hard and begging to be touched.

“You think you’re gonna fuck me?.” You titled your head . “Just stay still.”

You sat on top of his cock, your flesh wrapping around the length of it. Your juices serving as a lubricant so you could begin to move slowly over him. Jungkook whined, grabbing your hips so he could touch your skin. Your hands found his chest, you leaned in slightly so you could see him.

Jungkook wanted to cry of pleasure. He couldn’t believe he was able to feel you this way finally. He bit his lower lip and tried to imagine other things to not come so fast. But it was so hard, the way you were moving on top of him. The way your eyes were getting lazy. The way he could feel your warm and wetness coating his cock. He swore everything with you was better, every little thing maximized by a hundred.

He wanted to see you cry in pleasure, cry for him. He felt so pathetic begging for a fuck. And he wished he had any shame by doing this but his hips only buckled up trying to get you closer to him. He was dying for you to come all over him. But he was dying to be inside you so much more.

“Please let me fuck you.” He begged. “I’ll be good, please. I swear I’ll be good for you— Fuck, shit… I’ll make you feel good…”

You stopped. And he wanted to kill himself.

“I said no. Take what I give you.”

He swallowed hard, admiring you above him. You didn’t move and he nodded quickly trying to make you go back to the motion of before.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” He complained. “Just move, baby— Fuck… Please, please…”

He kept bucking his hips up into you with quiet mewls, biting his lip and slightly rolling his eyes. His breath becoming heavier. He just couldn't bring his hips to stop. He didn’t want to, he wanted to see you get off. He wanted to feel you come.

Jungkook moaned when you started moving again, slowly dragging your cunt against his aching cock. You grabbed his jaw to kiss him again and moan in his mouth. His fingers grabbed your hair to keep you in place, sliding his tongue in your mouth. You kept working on his swollen cock, moving back and forth to continue satisfying your clit.

He was losing his mind. His dick twitching, pre cum dripping in his abs, your cunt grinding hard against him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He could feel your flesh swallowing all his length, dripping over him, making a mess. He could feel the way your sticky cunt tighten around him, your clit palpitating hard. You moved a little so his tip could play with your clit, slowly and hard. You moaned in his mouth and Jungkook threw his head back to whined.

He felt pathetic. Tears forming in his eyes at the sensation. Feeling you trying to reach your high, feeling all. He swore he would do anything- cut his arms, lose all his money, not having sex ever again- if you just moved to put him inside you. If he could just feel your insides, if he could just fuck you. He wanted to beg more, but he knew he would probably make you mad and he didn’t want you to stop. Not now, not ever.

“Shit, so good.”

You whispered and he groaned. He’s so close, he could feel a knot in his tummy. His dick twitching, his eyes glassy with tears. You looked down to make eye contact. Your eyes lost in pleasure, your cheeks red and your lips swollen. And that make him lost it. He grabbed your jaw to kiss you hard before throwing his head back to grunt. He was coming. And so were you. You moved faster, he pressed your hips down to his.

He came hot into your folds, thick ropes of cum all over your cunt and his abdomen. And it was so good that he could cry. You moaned, dripping all over him. His cock sore and softening against your clit, cum dribbling onto your nub and painting your cunt with his load. It felt sticky and dirty.

Jungkook’s heart was pounding, his breathing unsteady. For a second, he felt everything moving slowly. Your hands gripping his shoulders, your body leaning against him as his fingers run down your back. For a second it's all too much. For a second he felt this is the right thing. This is how it should be. Just the two together, making each other feel good.

But he doesn’t want it to be over so soon. Specially no after you were the one taking control. Of course not after what is supposed to happen later. He has to show you he is good. He wants to show you that he can make you feel good. He wants to prove himself to you. He was sure he will do anything to make you see that he could be enough. It was hard to do that when you won’t let him do anything to you but he knew now what lines he could cross. And shame was something he didn’t have with you anymore.

Junkook grabbed your body hard and fast so he could lay you down on the seat. Moving so that he could kneel in the small space between the seats and in front of your legs. You looked down, confused and somewhat lost, still coming down from the high.

“What are you doing?.”

“I haven’t finish with you.”

Jungkook grabbed your legs to put you closer to his chest, your ass almost leaving the seat. He opened your legs without delicacy, taking your underwear down your ankles. His mouth salivating when he saw the rope of cum covering your folds. And he thought it’s perfect. This is perfect. He wants to see you covered in him forever. He wants to give you all he has to offer. He wants to see you fucked up and crying for him, covered in his cum— forever.

His mouth was on you in an instant, tongue lapping up the mess he had uncovered like he didn’t care about anything else. His eyes rolled back at the taste, eating his own cum from your cunt. The first swipe was slow, tasting every bit of the slick coating your folds. He thinks it’s the perfect taste, the perfect meal. Both of you dripping from your pussy. The next was rougher, hungrier, tongue pressing deeper as he groaned into your heat. He wants nothing more than this.

He licks you clean, every part of your pussy getting clean with his tongue. Drinking all of it. and he’s sure this wouldn’t be the last time. Because there was no way he could spent another week not tasting you, not feeling your heat in his face. He couldn’t bare the thought of it. And he wants to cry of how good, of how dirty this is. How months ago he would hate doing this and now he was lost in eating you out tasting himself in you.

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging slightly at the overstimulation before sprouting and throwing your head back to moan. Now he was eating you good. Now that you were cleaner than before he was moving his tongue to your clit and sucking hard. Your back arches and he swears that is the best view. Watching you break apart, open legs, back arched, trembling and moaning.

So Jungkook gets sloppy with it, getting more into it. He doesn’t care about how messy he gets. lips and chin completely covered of your juices but he loves it. He practically drowns himself between your thighs, gripping them so tightly as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. And he knows you will soon but he prefers not to think about it. He prefers to pretend that you’re his now, spreading your legs only for him, making those sweet noises only for him.

You have to know. That in this moment, you’re his.

He presses your thighs hard and pulls slightly apart. Your head quickly moves to look at him, exasperated, looking for your ralease. Your eyes with tears and your lips red. Jungkook looked drunk, chin full of your juices and swollen lips.

“It’s only polite to look at me while I eat you out.” He licked his lips. “Don’t you think, pretty?.”

You swallow hard. Remembering the first night you had together and the words you said to him while sucking him off. He sinks his head back into your cunt, his eyes still glued to yours as he sucks on your clit. And it’s doesn’t take you too much to come undone. Not looking away a when you moaned and shake in his mouth. Not looking away when he drinks your juices, not looking away when he cleans the rest of it like a starved man.

And for a moment, he sees it. He’s ruining you too.

So he kisses you. Strong and slow. Making you taste the flavor of you both in his mouth. Staining you with your own juice. He thrusts his tongue into your mouth so he can make you taste everything. And he can't believe how you've ruined everything for him. What seemed dirty to him before, now made him horny. Anything you liked, anything he could try with you, it made him go feral. It made him want more. But only if it was with you.

It takes you both a few minutes to come back to reality. Still in the back of the car as you try to control your breathing back to normal. He was tracing your cheek slowly with his fingers while leaning in the seat trying to make the moment last a little longer. Both of you lying on your sides and facing each other.

“That was good, huh?.” He breaks the silence.

You snort and he smiles.

“It really was.”

He can feel his chest filling with pride. Eyes sparkling at the thought of making you his, hope making his way to his body. Maybe you will realize he could give you what you needed. Not Taehyung.

“You want to go upstairs? I can run a bath for you.”

As he finishes his phrase, he can feel the hope shatter. Your eyes dart to the side and he can feel the discomfort beginning to fill the air.

“Shit.” You cursed, sitting up and taking your phone out. “I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago…”

“Then stay.” Jungkook sat, looking at you a little egocentric. “Why do you wanna see him anyway?.”

You paused, Then— looked at him, this time less enchanted by what happened before. Mad, annoyed.

“Jungkook…”

“Yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes, rubbing his face with frustration. “Can I ask you… are you in love with him?.”

You frowned confused. “Why are you asking me that?.”

“You know why.”

There’s a silence. It felt weird, uncomfortable. You didn’t know what he was trying to do. And, to be honest, maybe he didn’t know either.

“Jungkook, there’s something between me and Taehyung.”

“Love?” he questioned. “I don’t think you will be doing all this if you love him.”

“What are you trying to do?” You snapped. “What do you think is gonna happen?. I will break things with him and run to you? His best friend.” You shook your head. “And then what? We’ll live happily ever after?— Do you know how fucked up that is?.”

“This is fucked up.” He argued, regretting immediately to say it out loud.

You pressed your lips together before nodding slowly. “Yeah, this is fucked up.”

“Come on— I was just… I don’t know, okay?” He groaned. “I don’t like seeing you with Taehyung.”

“You don’t get to decide who I am with.” you stated. “And you’re right. This is fucked up. I don’t know why I’m doing this. But it’s over…”

“I didn’t mean it like that…”

“It’s better if we don’t see each other for some time, Jungkook.”

You left before he could say anything. And he cursed himself for being so stupid. Because he knew he wasn’t in love with you. And he knew he was being a jealous greedy fucker by bringing up Taehyung. He didn’t know what he was trying to do but definitely not pushing you away.

He punched the leather seat before making a sound of frustration. Why was he so obsessed with you?.

sometimes dry humping is better than sex but u guys wouldn’t get it 🤚🏻

this might have a few mistakes i’ll edit later bc i was lazy to edit it 😓 anyway this was supposed to be porn but now the plot thickens??? but did i eat or what???

i might forgot to add some to the taglist i’m sososososrrry 😓

@bhonbhon @nctma15 @songbyeonkim @mrspotatas @kae143 @ttanniett @emmie2308 @rrosiitas @kooklovesu @sublimeoperapatrolpickle @haru-jiminn @inhoswifee @hennessysthings @zzzdr @kookieouch @jk97bam @gcfseouls @suavaecitas-blog @gaby-93 @mysteriousgeminizone @wishicouldmeethoseok @topforsure @sugaholicddict93 @mortqlprojections @army7-013 @girlyminmin03 @gucci-soo @lachesismoonmist @laylay7ot @freakingsad @cherrysoulthreblogs @kissyfacekoo @bangzlut @mariporaqui @soju4shi @sigxx123 @melanymeeli @jjklvrapobangpo7 @gebsaxx @cherryminnie95

[inthelow]

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I LOVE THE PHOTOS U USE TO REPLY JAJSJAJDJA (of course I stole the one from your last reblog)

LMAOOO i was n stan twitter for so long, old habits die hard fr 🙏🏼😓 also slayyy i love stealing reaction pics

btw i saw that laugh with JJJJ are you maybe perhaps by any chance hispanic?🫦

[inthelow]

hi!! you’re losing me was sosososososo good. i loved the open ending, it felt more realistic that way. can’t wait to read through the rest of your work! :)

Hiii pretty. thank you so much for reading the story and sending me this sweet message <33. I hope you enjoy the rest of my work 🙂‍↕️

[inthelow]

ayeee thank u for not letting this namjoon fic flop like my other one 😡😡

i see all your reblogs and dm thank u so much for being sososo sweet and for reading this long ass shit i’m giving you all a big fat kiss in the mouth

jimin ure next 😈

YOU’RE LOSING ME — kim namjoon.

Pairing: art dealer fem! reader x idol! kim namjoon

Summary: You fall in love with Kim Namjoon. A love full of passion, a love that burns quietly and intensely. But what’s the point of love if no one’s willing to risk for it?.

genre/warning: fluff, angst / emotional absence, cursing.

note: bring ur tissues and a cup of tea cuz i’m about to write my longest fic ever hoes

The apartment wasn’t loud about you leaving.

There was no shouting. No slammed doors. Just the gentle zip of a suitcase being opened for the first time in months, the sound of folded sweaters being laid down like old apologies. Even the air felt subdued, like the room was holding its breath with you.

You moved slowly, deliberately, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight— You touched those things like they were burning.

Should you throw it or keep it?

That line had been circling your brain for weeks now—at the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.

You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part. It wasn’t a moment. Not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow. Like rot beneath paint. Like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness— and then just… nothingness.

You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished. Nothing was expected anymore.

And you had stayed. For too long. Giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring apartment.

You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.

There it was. The ring.

In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not ever— And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.

But he hadn’t.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. And you looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something. Done something. Fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.

Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart. For a fight that was never coming. For a life that you had planned with him in your mind. For him. For something… but nothing came. It was just you. Like always.

Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights blinked in soft, distant rhythms. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred—of an art gallery.

Of a man in sunglasses.

Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.

< Four year and a half ago. Manhattan, USA. >

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels muted against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper—an honest scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.

You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.

Some visitors needed to be approached. Others needed to be left alone until the silence got too heavy. He was the latter. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.

He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of—a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus usually reserved for something personal.

After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”

You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension—between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece—‘Fragmented Horizon’—is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”

“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”

He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”

You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise, but never neat.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”

You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for vacation and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”

“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”

“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.

His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”

You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”

He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”

“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”

He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw.

“Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture—a delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.

You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible—like the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”

He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”

You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art— it’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.

A beat passed.

He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”

“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”

“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artist who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”

“Uhm— not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”

He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in.

“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.

“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”

“And you are?.”

He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.

“Kim Namjoon.”

For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.

You knew that name. Of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost—grateful.

“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries?.”

He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”

You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”

“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.

— — — — —

It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.

Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin.

Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me.

You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.

You: Lee Ufan.

You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope.

A minute passed.

Unknown Number: So basically, he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve.

Unknown Number: Sounds familiar.

You smiled.

You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?

Unknown Number: … Both.

Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime.

You: And without sunglasses?

Unknown Number: Maybe.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then—

You: I’m not sure that’s true. You walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone.

Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?

You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way. The hat was a nice touch. Very 2010s indie musician energy.

Unknown Number: Ouch.

Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you.

You: You couldn’t afford it.

Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do.

You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear Converse with holes in them.

Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?

You: I notice everything.

There was a pause. A longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped. But then:

Unknown Number: So do I. That’s probably why I came back.

A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.

You: You came back?

Unknown Number: Three times, before I said anything.

Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning is subjective” with that one eyebrow lift you do.

Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art.

You snorted at how cheesy that was.

You: So what do you do for living?.

Unknown Number: Music. A bit of writing. Some pretending I’m not in music.

Unknown Number: still an art dealer?

You chuckled at that.

You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way. I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates.

Unknown Number: That sounds noble. Also suspiciously underpaid.

You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery

Unknown Number: Very smart.

You: That’s why I accepted your number request. High risk, high reward.

Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?

You: Maybe both

There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:

Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery.

Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour. This is a business thing.

You: I see, only professional matters. I have a group at 7pm you can join.

You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time.

Unknown Number: Done.

—————

Friday next week came pretty quickly.

And the gallery had never felt so still.

It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed—soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.

You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.

Good. He was trying.

“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.

“Traffic.”

You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.

“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.

“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”

You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”

You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script—just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.

“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive—controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”

“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”

He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”

You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.

You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops—glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works—a minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.

“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”

“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”

He looked at you. “You don’t.”

You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”

He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”

The question hung between you two like one of the wires—weightless, waiting.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”

You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled. “Both.”

You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds— Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.

“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”

“No encore?” he teased.

You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”

“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.

When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”

“So…?”

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore—something cedar-based and quiet.

“You still might have to,” he murmured.

Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”

“I thought we were already closed.”

“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”

He looked at you for a moment, really looked. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.

“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left—hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned—he said: “Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”

You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days

< Four years ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with tea.

Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.

He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.

“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time an I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”

You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

He looked at you, really looked—your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. You always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.

“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”

You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”

Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”

You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”

“I feel older when I say it.”

“Do you regret it?”

“The music?”

“No. The scale of it. The attention.”

He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like—have it without the echo.”

You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more.

“Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you: what’s something no one knows about you?”

“I once wanted to be a florist.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched. “That’s… actually adorable.”

“And extremely impractical.”

“You’d make a very judgmental florist.”

“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”

He laughed, soft and full.

There was a moment of quiet again—not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”

“Not fate?”

“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”

Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”

He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”

“Accurate.”

“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even from people?”

“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”

He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”

You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”

Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Is it tragic?”

“That depends on your taste in poetry.”

“Oh god.”

You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”

“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Something French?”

You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”

You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”

Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”

“It’s not Eleanor.”

“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”

“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”

He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”

“I am not.”

He smirked. “You’re very close.”

And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.

Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: This wasn’t temporary.

—————

You were lost.

Not metaphorically. Actually lost.

A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this— this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…

Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”

“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”

“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”

You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”

“That could describe this entire region.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”

You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Namjoon blinked.

“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”

“I know.”

He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.

He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth—simple and sudden—was:

“I love you.”

You stilled.

He felt it immediately—the way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.

You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

A beat.

Then another.

You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.

“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I’m not getting out of the car.”

He smiled—something small, barely there, but real.

“Good.”

You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”

He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.

And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.

—————

It was late.

Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late—the end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.

You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery—an opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.

You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first—just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.

“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“You’re always sexy.”

“Your standards are deeply flawed.”

He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”

And then there was quiet for a while.

You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted—some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.

“I love you.”

Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.

He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist—the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

“About damn time,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.

And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.

< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were cooking.

Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess—half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”

You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”

“It looks like regret.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”

“You’re gonna dump it.”

“I’m going to elevate it.”

“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”

You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.

“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”

You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.

“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.

“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”

Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”

“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”

“We’d never agree.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”

You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”

Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”

You studied him—eyes sharp, searching, soft.

“And you’re not scared?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Terrified.”

“But?”

“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”

A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”

Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.

“We could take it slow.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”

The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment—over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek—the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.

Not in one night— But maybe, If you two kept choosing it— Every night after.

—————

The gallery was already humming.

Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before—art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters—this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”

And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.

“Y/n,” someone said—Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”

You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit—bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.

You were two lines into your opening when it happened.

A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.

He was here. He shouldn’t have been.

But he was.

You kept going—finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork—but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it—past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine—and headed straight toward him.

Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.

“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.

“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.

“You said you—”

“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”

You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.

“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“I know that too.” He looked at her gently. “That’s why I had to.”

You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.

“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.

“No. we’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.

“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.

And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”

—————

You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.

So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.

“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”

But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”

So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.

From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system—stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.

You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.

Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.

“How do you do this every day?” you asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”

“Respect.”

He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”

“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”

You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”

He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”

You pulled something from your bag—a sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.

“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.

You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”

“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”

He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”

“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”

He laughed, mouth full.

You two sat like that—your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly—but between this life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.

You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.

When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”

You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”

Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:

You: You’re killing it today, proud of u

He replied seconds later.

Namjoon: Only cause ure here

You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.

—————

Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago—bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.

You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming—off-key and quietly—to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.

Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like—look at you. Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”

“This is store-bought jam,” you said.

“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”

You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.

You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a peck. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.

The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.

“What are we making again?” he asked.

“Chai.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands—how precise they were, how steady—and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.

Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”

“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”

“I’ll write a song about that too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.

You were .

And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.

< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >

It was late afternoon when he showed up.

You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was—sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.

“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”

He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.

“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”

Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”

You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily—like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.

“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and—whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”

“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”

“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”

You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.

Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”

You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.

“Shit.”

You sighed. “You have to go.”

“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.

You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”

Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

“I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll wait.”

A beat.

Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.

When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”

Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm—but only with the ghost of him.

You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.

—————

The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers—something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.

You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flights. No soundchecks. No exhibitions. No rehearsals. Just this—sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.

You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”

“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”

“To what? A golden retriever?”

“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”

You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”

“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”

“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

You two sat like that for a while—just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”

“The installation with the suspended shards?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”

“Like invisible tension wires?”

“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second—but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”

You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.

“What? Romantic?”

“No. Structural.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”

You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”

“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”

“You are smart.”

“You’re smarter.”

“True.”

You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours. Fingers tangled like habit.

The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.

But he was here. And you were here. And time—for once—wasn’t the enemy.

So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a night.

At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”

“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”

“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”

He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”

You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”

Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.

He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.

“Depending on the topic.”

“Rude.”

“Or honest?.”

You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.

“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”

“Hit me.”

“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”

You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”

“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”

“And you?”

“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”

You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”

“Maybe.”

You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”

“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”

“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”

Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?”

You nodded.

He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”

“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”

“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”

You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”

“Perfect.”

He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.

“At what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people.”

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Then remember.”

And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.

Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill— when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.

—————

You were late to your own morning.

You’d woken up disoriented—your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces—shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.

So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie—“On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”

Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.

In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.

You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”

And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table—he’d actually ordered this time—and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.

“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.

You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but here, with him now— it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your time, your life. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear… So you had something to ate. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.

But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm— Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.

And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.

< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had never been one for anniversaries.

Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.

This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it— Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas—a major one.

You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.

He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.

And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.

You went to your share favorite restaurant—the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.

At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.

At 8:15, you declined the menu—just in case.

At 8:40, you checked your phone.

At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.

The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.

Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.

That was all it said.

You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.

The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”

You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”

You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home—just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.

It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had make you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. And you did the same. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.

Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.

The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then—almost accidentally—you poured yourself a second cup.

You stared at them both for a while.

The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon

Incoming call

You hesitated only a second before picking up.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.

“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.

“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”

“I figured,” you said.

“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Don’t worry.”

A pause. “How was dinner?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”

You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”

He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”

“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

“I know.”

Another silence. This one worse than all the others.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that— always did. But more so now than ever.

“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.

Not yes. Just… maybe.

He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time— it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.

—————

You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic—full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.

You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.

Inside: an engagement ring.

Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.

Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.

You trusted him to get there.

It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.

The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath—no honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.

Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.

“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”

Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”

He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”

You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.

Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hm.”

“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.

Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”

Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”

“We’re already weird.”

“Okay. Older and weirder.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”

Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”

He kissed you once—lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other—formally or not.

The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.

< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were supposed to go away that weekend.

Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.

He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”

You booked it that night.

But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.

“Babe, listen—I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”

You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.

“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean—if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”

But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You should do it.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.

You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.

When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”

He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you—quiet and dull—like a match that never got lit.

Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.

< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.

By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”

“No,” you said.

You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.

He hummed. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Everything.”

“Specifics?”

You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just—walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”

“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.

There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.

“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.”

You went quiet. He didn’t notice.

“I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”

“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

You stayed in the dark a little longer.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry—at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.

You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.

“You’ll be fine.”

You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.

You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.

< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >

It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”

You smiled. “Wednesday?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”

You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.

On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine—nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.

By seven, the table was set.

By eight, the pasta was cold.

You texted him around 7:30.

You: Everything okay?

He didn’t respond.

You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic—just to keep your hands busy.

At 8:44, your phone buzzed.

Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.

You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: It’s okay.

You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most—it was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.

At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.

Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later

Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?

You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.

You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.

Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.

Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.

And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?

< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner—early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.

“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”

Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”

“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”

He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”

You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”

Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”

You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.

But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.

The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you—stupid and stubborn and hopeful—that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”

But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.

At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.

Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.

There was a second message.

Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.

You didn’t reply.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing—folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.

And once again, work had won.

The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.

The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.

You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.

— N.

You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.

“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.

It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.

You folded the card and threw it in the trash.

The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.

And Namjoon wasn’t there.

When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.

You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

It rang once. Twice.

He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”

“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”

“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”

“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”

Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”

A pause.

“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly—just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”

“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”

More voices. A door opened and shut.

“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”

“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”

He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”

You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”

“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”

You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.

But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.

You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.

That’s when it hit you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.

He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.

You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.

You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.

< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.

You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:

“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”

That was it.

That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.

“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”

“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”

“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”

He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”

“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”

“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”

He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”

“You barely come home at all.”

You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.

After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”

You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back—softly, automatically.

Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing herself that love should be this hard all the time.

And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.

Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything—except being met with indifference

< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with nothing.

No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:

If I stop trying… will he even notice?

The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.

No hey, how’s your day?

No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.

Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.

It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.

On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”

You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”

Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”

You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.

At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.

He finally texted on the fourth day.

Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?

You stared at it.

Not I missed you.

Not I’m sorry for going silent.

Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:

You: All good. You?

He replied twenty minutes later.

Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.

You didn’t write back.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.

Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.

And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.

< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >

The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.

“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare—my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”

“Namjoon.”

The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion—he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.

“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” you said. “It can’t.”

At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.

Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even—outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?

He got defensive. You got louder.

And then it all came out.

The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to buy.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”

He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”

“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”

Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”

Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury—like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”

“I’m not choosing work over you.”

“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes—once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.

You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.

“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up—not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”

Silence.

Heavy. Crushing.

Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”

He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you whispered.

Silence fell between you two again.

You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.

He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”

He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”

You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.

“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.

“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”

But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.

The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.

The slow, deliberate act of leaving.

The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.

He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall — now oddly bare — caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.

In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.

His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There — a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.

Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.

He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.

His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.

Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.

But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase — everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.

He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.

How could he fix it?.

Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight — exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.

The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.

The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.

When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.

“Namjoon.”

He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything — for the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”

“Please—”

“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n.”

“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this — us — it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”

He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”

You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”

“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change — I’ll be better. I swear it.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”

“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”

Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”

Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”

He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.

“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you — don’t give up on us. Not like this.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”

His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”

“You already did.”

There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.

He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.

“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”

You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.

“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave

He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart— so far away from him.

And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.

< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >

The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.

You had moved. Not far — just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore — not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.

It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.

And it was working— at least a little bit.

That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then — like muscle memory — you turned the corner and froze.

There he was. Kim Namjoon.

Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.

“Hey.” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Another pause.

You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”

Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it — gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”

He blinked. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”

He looked like he might cry — but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”

You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.

“What are you—.”

“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here casually… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”

“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.

“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”

You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”

He stepped closer—just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now—I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”

You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”

He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to god, Y/n— I’ll risk everything for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was holding its breath.

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.

i’m so in love with open endings rn

now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt

itttt but anyway here’s a namjoon little story that i was going to make it a long fic but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)

also, i study art history for a month so don’t quote me on the comments of the artist cuz i don’t know shit i was just trying to be quirky and shit,, also with the books 😓🙏🏼

[inthelow]

YOU’RE LOSING ME — kim namjoon.

Pairing: art dealer fem! reader x idol! kim namjoon

Summary: You fall in love with Kim Namjoon. A love full of passion, a love that burns quietly and intensely. But what’s the point of love if no one’s willing to risk for it?.

genre/warning: fluff, angst / emotional absence, cursing.

note: bring ur tissues and a cup of tea cuz i’m about to write my longest fic ever hoes

The apartment wasn’t loud about you leaving.

There was no shouting. No slammed doors. Just the gentle zip of a suitcase being opened for the first time in months, the sound of folded sweaters being laid down like old apologies. Even the air felt subdued, like the room was holding its breath with you.

You moved slowly, deliberately, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight— You touched those things like they were burning.

Should you throw it or keep it?

That line had been circling your brain for weeks now—at the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.

You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part. It wasn’t a moment. Not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow. Like rot beneath paint. Like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness— and then just… nothingness.

You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished. Nothing was expected anymore.

And you had stayed. For too long. Giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring apartment.

You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.

There it was. The ring.

In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not ever— And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.

But he hadn’t.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. And you looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something. Done something. Fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.

Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart. For a fight that was never coming. For a life that you had planned with him in your mind. For him. For something… but nothing came. It was just you. Like always.

Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights blinked in soft, distant rhythms. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred—of an art gallery.

Of a man in sunglasses.

Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.

< Four year and a half ago. Manhattan, USA. >

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels muted against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper—an honest scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.

You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.

Some visitors needed to be approached. Others needed to be left alone until the silence got too heavy. He was the latter. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.

He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of—a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus usually reserved for something personal.

After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”

You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension—between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece—‘Fragmented Horizon’—is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”

“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”

He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”

You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise, but never neat.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”

You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for vacation and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”

“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”

“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.

His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”

You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”

He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”

“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”

He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw.

“Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture—a delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.

You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible—like the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”

He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”

You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art— it’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.

A beat passed.

He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”

“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”

“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artist who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”

“Uhm— not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”

He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in.

“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.

“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”

“And you are?.”

He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.

“Kim Namjoon.”

For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.

You knew that name. Of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost—grateful.

“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries?.”

He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”

You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”

“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.

— — — — —

It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.

Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin.

Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me.

You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.

You: Lee Ufan.

You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope.

A minute passed.

Unknown Number: So basically, he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve.

Unknown Number: Sounds familiar.

You smiled.

You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?

Unknown Number: … Both.

Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime.

You: And without sunglasses?

Unknown Number: Maybe.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then—

You: I’m not sure that’s true. You walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone.

Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?

You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way. The hat was a nice touch. Very 2010s indie musician energy.

Unknown Number: Ouch.

Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you.

You: You couldn’t afford it.

Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do.

You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear Converse with holes in them.

Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?

You: I notice everything.

There was a pause. A longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped. But then:

Unknown Number: So do I. That’s probably why I came back.

A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.

You: You came back?

Unknown Number: Three times, before I said anything.

Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning is subjective” with that one eyebrow lift you do.

Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art.

You snorted at how cheesy that was.

You: So what do you do for living?.

Unknown Number: Music. A bit of writing. Some pretending I’m not in music.

Unknown Number: still an art dealer?

You chuckled at that.

You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way. I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates.

Unknown Number: That sounds noble. Also suspiciously underpaid.

You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery

Unknown Number: Very smart.

You: That’s why I accepted your number request. High risk, high reward.

Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?

You: Maybe both

There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:

Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery.

Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour. This is a business thing.

You: I see, only professional matters. I have a group at 7pm you can join.

You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time.

Unknown Number: Done.

—————

Friday next week came pretty quickly.

And the gallery had never felt so still.

It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed—soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.

You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.

Good. He was trying.

“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.

“Traffic.”

You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.

“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.

“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”

You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”

You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script—just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.

“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive—controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”

“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”

He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”

You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.

You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops—glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works—a minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.

“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”

“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”

He looked at you. “You don’t.”

You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”

He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”

The question hung between you two like one of the wires—weightless, waiting.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”

You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled. “Both.”

You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds— Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.

“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”

“No encore?” he teased.

You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”

“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.

When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”

“So…?”

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore—something cedar-based and quiet.

“You still might have to,” he murmured.

Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”

“I thought we were already closed.”

“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”

He looked at you for a moment, really looked. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.

“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left—hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned—he said: “Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”

You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days

< Four years ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with tea.

Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.

He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.

“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time an I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”

You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

He looked at you, really looked—your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. You always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.

“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”

You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”

Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”

You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”

“I feel older when I say it.”

“Do you regret it?”

“The music?”

“No. The scale of it. The attention.”

He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like—have it without the echo.”

You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more.

“Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you: what’s something no one knows about you?”

“I once wanted to be a florist.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched. “That’s… actually adorable.”

“And extremely impractical.”

“You’d make a very judgmental florist.”

“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”

He laughed, soft and full.

There was a moment of quiet again—not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”

“Not fate?”

“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”

Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”

He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”

“Accurate.”

“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even from people?”

“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”

He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”

You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”

Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Is it tragic?”

“That depends on your taste in poetry.”

“Oh god.”

You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”

“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Something French?”

You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”

You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”

Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”

“It’s not Eleanor.”

“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”

“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”

He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”

“I am not.”

He smirked. “You’re very close.”

And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.

Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: This wasn’t temporary.

—————

You were lost.

Not metaphorically. Actually lost.

A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this— this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…

Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”

“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”

“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”

You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”

“That could describe this entire region.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”

You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Namjoon blinked.

“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”

“I know.”

He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.

He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth—simple and sudden—was:

“I love you.”

You stilled.

He felt it immediately—the way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.

You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

A beat.

Then another.

You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.

“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I’m not getting out of the car.”

He smiled—something small, barely there, but real.

“Good.”

You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”

He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.

And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.

—————

It was late.

Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late—the end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.

You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery—an opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.

You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first—just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.

“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“You’re always sexy.”

“Your standards are deeply flawed.”

He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”

And then there was quiet for a while.

You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted—some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.

“I love you.”

Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.

He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist—the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

“About damn time,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.

And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.

< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were cooking.

Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess—half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”

You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”

“It looks like regret.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”

“You’re gonna dump it.”

“I’m going to elevate it.”

“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”

You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.

“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”

You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.

“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.

“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”

Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”

“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”

“We’d never agree.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”

You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”

Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”

You studied him—eyes sharp, searching, soft.

“And you’re not scared?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Terrified.”

“But?”

“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”

A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”

Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.

“We could take it slow.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”

The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment—over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek—the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.

Not in one night— But maybe, If you two kept choosing it— Every night after.

—————

The gallery was already humming.

Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before—art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters—this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”

And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.

“Y/n,” someone said—Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”

You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit—bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.

You were two lines into your opening when it happened.

A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.

He was here. He shouldn’t have been.

But he was.

You kept going—finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork—but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it—past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine—and headed straight toward him.

Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.

“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.

“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.

“You said you—”

“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”

You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.

“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“I know that too.” He looked at her gently. “That’s why I had to.”

You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.

“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.

“No. we’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.

“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.

And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”

—————

You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.

So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.

“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”

But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”

So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.

From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system—stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.

You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.

Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.

“How do you do this every day?” you asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”

“Respect.”

He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”

“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”

You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”

He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”

You pulled something from your bag—a sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.

“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.

You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”

“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”

He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”

“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”

He laughed, mouth full.

You two sat like that—your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly—but between this life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.

You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.

When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”

You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”

Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:

You: You’re killing it today, proud of u

He replied seconds later.

Namjoon: Only cause ure here

You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.

—————

Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago—bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.

You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming—off-key and quietly—to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.

Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like—look at you. Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”

“This is store-bought jam,” you said.

“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”

You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.

You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a peck. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.

The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.

“What are we making again?” he asked.

“Chai.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands—how precise they were, how steady—and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.

Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”

“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”

“I’ll write a song about that too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.

You were .

And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.

< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >

It was late afternoon when he showed up.

You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was—sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.

“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”

He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.

“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”

Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”

You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily—like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.

“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and—whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”

“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”

“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”

You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.

Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”

You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.

“Shit.”

You sighed. “You have to go.”

“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.

You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”

Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

“I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll wait.”

A beat.

Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.

When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”

Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm—but only with the ghost of him.

You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.

—————

The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers—something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.

You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flights. No soundchecks. No exhibitions. No rehearsals. Just this—sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.

You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”

“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”

“To what? A golden retriever?”

“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”

You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”

“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”

“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

You two sat like that for a while—just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”

“The installation with the suspended shards?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”

“Like invisible tension wires?”

“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second—but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”

You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.

“What? Romantic?”

“No. Structural.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”

You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”

“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”

“You are smart.”

“You’re smarter.”

“True.”

You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours. Fingers tangled like habit.

The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.

But he was here. And you were here. And time—for once—wasn’t the enemy.

So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a night.

At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”

“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”

“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”

He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”

You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”

Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.

He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.

“Depending on the topic.”

“Rude.”

“Or honest?.”

You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.

“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”

“Hit me.”

“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”

You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”

“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”

“And you?”

“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”

You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”

“Maybe.”

You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”

“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”

“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”

Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?”

You nodded.

He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”

“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”

“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”

You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”

“Perfect.”

He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.

“At what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people.”

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Then remember.”

And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.

Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill— when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.

—————

You were late to your own morning.

You’d woken up disoriented—your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces—shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.

So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie—“On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”

Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.

In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.

You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”

And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table—he’d actually ordered this time—and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.

“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.

You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but here, with him now— it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your time, your life. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear… So you had something to ate. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.

But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm— Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.

And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.

< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had never been one for anniversaries.

Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.

This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it— Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas—a major one.

You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.

He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.

And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.

You went to your share favorite restaurant—the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.

At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.

At 8:15, you declined the menu—just in case.

At 8:40, you checked your phone.

At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.

The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.

Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.

That was all it said.

You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.

The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”

You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”

You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home—just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.

It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had make you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. And you did the same. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.

Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.

The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then—almost accidentally—you poured yourself a second cup.

You stared at them both for a while.

The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon

Incoming call

You hesitated only a second before picking up.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.

“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.

“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”

“I figured,” you said.

“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Don’t worry.”

A pause. “How was dinner?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”

You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”

He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”

“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

“I know.”

Another silence. This one worse than all the others.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that— always did. But more so now than ever.

“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.

Not yes. Just… maybe.

He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time— it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.

—————

You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic—full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.

You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.

Inside: an engagement ring.

Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.

Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.

You trusted him to get there.

It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.

The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath—no honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.

Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.

“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”

Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”

He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”

You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.

Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hm.”

“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.

Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”

Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”

“We’re already weird.”

“Okay. Older and weirder.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”

Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”

He kissed you once—lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other—formally or not.

The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.

< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were supposed to go away that weekend.

Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.

He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”

You booked it that night.

But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.

“Babe, listen—I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”

You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.

“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean—if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”

But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You should do it.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.

You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.

When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”

He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you—quiet and dull—like a match that never got lit.

Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.

< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.

By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”

“No,” you said.

You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.

He hummed. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Everything.”

“Specifics?”

You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just—walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”

“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.

There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.

“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.”

You went quiet. He didn’t notice.

“I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”

“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

You stayed in the dark a little longer.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry—at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.

You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.

“You’ll be fine.”

You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.

You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.

< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >

It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”

You smiled. “Wednesday?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”

You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.

On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine—nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.

By seven, the table was set.

By eight, the pasta was cold.

You texted him around 7:30.

You: Everything okay?

He didn’t respond.

You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic—just to keep your hands busy.

At 8:44, your phone buzzed.

Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.

You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: It’s okay.

You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most—it was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.

At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.

Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later

Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?

You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.

You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.

Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.

Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.

And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?

< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner—early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.

“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”

Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”

“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”

He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”

You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”

Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”

You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.

But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.

The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you—stupid and stubborn and hopeful—that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”

But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.

At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.

Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.

There was a second message.

Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.

You didn’t reply.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing—folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.

And once again, work had won.

The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.

The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.

You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.

— N.

You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.

“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.

It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.

You folded the card and threw it in the trash.

The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.

And Namjoon wasn’t there.

When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.

You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

It rang once. Twice.

He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”

“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”

“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”

“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”

Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”

A pause.

“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly—just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”

“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”

More voices. A door opened and shut.

“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”

“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”

He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”

You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”

“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”

You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.

But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.

You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.

That’s when it hit you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.

He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.

You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.

You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.

< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.

You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:

“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”

That was it.

That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.

“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”

“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”

“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”

He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”

“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”

“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”

He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”

“You barely come home at all.”

You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.

After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”

You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back—softly, automatically.

Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing herself that love should be this hard all the time.

And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.

Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything—except being met with indifference

< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with nothing.

No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:

If I stop trying… will he even notice?

The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.

No hey, how’s your day?

No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.

Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.

It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.

On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”

You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”

Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”

You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.

At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.

He finally texted on the fourth day.

Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?

You stared at it.

Not I missed you.

Not I’m sorry for going silent.

Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:

You: All good. You?

He replied twenty minutes later.

Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.

You didn’t write back.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.

Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.

And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.

< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >

The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.

“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare—my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”

“Namjoon.”

The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion—he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.

“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” you said. “It can’t.”

At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.

Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even—outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?

He got defensive. You got louder.

And then it all came out.

The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to buy.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”

He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”

“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”

Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”

Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury—like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”

“I’m not choosing work over you.”

“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes—once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.

You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.

“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up—not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”

Silence.

Heavy. Crushing.

Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”

He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you whispered.

Silence fell between you two again.

You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.

He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”

He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”

You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.

“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.

“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”

But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.

The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.

The slow, deliberate act of leaving.

The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.

He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall — now oddly bare — caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.

In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.

His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There — a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.

Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.

He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.

His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.

Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.

But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase — everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.

He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.

How could he fix it?.

Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight — exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.

The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.

The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.

When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.

“Namjoon.”

He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything — for the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”

“Please—”

“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n.”

“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this — us — it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”

He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”

You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”

“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change — I’ll be better. I swear it.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”

“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”

Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”

Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”

He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.

“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you — don’t give up on us. Not like this.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”

His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”

“You already did.”

There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.

He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.

“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”

You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.

“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave

He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart— so far away from him.

And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.

< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >

The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.

You had moved. Not far — just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore — not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.

It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.

And it was working— at least a little bit.

That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then — like muscle memory — you turned the corner and froze.

There he was. Kim Namjoon.

Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.

“Hey.” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Another pause.

You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”

Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it — gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”

He blinked. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”

He looked like he might cry — but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”

You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.

“What are you—.”

“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here casually… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”

“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.

“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”

You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”

He stepped closer—just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now—I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”

You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”

He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to god, Y/n— I’ll risk everything for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was holding its breath.

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.

i’m so in love with open endings rn

now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt

itttt but anyway here’s a namjoon little story that i was going to make it a long fic but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)

also, i study art history for a month so don’t quote me on the comments of the artist cuz i don’t know shit i was just trying to be quirky and shit,, also with the books 😓🙏🏼

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sorry if i missed it but did get him back ended? are we getting any epilogue or smth

OMG YES IM AORRY I literally have it in my drafts but there’s a part i can’t finish even when i try bc i hate how i write lately 😍 i’ll probably post it soon tho, i just have too many thoughts in other fics that i can’t finish either ayeee

[inthelow]

guy 800+ followers is crazy thank u so much, let’s get freaky (send me pics 🤤)

if you don’t know by now i’m a liar and i like to say that i will update soon or the same week just for funziess >_< i also disappear every now and then so thank u for for being here hoes

anyway thank u to everyone hehe, im trying to follow u all back

but fr thank u my children. i’ll be feeding you good this week with updates 🙂‍↕️

[inthelow]

AHHH HI!!! I literally just found your account a few hours ago and I’m already OBSESSED 😭😭 I can’t wait to binge all your stories (and scream over the upcoming ones too, obviously 🫦🫦) — you're amazing!

Ajjwdosjwksjsjs shut upppp you’re so sweet let’s makeout. you’re my best friend now idc. thank u so much pretty gorgeous amazing queen 🤭❤️ on my knees for u rn btw

[inthelow]

Nah the kth fic is def a hit for me and i had to complement your ✨sexy brain✨ for adding too many plot twists 🤭

ayeee why are u flirting with me??🤭 giving u a BIG forehead kiss rn. thank u so much pretty queen

[inthelow]

Not really a question but to say that I love the Kim Taehyung fic about the reader killing him 6 times

omgg thank u so much gorgeous queen >_< it’s flopping so bad but i love it. i’ll post the next chap this weekend heh🤭

i’m kissing u rn btw

[inthelow]

when do you think we’ll get the he 3rd ep of smoke sprite 😋

maybe perhaps probably possibly mayhap perchance (definitely) this week 🤭

[inthelow]

hey! I really love your work and i wanted to know when you'll post the next chapter of the list because it's a very good plot and i look forward to it

thank u so much for reading pretty<333, literally kissing u rn. i’ll be editing the chapters this week so i might post soon 🙏🏼🙏🏼

[inthelow]

I absolutely love love love your stories!!!! When will more of The List come out, just curious! Its very good:))

thank u so much u gorgeous pretty angel, i totally forgot about that fic lmao but i just saw the drafts i have and i was cooking

i’m gonna edit them out and post them soon #swear

[inthelow]

i can’t wait for smoke sprite 3

ayee its coming 🙏🏼🙏🏼

[inthelow]

uhmmm guys do u fuck with skz? i don’t listen to their music that much but sometimes i see videos of them and they make me giggle and sht

i maybe perhaps possibly probably will write about them hehe

[inthelow]

BACK TO FRIENDS — min yoongi.

summary: Six months after your breakup, You and Yoongi reunite at a wedding on Jeju Island. As old feelings resurface over one emotional week, you must decide if love deserves a second chance—or if “just friends” will actually work.

pairing: art seller fem! reader x idol! min yoongi.

genre: exes-friends-lovers?, angst, crack, fluff, more angst.

author’s note: a long ass story, so take a coffee and take your time bc it’s a roller coaster. let me know if you like it<3

The ferry touched down with a gentle bump the sand, and you kept your eyes on the window, watching as the Jeju Island coastline rolled by. It was strange—how a place could feel like a breath of fresh air and a held breath at the same time. Jeju was beautiful. It always had been. The sky had been brushed clear blue, not a single cloud in sight. The sea shimmered beneath it like an invitation. Or a warning. You couldn’t decide which yet. But still, like always, a breathtaking place to see and be. Too beautiful, you thought, for a week that promised emotional chaos.

It had been six months since your last visit to Korea, and this time, everything felt louder. The air. The stillness. Your own heartbeat. But coming back— specially to the Island, was like coming back from a long blur of nightmares, finally being able to wake up.

Busan was close, home was close.

Home.

You squinted against the bright sunlight as you stepped out of the small port, pulling your suitcase behind you. The early summer breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus, a welcome change from the thick city air you’d just left behind in France. You adjusted your sunglasses and scanned the supposedly pickup area.

A car honked twice, loud and scandalous as the girl inside left the car on and she left it in the road.

“Y/N!”

You turned just in time to see a blur of black and wild hair fly toward you. Soojin—your best friend since you were ten years old —practically tackled you in a hug before you could even react. You laughed, muffled into your friend’s shoulder, and hugged her back just as tight. Happy to see her again after some time. Even happier to feel that warmth of knowing someone was here with you.

“You’re here! You’re finally here!”

“I am,” you said, pulling back. “God, you’re glowing. You look… like someone who’s about to spend way too much money to promise eternal love in front of a hundred people.”

Soojin rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. Eternal love is cheap. It’s the matching table settings that are bleeding me dry.” she shook her head. “I’m gonna need you to send me no-less than a 10k check as a wedding gift.”

“Babe, the only thing you’ll be receiving from me is a smile and my hate for making me stand next to you for an hour” you joked.

She burst out laughing, and you did the same. Not because the joke was funny but because you had missed each other.

The two loaded your suitcase into the trunk of the rental car—an absurdly cute white convertible that screamed bride on a mission—before sliding into the seats. As soon as you two pulled out of the port, you took in the vibrant green landscape, volcanic rock walls, and tangerine trees that dotted the island roads.

Soojin was your best friend, ever since you were practically in diapers-or at least that's how it felt. She had known each of your facets and had decided to love you equally, just as you had decided to love her equally. You had gone to the same university together in Busan, she majoring in economics and you in art history. You had been there when she tried to be a dancer for fun, when she decided to be a painter, a singer and a nun— crazy story—, and you had been there she got her dream job at HYBE as an accountant, you were there when she met her husband in company party, you had been there every step. And so was her with you, she was there when you got fired as a waitress for bad service, when you broke your leg trying to do snowboarding, she was there when you got your first art gallery, when you got your dream job in Paris and she had been there for you in every breakup of yours, including the last one.

You were sisters, an unbreakable bond.

“How was the flight?.”

“Exhausting” you nodded. “But I’m really excited to see you and your family so I might push the jet lag for today.”

Soojin smiled. “I can’t believe it’s been half a year since I last saw you,” she said, eyes on the road but voice softening.

“You literally went to Paris two months ago,” you snorted. “I literally had to clean all your shit for two weeks straight.”

“I was being sentimental!” she complained before giving you a side eye, “You’ve been missed.”

“I missed you too” you admitted. “And your family, can’t wait to see your mom.”

There was a comfortable silence for a beat, until Soojin added, almost too casually, “Do you feel weird being here?.”

“Not really” you denied. “It’s home, always. I’m so glad to hear Korean. I was so happy to order food.”

Your friend chuckled and you leaned your head against the window, watching the scenery blur past. “I still can’t believe you are here.”

“Just for the week.”

“Mmhmm,” Soojin hummed, skeptical.

You gave her a sidelong glance. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

You two shared a grin, and then Soojin let out a small sigh. “You know he’s going to be there.”

You closed your eyes for a second. “Yeah. I know.”

She didn’t say his name, not yet. It lingered in you like a held breath, you couldn’t say it either, you haven’t been able since you left.

“I thought you’d try to back out,” Soojin added quietly.

You gave a dry laugh. “I almost did. Twice. But I promised you I’d be your bridesmaid when we were twelve, and I meant it.”

“My dream wedding is real now” Soojin reached over and grabbed your hand, squeezing it. “Thank you. For coming. For being here.”

You squeezed back. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Even if the world includes a certain worldwide famous ex-boyfriend?”

“Even then.”

You two laughed again, but you could feel the twist in your stomach tighten.

“It’s been six months,” she said gently. “That’s not nothing.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“You guys ended things… okay, right?.”

“As okay as you can be when you’re breaking your own heart on purpose,” you said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t angry. It just… didn’t work anymore. We tried, but between the time difference and the jobs and the late-night calls turning into missed calls and stress fights—”

You had talked to her about it, but talking with your best friend was always repeating the same story over and over again, like it was new. It always was, though, specially when talking shit.

“You ghosted him.”

“I blocked him.”

Soojin snorted. “Same thing.”

“It wasn’t out of spite! I just… I needed distance. I knew if I didn’t cut everything off clean, I’d keep going back. Texting. Calling. Wondering. And that wouldn’t have been fair to either of us.”

Soojin gave you a look. “Still sounds like ghosting.”

You groaned. “Fine. Emotionally mature ghosting.” you admitted before shrugging. “But it doesn’t really matter, I know he didn’t try to contact me, it was mostly for me.”

“Ghosting.”

You both laughed again, and Soojin turned the wheel, guiding you down a narrow road lined with stone walls and bright yellow flowers. The sea glimmered in the distance.

“But it was… amicable?” she asked. “Would you be able to see each other again without tension?.”

You hesitated. “It was heartbreaking. But yeah. We didn’t fight it that much. I think he knew I had already made up my mind. And he didn’t want to be the one to ask me to stay.”

“You think he’s still mad?”

“He wasn’t mad, we were literally breaking down. It was just sad,” you said slowly, “Maybe he’s still hurt. But not mad. Yoongi was never the angry type.”

Soojin didn’t answer right away, almost fighting with herself if she should say the next thing: “Minjae says he’s been quiet lately. Like, really quiet. Kept to himself. Didn’t even want to come to the wedding.”

You blinked, a little taken aback. “He didn’t?”

“Nope. Minjae had to basically bribe him with free drinks and guilt-tripping about best-man duties.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

The hotel came into view, nestled along the cliffs with a panoramic view of the ocean. It looked like something out of a movie, all white stone and vines, warm wood and long balconies overlooking the crashing waves. Soojin pulled into the roundabout, a valet already jogging toward them.

“Ready?” your friend asked as she put the car in park.

“No.”

She grinned. “Too bad.”

You both stepped out, and you looked up at the sweeping building, your heart beating far too fast for your liking. One week. Just one week of rehearsals, dinners, awkward glances, and maybe—if you were lucky —some closure.

Or something else entirely.

The hotel smelled like fresh linen, citrus oil, and sea breeze. The cool marble floors echoed faintly with footsteps and the gentle hum of suitcases being wheeled across the lobby. You stood still for a moment beneath the wide glass ceiling, letting your eyes travel up to the light spilling down from the elaborate chandelier shaped like a cascade of pearls. The reception area was open and warm, with touches of soft wood and hanging greenery that made the entire place feel like some dreamy blend of luxury and comforts, it even had a fountain. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, reflecting on the adorned furniture. Outside, you could just glimpse the blue stretch of sea meeting the horizon, like it had been waiting for you.

Soojin had already raced ahead, calling to the front desk about room keys and confirming details about welcome drinks later that evening. You took your time, trailing your fingers lightly over the polished surface of a console table, breathing in the quiet hum of the hotel.

This was happening.

The clerk handed you a keycard with a cheerful smile and a, “Room 407, Miss,” before Soojin whisked you away with a promise to let you settle before the chaos of pre-wedding events began. You two rode the elevator in silence, both a little breathless from the travel and the sheer weight of anticipation. When you reached the fourth floor, Soojin squeezed your hand again and whispered, “my mom will probably come to see you, don’t mind her.” before disappearing down the hallway to her own suite.

You rolled your eyes with a smirk and walked toward your room.

Your heels clicked softly against the hallway’s muted carpet, patterned with delicate waves in pale blues and creams. The keycard beeped, the door clicked open, and you stepped inside. It was beautiful. Soft ivory walls framed a large canopy bed dressed in crisp white sheets and linen throw pillows. A small balcony faced the ocean, the doors left slightly ajar to let in the salty breeze and distant lull of the waves. On the side table stood a welcome note in gold script with your name, next to a vase filled with white tulips and baby’s breath.

You exhaled slowly, setting your suitcase down by the dresser and slipping out of your shoes. The room was still, almost sacred in its quietness. You walked to the balcony doors and leaned against the frame, letting the wind push gently against your face. The horizon stretched endlessly ahead, and for a moment, you let yourself feel everything.

Six months. That was all it had been since your life split in half. Since you and Yoongi said goodbye. But it felt like a lifetime. You didn’t regret leaving. Not really. The job abroad had been the opportunity you’d worked for all your twenties. And yet, as you stood there now—surrounded by everything familiar but changed—you couldn’t help but wonder if the price of it had been something you couldn’t get back. Everything had went down when you took that job a year ago, everything was too much. But you couldn’t not follow your dreams, not something you did.

There was a knock at the door—three short taps, followed by a longer one, like a secret rhythm from childhood.

You smiled before you even stood up. You padded barefoot across the room and opened the door to find Mrs. Han—Soojin’s mom—standing there with her arms already outstretched and a bright pink sun hat perched dramatically on her head.

“Yah, you little brat!” Mrs. Han declared, pulling you into a tight embrace that smelled like peonies and expensive hand cream. “One year, and I don’t even get a text? What, are we strangers now?”

You let out a breathy laugh, melting into the hug. “I missed you too, Auntie.”

Mrs. Han pulled back just enough to look at your face, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “You got skinnier!,” she frowned. “No one is feeding you abroad? Ugh. I told Soojin you needed someone to follow you with a rice cooker.”

“I’ve been eating fine, I promise,” you said, grinning.

“Hmph.” But Mrs. Han’s eyes were twinkling as she stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “I brought you something. I knew hotel food would be fancy nonsense. Soojin says your room has a kettle.”

She pulled out a small thermos and handed it to you like it was treasure. “Seaweed soup. I made it this morning. You still like it with lots of sesame oil, right?”

You blinked, then smiled a little too fast, heart tight. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” Mrs. Han said, setting the thermos on the desk like she’d just blessed the room. “You used to sneak into my kitchen more than my own daughter.”

You laughed as you flopped onto the bed. “That’s because your kitchen always had better snacks.”

“That’s because my daughter has no taste.” Mrs. Han sat at the edge of the bed with a sigh, smoothing down her crisp linen pants. “But you,” she pointed, “you always knew what was good for you.” There was a small pause. And then, casually, Mrs. Han added, “Except when it came to boys.”

You groaned and stuffed a pillow over your face.

“Come on—”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Mrs. Han said, patting your leg. “I’m not judging. I liked Min Yoongi. Polite, smart, always cleaned his plate. That’s the minimum, but these days? That’s already rare.”

You peeked out from behind the pillow. “That’s your standard? Clean plate?”

“He never made you cry in front of me. That’s already more than your high school boyfriend,” she quipped. Then, a beat. “But he did make you cry when he let you go, didn’t he?”

The teasing tone softened slightly, and you exhaled. “Yeah,” you admitted. “But it wasn’t like that. We just… couldn’t figure it out. The time zones, the jobs, the pressure. It was too much.”

Mrs. Han nodded knowingly, then gave a small shrug. “Love isn’t always about timing, little brat. But if you’re lucky, sometimes it waits for you anyway.”

You blinked. “That was… weirdly profound for someone who once told me to date a dentist just for the insurance.”

“Love and molars, my two areas of expertise,” Mrs. Han said with a wink.

You both laughed again, the moment warm and easy. It was so simple, sitting here, joking like old times. For a second, you didn’t feel like a woman with a weird heart in a wedding hotel full of ghosts. You just felt like Soojin’s best friend, back home with people who loved you.

Mrs. Han, always so close to be yours. She was there when you had your first period, she was there to get you drunk for the first time, she was there when you ran away from home because of your dad and when you went back because you missed him. She was there when he was too busy to take care of you making money to sustain the house. She was there when he died, she hold you when you broke down. She was there every moment, like a mom you never had the chance to met.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Han stood and straightened her blouse. “You’ll be fine. You’re still the prettiest one here. Even Soojin said so, and she’s the bride, so that’s basically a crime.”

That wasn’t true.

“I’ll let her know you said that.”

“No, you won’t,” Mrs. Han pointed at you, like a threat. “Now go eat that soup and put on some blush. You never know who’s going to be waiting at the welcome drinks.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled the whole way to the door as you walked her out.

When she was gone, the room felt softer somehow. Familiar. Maybe not all ghosts were painful.

Some of them just brought soup.

The welcome drinks were held just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden haze over the gardens of the oceanside hotel. The venue was a sprawling modern hanok-inspired resort nestled along the cliffs of Jeju Island, the kind of place where even the air smelled expensive—salt, citrus, and blooming night jasmine. String lights crisscrossed above the open patio, swaying gently in the breeze like stars strung on wire.

You stepped onto the stone path in a satin slip dress the color of a soft violet, its delicate straps catching the light as you walked. The dress hugged your figure in a way that was effortless—simple, clean, but undeniably elegant. You wore your hair pulled back in a soft low bun, a few strands brushing your cheekbones and neck. A pair of small gold hoops glinted when you turned your head. You’d debated for far too long what to wear—there was something about seeing him again that made everything suddenly feel like a test. But now that you were here, you were determined to float through the night like nothing had changed.

Your heels clicked softly as you walked into the courtyard, already full of chatter and laughter. A waiter passed by with a tray of sparkling wine and you took a glass, letting the cold stem sit in your fingers for a moment before lifting it to your lips. Your nerves buzzed underneath the calm exterior, but you weren’t about to let anyone see that.

“Little shit!.”

The voice came like a burst of sunshine and wind. You turned just in time to catch a blur of navy linen and the smell of aftershave—Soojin’s fiancé, Minjae, wrapped you in a dramatic bear hug that lifted you halfway off the ground.

“Fucker” you laughed, bracing yourself against his shoulder. “Put me down before I spill this on your fancy $20 shirt.”

He set you down but didn’t let go completely. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back looking like a Vogue cover.”

“Stop,” you warned with an amused smile. “You’re just saying that because Soojin would kill you if you didn’t.”

“That too,” he winked. “But mostly because it’s true.”

You looked up at him fondly. Minjae had always been the charming one—effortlessly warm, the type who remembered birthdays and your fish’s name and how you liked your coffee. He and Soojin had been together for almost fours years but it felt like a lifetime already —they always felt like an old married couple, everyone knew they were going to end up together. Specially because Minjae was actually just a good guy, kind and patient for someone like her, loud and anxious.

“You look happy,” you said sincerely, adjusting the collar of his shirt like a sister might. “Marriage suits you.”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “You think? I still feel like I’m going to trip walking down the aisle.”

“You won’t,” You said. “But if you do, at least you’ll be legally bound to someone who loves you.”

“God, don’t make me cry before the wedding.”

You laughed and sipped your drink again, letting your eyes skim the crowd. No sign of Yoongi yet, but you weren’t going to ask and Minjae since— as a good best friend of him— wasn’t going to say anything. Not just yet.

“Come on,” he said, tugging you gently by the wrist. “Soojin’s been pacing by the wine table waiting for you like a feral cat. She said if I didn’t bring you in the next five minutes she’d start biting guests.”

“That sounds about right.”

You both walked into the heart of the garden together, weaving through small clusters of guests in pastel dresses and pressed shirts. Laughter floated through the air, the kind that felt easy and new. But your pulse still beat a little faster than it should. Because next to your best friend in this sea of celebration and tulle and toast… Yoongi was here too.

And you hadn’t seen him—really seen him—in exactly one hundred and eighty-three days. And you were already too close to them to turn back. Too close to pretend you didn’t seen him.

Your smile faltered. Your gaze had already moved past Soojin—to the figure standing just beside her. Yoongi. He was holding a glass of something golden in one hand, standing just a little too straight, a little too still. He was listening to Soojin joke about the drinks, laughing politely, but you saw it. The moment he noticed you. How his whole body shifted almost imperceptibly, like gravity had just tilted in your direction.

Like he was yours.

He wasn’t anymore.

You four stood in front of each other. Minjae was about to say something trivial to Yoongi and you stood there uncomfortably, feeling his gaze not moving from yours, not really paying attention to his friend. Soojin must’ve felt it too, because she cleared her throat suddenly.

“Uh—we’re gonna… go check on the dessert situation,” she said quickly, grabbing Minjae by the arm.

“What? I—”

“Now.”

They disappeared into the crowd.

You blinked after them, deadpan. “Well. That wasn’t obvious.”

Yoongi stepped a little closer. “Do you think they rehearsed that?.”

“I’d believe it.”

A pause.

You turned to him fully. There it was again—that soft, tight pull in your chest. The one you hadn’t been able to shake since Paris. His face was too familiar. You hated how familiar. You hated that you remembered the exact way his lashes curled, or the way he always had a hand in his pocket like he didn’t know what to do with himself when things got too quiet, too real.

“Hey,” he said finally.

“Hey,” you echoed, and smiled before realizing it might’ve come out too fast, too forced.

You both stood like that for a second, both pretending the crowd around was far more interesting when it was actually too quiet and too out of reach.

“I didn’t know if I’d see you tonight,” Yoongi admitted.

“Why?” you asked. “You think I’d skip this amazing welcome drinks just to avoid you?”

He looked at you, like he knew you better. “You did block me.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. He had noticed “Touché.”

Another beat passed. You took a sip of your drink, letting the bubbles fill the silence.

“You look well,” he added, after a moment.

“Well?” you raised an eyebrow. “What is that, the diplomatic way of saying ‘I thought you’d look more miserable’?”

Yoongi gave a small, helpless laugh. “Maybe.”

“Maybe I was.” you looked at him, your voice dropping just slightly. “You just didn’t get to see that part.”

His smile faded, but not in a painful way—just thoughtful, a little distant.

“I guess I deserved that.”

“No. You don’t,” you admitted. “Not exactly. It was no one’s fault.”

“But you still blocked me.”

You snorted and he almost smiled. You gave a half-shrug. “It wasn’t for you, I needed to do that for me.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. The conversation stretched, quiet but not empty. People laughed and clinked glasses around, a hum of distant joy that felt oddly far away.

“Did you ever want to call?” he asked softly.

You swallowed. “All the time.”

“I would’ve picked up.”

A silence. You felt your heart clenched in pain, almost too afraid to keep going. Too afraid to say something else, but you didn’t denied him.

“I know.” you smiled, sad and real. “That’s exactly why I didn’t.”

That silence between you both shifted—less sharp now, more familiar, like a bruise being pressed just gently enough.

He ran a hand through his hair. “You look more… grounded now. Like you’ve been breathing different air.”

“Different time zones help,” you said. “Plus, Paris has great bread. Hard to be sad with a croissant.”

He chuckled. “You’re still the same.”

“And you’re still dramatic.”

“Only when provoked.”

You smiled again, then took another slow sip of your drink. Your fingers brushed the rim of the glass. Then you looked up at him, eyes clearer this time.

“So…” you started, teasingly, “friends?”

“Terrible idea” Yoongi’s head titled. “Is that what we’re doing now?”

You shrugged. “I figured it’s the safest option. You’re the best man, I’m the bridesmaid. They are our best friends, we’ll see each other in parties and dinners. And we’ll be around each other all week. It’s either friendship or… cold war.”

“Tempting,” he smirked. “But I’ll go with friendship.”

“Look at us. So mature.”

You both laughed quietly.

Then something in the air settled again—between the drinks and the distance, the words unspoken still hovering just beyond your reach. For now, you would hold this fragile truce.

“Alright, friend,” he said, tilting his glass toward you. His tone almost sounding mockery. “Cheers for that.”

He clinked his glass against yours. Your fingers didn’t touch, but the electricity? Still there, still humming.

The late morning sun was already warming the wide wooden deck of the seaside hotel, where tables were being set with white linen cloths and freshly polished silverware. Bougainvillea climbed the railings and spilled over the corners, their bright petals dancing in the soft breeze. Beyond the terrace, the ocean shimmered in endless shades of blue, lazy and calm.

You squinted as you stepped outside, still adjusting to the sunlight after a rushed morning. The welcome drinks the night before had gone later than you intended— but it was different today. Today was quiet, today was better. You and Yoongi were okay, now you could forget the tension and months of anticipation of seeing him, now you knew it would be okay.

Just friends.

You could be that.

“Finally!” Soojin’s voice cut through your thoughts. “I thought you would sleep through the whole rehearsal brunch and leave me to drown in family politics.”

You waved, still pushing your sunglasses up your nose. “You know I don’t function before ten. I made an effort.” Your voice was a little rude, sleepy. “Now, what the hell is the emergency? I already hate being a bridesmaid.”

“Barely an effort” Soojin looped an arm through yours. “C’mon. We’ve got a crisis. Or five.”

“Tell me someone eloped and we can cancel everything,” you said, jokingly.

“I wish. No, the place cards got shuffled during the windstorm last night. Minjae tried to fix them but now Auntie Hye-sook is seated next to my college roommate who thinks marriage is a capitalist scam.” she groaned.

“That sounds like he did it on purpose.”

You both made your way to a long table stacked with name cards—some organized, many scattered like confetti from a paper explosion. And standing beside the chaos, like he’d been there all morning, was Yoongi next to the groom. Both silently laughing about something. Your breath caught slightly, but you forced your face into an easy smile as he looked up. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he had a stack of cards in one hand and a pen tucked behind his ear like he belonged to the wedding staff.

“Morning,” he said simply.

“Morning” you replied.

Silence, a little uncomfortable.

Soojin raised an eyebrow between you both. “Should I leave?”

“I think we should record,” Minjae joked.

Friends.

You were friends now. Not more uncomfortable moments, you had to make your part.

“Please don’t,” you said quickly, giving Yoongi a tight smile. “I need backup in case he starts monologuing about the furniture and alcohol.”

He seemed to notice your intentions, a smirked grew on his face. “Only if you start complaining about the humidity first.”

Soojin backed away slowly, hands in mock-surrender. “Okay. We’re going to… check on the brunch. You two, try not to knife each other with the dessert forks yet.”

“Yeah, sadly we still need you two to be on the brunch later” Minjae pressed his lip together, trying not to laugh.

As soon as they were gone, you glanced down at the cards on his hands.

“You’re actually helping?” you asked.

“Volunteered,” he said. “I was promised mimosas.”

“You’ll do anything for free alcohol.” You titled your head, “you do remember you’re rich, right?.”

“I love free things” Yoongi shrugged. “Especially when it comes with table drama and watching you pretend you’re not annoyed I’m here.”

You gave him a look, lips twitching despite yourself. “I’m not annoyed.”

“No?”

“I’m… cautiously neutral.”

“Big words from the girl who blocked my number six months ago.”

“I already said that was for my healing,” you said, pointing at him. “Don’t act like you were texting me daily.”

He chuckled, and for a moment, a true came out. “You wouldn’t know, would you?”

You both stayed in silence.

You realized, some things will be harder to pretend. You both knew the tension between you wasn’t gone, it had simply been disguised by the daylight, by fake cordiality to survive the weej. Like waves beneath the surface, always there. Always pulling— But you still both worked side-by-side, shuffling names and scanning Soojin’s seating chart. The tension between you crackled—not hostile, but unresolved. Familiar in a way that made your skin hum.

Later something called your attention. You reached for a card, and his hand brushed yours at the same time.

You pulled back quickly. “Okay. Who’s sabotaging my seat? I was supposed to sit next to Soojin.” you frowned. “I don’t want to sit next to Minho, that fucker is annoying.”

“Is that the guy who flirted with you on my birthday last year?” he remembered.

“Yeah” you chuckled. “Minjae sucks at this job.”

“He changed it because he wanted his other cousin to sit next to him” Yoongi explained.

“And I have to pay the price” you clicked your tongue. “Whatever, I guess at least we have mimosas. Right?.”

“It’s just this brunch, you’ll survive” he shrugged.

“I’ll try” you pointed the table. Since we’re finally done. Can you tell Soojin everything is good?. I have a date with two mimosas before surviving this”

Yoongi chuckled. “Enjoy that.”

“Than you.”

Two mimosas later you had to go back.

The brunch terrace overlooked the sea, warm sunlight spilling across white-clothed tables arranged in soft curves along the edge of the hotel’s garden. A light breeze carried the scent of lavender and citrus. Everything looked effortless, magazine-perfect. The weeding would be perfect. You went around some people to say hi, greeting the ones you knew nd having a small chat about what you’d been up to.

After some minutes you decided to take a seat and suffer. Your stomach twisted the moment your eyes landed on the place card at table.

Your name.

And next to it: Min Yoongi.

You stood still for a moment, blinking. No way he had just to change it. Was he trying to create more uncomfortable moments?.

“Surprised?” came a familiar voice at your shoulder.

You turned and found Yoongi, now wearing a light button-down and that same calm, unreadable expression that used to drive you insane.

“You moved the cards,” you said flatly.

He smiled, hands in his pockets. “Guilty. You’re not mad, are you?. You did say you would hate seating with that guy.”

You arched an eyebrow. “And you did all this from the kindness of your heart?.”

“That. And I don’t want to hear Minjae’s brother talk about politics again.”

You snorted softly and slid into your seat. “You’re lucky I already drank two mimosas.”

He took his seat next to you.

After a couple minutes, other guests arrived, filling the seats around you—Soojin’s cousins, a few out-of-town friends, some older relatives. The buzz of small talk and clinking glasses filled the air, but to you, everything seemed to slow just a little with Yoongi beside you. It was strange, how easily he could shift the atmosphere, like slipping into an old rhythm even after months apart.

A waiter appeared behind you two, pen poised over a notepad, taking everyone’s order of the short menu that the couple-to be marry- had chose.

“I’ll have the smoked salmon toast and the fruit platter,” Yoongi said, then—without missing a beat—he added, “And she’ll have the scrambled eggs, the sourdough, no butter, and the grapefruit juice, no pulp.”

You blinked.

The waiter nodded and moved on before you could say anything else. You stared at Yoongi, amused.

“I—what—did you just order for me?”

He looked sheepish for a second, almost afraid. But then he shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Sorry. Reflex.”

You shook your head with a half-laugh. “You really just autopiloted my breakfast order.”

“It’s a skill,” he said with a grin. “I take pride in my muscle memory.”

You reached for another mimosa. He did the same, and your fingers brushed on the glass stem. You looked at him. He looked at you.

“Still the best drinks for a brunch,” you muttered with a smile.

He gave a soft laugh. “Nothing says emotional morning repression like champagne and orange juice.”

“Amen.”

You both shared a grin, and you hated how warm it felt. How normal.

He picked up his fork, examining his glass like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “So… Jeju. A week of wedding festivities. Trapped in paradise with your ex. Sounds like a great romcom setup.”

“Oh yeah,” you said, slicing into a piece of quiche. “Especially the part where we will be avoiding eye contact during every group activity.”

He tilted his head. “We’re talking now.”

“Sadly.”

He snorted and you felt a little proud about it.

“I missed this,” he said quietly after a moment of silence.

You didn’t answer at first. Just took a slow sip of your drink, then looked out toward the water. “Don’t get sappy on me, Yoongi. We still have six more days to survive.”

“Right,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We should pace ourselves.”

“Uhm.”

You two lapsed into silence for a moment, the sun warming your faces, the light chatter of the brunch continuing around you both. It wasn’t the same as before—how could it be?—but it wasn’t bitter, either. Just… tentative. Like standing at the edge of something you’ve already fallen from once before.

“You look good, by the way,” he said after a beat. “Healthier. Happier.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You say that like I was miserable before.”

“I say that like someone who knows how hard you worked to get here.”

Your throat tightened slightly, but you pushed the emotion down with a small, practiced smile. “You too. You look… calm.”

“Therapy,” he said with a smirk. “And I bought a rice cooker that changed my life.”

You burst into genuine laughter then, the kind that caught you off guard. The kind you didn’t realize you missed.

“You needed it. Ordering food every single day was killing you.” your voice was softer, less fake. “I’m glad you’re happy. I like seeing you that way.”

His expression changed. And, for a minute, he wanted to tell you how he wasn’t. How he had been dying to see you again, to call you, to touch you, to hear you.

But he didn’t. He nosed slightly before adding in a mockery.

“Thank you, friend.”

You gave him a long look. Something flickered behind his eyes—something unresolved, something still soft.

Breakfast came. And you both felt into silence again.

Nine months ago. Busan.

The room was dim except for the warm, golden glow from the lamp on Yoongi’s nightstand. Rain pattered softly against the windows, washing the city in a blur of light. You lay curled on your side, one hand beneath your cheek, the other resting where your bodies touched under the blanket. Yoongi was still awake beside you, his fingers tracing absent circles on your bare shoulder, like he was memorizing you in real time.

“You’re not sleeping,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to waste time,” you replied, voice soft.

“With what?”

“With you.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “Cheesy.”

“Truthful.”

You both went quiet for a moment. The silence between you two was never heavy—just full. Full of breath and warmth and everything unsaid. You turned to face him, brushing your knuckles along his jaw.

“I have to fly out next week,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t know when they are going to let me have another week off.”

“I know.”

You searched his eyes. “I don’t want this to get hard.”

“It already is,” he said. Not accusing. Just honest. “I have a tour next month.”

You blinked and looked away. Your chest tightened in that way it did when you felt the future creeping in—uncontrollable, unkind. The clock ticking down on something that still felt new.

“I could maybe call sick for another week,” you offered, but even as you said it, you both knew it was a lie you couldn’t fully commit to.

Yoongi kissed your forehead. “Don’t do that. Don’t start shrinking.”

You closed your eyes again, trying to breathe through the ache. “I just want to be in two places at once.”

“You want to live the life you’ve worked for and still be in this bed with me.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled sadly, pulling you close. “I get how you feel, it felt easier when you were here in Korea and I was the only one moving around. But now you moved, and I’m so proud of you” he kissed you and you wanted to cry. “Doesn’t matter how long we’re apart. I’d wait, you know. If I had to.”

You didn’t answer.

And neither one of you said it then, but both were starting to feel the quiet truth: that sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes timing wins. Sometimes it tears even the strongest things apart. But that night, in the quiet glow of the city, you let yourself believe you were the exception. That you could stretch across continents and work schedules and late-night phone calls and still find each other intact.

That you’d always be able to come back to him.

Present day. Jeju Island.

The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the beachside pavilion where the wedding guests had gathered for an afternoon of games and laughter. Soojin had organized a basketball game to get everyone moving and break the usual stiffness of formal gatherings. You tugged at your two braids, trying not to look too competitive. Your team had already won on volleyball so you were planning on winning this one too.

Except, this time someone decided to join.

Yoongi.

The group split into two makeshift basketball teams on the sand-covered court near the beachside pavilion. Shirts were tied around waists, sneakers kicked off, and everyone was laughing— except you, you were narrowing your eyes across the sand to see him.

“We’re gonna win.” Soojin said next to you.

“We’re not. He knows the game,” Minjae whispered behind her, pointing at Yoongi as he spun the ball casually on one finger.

“Yeah, we’re losing. That fucker always win in this” you muttered. He caught you looking and offered a little smirk and a wave. “You see,” you scoffed. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Minjae handed you a red bandana to tie around your wrist. “Relax you two. It’s just a game.”

“Tell that to the human highlight reel over there,” you mumbled.

“I’ll destroy him.” your friend whispered and you snorted.

The whistle blew, and the game started.

For the first few minutes, it was manageable. You managed to dodge around players and even scored once—though Yoongi made a show of clapping slowly, which earned him a sharp glare. He was pulling your strings, stressing you. The fist few minutes he expend it showing off, playing around you, almost touching your face and sometimes even pushing you softly so you couldn’t touch the ball.

But as the game picked up, so did Yoongi’s energy. He weaved through his defense like he was barely trying, tossing quick passes and launching three-pointers with that maddening ease. You huffed and sprinted to intercept a pass, only for the ball to bounce off the rim and slam—hard—into your face. It had happened to quickly.

The world blinked out for a second. Your both hands flew to your eye.

“Oh my God—y/n!” someone shouted.

“Hold on—move!” Yoongi was already running over you, screaming at someone.

You blinked rapidly, that one eye already watering. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though your voice was shaky.

He stood in front of you, hands moving around you to get a better view of your face. “You’re not,” he said. “You’re holding your face and swaying like a drunk flamingo.”

“I’m not swaying,” you snapped, still cupping your eye with one hand. “And did you do that on purpose?”

Yoongi stared at you, dumbfounded. “What? Of course no!”

“You’re out here acting like we’re in the NBA finals—”

“Okay, okay,” he interrupted, holding up his hands. “Let’s get you ice before you accuse me of attempted murder.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the group who stood up making sure you were okay. You showed them a thumbs up, giving Soojin a glare when she smiled slightly when Yoongi grabbed your hand to lead you across the sand and into the cool, shaded hallway of the resort building. The noise of the game and laughter faded behind you.

Inside the lobby, the air conditioning hit your skin like a blessing. Yoongi guided you toward a small side room near the concierge area where an ice bucket sat beside a drink station. He grabbed a cloth napkin and wrapped a few cubes in it.

“Come on. Sit.”

You dropped into the cushioned bench by the wall “This sucks.” you muttered, “If I have a black eye for the wedding I will murder you.”

Yoongi kneeled in front of you. “I didn’t meant to. I got too much in to it. Also, why were you standing just down the rim?.”

“Oh, it’s my fault now?” he snorted and you frowned. “I forgot how good you were at basketball.”

His face became softer “Here,” he said, holding it out the ice to you. “Press it gently. You’re already turning purple.”

You took it with a small wince. “Wow. You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

He smirked. “What can I say? Honesty first.” You rolled your eyes, dabbing the ice gently over your left eye. “Should I apologize again, or are you going to accuse me of targeting you in cold blood one more time?”

“I’m still considering pressing charges,” you muttered, adjusting the ice. “But I’ll let it go if you admit you were showing off.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “I was definitely showing off.”

You peeked at him through one eye. “I knew I was right.”

“Unfortunately.” He gave a slight shrug. “There’s something about competition that gets me in trouble.”

You snorted. “And here I thought you were a reformed man.”

Yoongi laughed under his breath. “Only partially. The other part’s still an idiot.”

You smiled at that, leaning back against the wall. Your eye still throbbed, but the cold helped. And somehow, sitting here with him — alone, out of the reach of your friends and the pressure of the week — felt strangely… nice. Familiar, in a way that made your chest ache a little.

“I can’t believe you hit me in the face,” you said eventually.

“I didn’t mean to!,” he exclaimed , dramatically defensive. “The ball ricocheted off the rim. Physics did that. I’m innocent.”

“You threw it hard enough to break sound.”

“It was a bounce pass!”

You squinted at him. “You’re lucky I didn’t cry.”

“I would’ve carried you off the court like a tragic princess.”

You gave a small laugh, shaking you head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you laughed,” he pointed out, grinning.

“I’m concussed. My judgment is impaired.”

That made him laugh again — a real one, quiet and warm. He dropped onto his feet across from you, elbows on his knees as he looked over.

“So… are you really okay?” he asked, tone a little gentler.

You lowered the ice. “Yeah. Just sore. I’ve taken worse.”

Yoongi’s jaw twitched, like he wanted to ask more but didn’t. A beat passed.

“You still have that thing,” he said, nodding toward your eye.

“What thing?”

“That look you get when you’re trying to downplay something. This like—” He squinted at you. “—stoic but slightly annoyed face.”

You stared at him. “I do not have a face like that.”

“You absolutely do.”

You snorted. “Maybe I wouldn’t make that face if people weren’t hitting me in the face.”

“Fair point.”

Silence stretched again, but not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Charged in the way things get when words don’t cover the air between people who know each other too well. Outside, someone shouted about water bottles. The game was still going, the world still moving. But in here, everything felt still.

“I forgot how easy it is to talk to you,” you said suddenly, needing to get it out of your system.

Yoongi blinked, eyes full of sentiment, something you couldn’t read just yet. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even when you’re being a smug basketball menace.”

He smiled at you. “You forgot?”

You looked down at the ice in your hand, voice going lower, vulnerable. “I had to. For a while.”

There was a beat. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. But you felt the way he was looking at you — really looking — and your throat tightened.

“I missed this,” he said quietly. “Not—this, like, you getting injured. But… us. Talking like this.”

Your lips curled slightly, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Me too.” You nodded, looking at him with less tension. “I’m glad we can do it again. I like being friends.”

There was a puse, he looked at you, restrained. And then he chuckled, almost sarcastically. “Right. As friends.”

You both sat in it for a moment. Neither reaching. Neither pulling away.

“Should we go back?” you asked softly, after a beat.

“Eventually,” he said. “But I’m not rushing. You’re injured. Needs proper recovery time.”

You smiled, just a little. “So this is your guilt talking.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I just like the excuse.”

That made you look over, your eyes meeting his. Something caught there. Not heavy, not quite flirty — but warm, soft. Meant to do. And he held your gaze for a second longer than he should’ve.

And you let him. Just a for second.

Then you stood, pressing the ice pack back to your face. “Alright. Let’s go. But if someone throws the ball at me again, I’m suing.”

Yoongi stood up too, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. “Fair. I’ll be your lawyer. I’ve watched Suits twice.”

You rolled your eyes and walked past him, but as you did, he fell into step beside you — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it had always been.

13 months ago. Busan

It had been raining all day.

Not the dramatic kind of storm that clashed against windows and roared down rooftops, but the soft, persistent drizzle that blurred the city into grayscale. Outside their little apartment, Busan looked washed-out and sleepy. Inside, it was warm. Still. You lay curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that had seen better days, your legs tucked beneath you. A book rested open on your lap, but your eyes had wandered long ago. The smell of ginger tea and instant ramyeon drifted in from the kitchen.

Yoongi was at the counter, his back to you, hunched over two bowls of steaming noodles. He was wearing one of your sweatshirts — the navy one that said “Korea University” even though neither of you had gone there — and it hung loose over his frame. His hair was messy, damp from his earlier dash to the convenience store.

You watched him in silence for a moment, your heart full in that inexplicable way it got when life slowed down enough for you to feel it.

“You’re not using enough sesame oil,” you said lazily.

Yoongi glanced over his shoulder. “You’re lucky I didn’t buy triangle kimbap and call it a day.”

You smiled. “I would’ve forgiven you.”

He brought the bowls over and handed you one, then sat on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back against your legs like he always did.

“I like days like this,” he murmured, poking at his noodles. “No pressure to go anywhere, no calls, no pretending we’re not tired.”

You were waiting for one call. One important one. One that would change your life.

You rested your chin on the top of his head. “You pretend you’re tired all the time.”

“And you think it makes me look cool,” he said with mock seriousness.

“I think you’re annoying,” you replied. But your fingers were already running through his hair, soft and absentminded.

You both ate in silence for a bit, save for the occasional clink of chopsticks or the muted sound of rain tapping the windows. Your book slipped to the floor, forgotten.

After a while, Yoongi tilted his head up to look at you. “Marry me.” You laughed — not because it was a joke, but because of how casual he made it sound. He grinned. “What? I’m serious. We could run a ramyeon shop and live above it. You read books all day, I burn things in the kitchen. Perfect.”

It was stupid. One, because he wasn’t going to quit music anytime soon. Two, because you weren’t going to leave a good job opportunity just to marry a man.

So you rolled your eyes, but your hand paused in his hair. “What if we burn out?”

“Then we burn out together,” he said. And even if he hadn’t meant it entirely seriously, the way he looked at you — quiet, steady — made your chest ache in hope for a moment. A life that could happen if you believe it enough. But it really was a throwaway line. A rainy-day joke. But something about that moment, the warmth, the way time slowed down and wrapped around you two — it stayed.

You would remember that day long after it ended. When it was all too quiet. When you were too far apart. When it rained again.

Present day. Jeju Island.

The late afternoon sun dipped low over Jeju, casting a soft golden glow across the open garden of the resort. Rows of white chairs had been set up in front of an arched trellis woven with greenery and pale peonies, still half-wrapped in ribbon and waiting to be fluffed for the ceremony. The ocean lay behind it all, quiet and calm in the distance, the breeze bringing in the scent of salt and citrus.

You shaded your eyes as you took it all in, standing near the edge of the setup with a plastic cup of iced tea in one hand. You had drank already four mimosas so now you were trying to keep it classy and not ruin the rehearsal dinner.

Everything was perfect — painfully so. And chaotic in the best way.

Soojin was rushing around barefoot in a white linen sundress, waving a clipboard and yelling lovingly at people to “look alive! This is a WEDDING, not a kindergarten play!” Minjae, ever the calm to her storm, just grinned and trailed behind her with two paper fans and a backup itinerary folded in his shirt pocket.

“I’m starting to think you’re her personal assistant” you joked as Minjae approached, his shirt slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, and face flushed with heat.

“You think she’d survive this alone?” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly. “She’s making the planner cry. You’re next if you’re not careful.”

You laughed. “I’m not afraid of Soojin. I’ve survived summer exams with her.”

“You say that, but she’s already assigned you a speech,” he added with an innocent shrug.

“I know, she texted me about it three weeks ago in all caps. Then again last night just to ‘remind me gently,’” you said, air quoting. “I think she means to ruin me.”

“Just keep it short and emotional, or long and mildly embarrassing. Either way, she’ll cry.”

You both turned to watch Soojin adjusting someone’s boutonnière like her life depended on it. You both loved her dearly.

“I’ll be the one crying,” you muttered. “Or maybe I’ll black out halfway through.”

“She’s counting on the emotional damage. Speech isn’t for her — it’s for the drama.”

“Of course it is.”

Minjae smiled and nudged you again before slipping off to join the group by the arch. You lingered a little longer, sipping your tea, watching the bridal party rehearse their positions. There were bridesmaids and groomsmen practicing where to walk and when to pause, some of them slightly tipsy from the welcome drinks earlier.

And of course, there he was.

Yoongi stood off to the side, helping one of the groomsmen fix his tie. He was in a light white button-down, sleeves rolled, dark pants. Easy, confident, that effortless kind of handsome that still made your stomach twist a little. He didn’t look at you — not yet. And that made you feel oddly braver.

Soojin finally spotted you. “Y/n!” she called, hands in the air. “Let’s go, your practice moment of fame is coming.”

You chuckled and made your way over, the grass soft beneath your sandals. You passed the rows of chairs, imagined them filled with people — all dressed up and whispering about the speeches, the love, the vows.

The rehearsal continued in a blur of laughter, corrections, and Soojin almost tripping on her own excitement. You went through the motions, standing in your place as bridesmaid, watching Soojin and Minjae exchange teasing glances as they practiced the ceremony part. The joy between them was palpable, infectious. You found herself smiling so much your cheeks hurt. And later, when the sun began to slip below the horizon and people scattered for drinks or rest to the bar inside, you stayed a little longer — staring at the altar, picturing what you might say the wedding day.

You didn’t want to overthink it. You wanted it to be honest. From the heart. But somewhere beneath that, there was something else tugging at your chest. A different kind of ache.

You wondered if Yoongi would be listening closely. If he remembered the promises you never got to make.

The light from the rehearsal garden faded into twilight as the bridal party funneled inside, trailing laughter and the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed grass into the resort’s lounge bar. Inside, warm lighting pooled over polished wood floors, the soft hum of conversation and glass clinking filling the space. Someone connected a phone to the speaker system, and a slow, summery playlist began to drift into the air.

You stepped up to the bar, still slightly flushed from the rehearsal. Your hair had loosened from its clip, and you reached up to re-pin it absentmindedly as you waited for your turn to ask for a drink. Soojin was holding court near the back of the room, seated between two cousins and already halfway into her cocktail.

“Whiskey soda, please,” you said to the bartender. You didn’t look around much. There were too many familiar faces and only one you weren’t sure how to handle.

“Didn’t peg you for whiskey,” came a voice beside you — not loud, but close enough to make you glance.

Yoongi stood just a step away, not looking directly at you, more like reading the chalkboard list of drinks overhead.

“That’s because I was the one who did the pegging.” Yoongi blushed furiously when the bartender choked, trying to give you your drink. You accepted the glass with a nod and turned toward him. “Too much?”

“Yep, change the subject.”

You snorted and nodded. “How was the rehearsal for you?.”

“Chaotic. But it’ll be beautiful tomorrow.”

Yoongi relaxed. His lip twitched, but he didn’t push it. He ordered a beer and leaned slightly on the bar, arms crossed over his chest. You both stood in silence for a moment, letting the bustle of the party crowd fill the quiet between them.

“I don’t know how Soojin hasn’t collapsed,” you muttered, scanning the room. “She’s been running off pure willpower and white wine.”

“She thrives on this,” Yoongi said. “Didn’t you tell me she used to plan fake weddings in middle school?”

You snorted. “She made me be flower girl for three different scenarios.”

“That tracks.”

Another pause settled. Not awkward, not quite easy. Just… there.

You glanced around the bar again. “Kind of loud in here.”

Yoongi turned to you, like had been waiting for that comment. “Wanna steal a bottle and head down to the beach?”

You considered it for a second — the party noise, the steady ache behind his eyes, the fact that everyone already seemed two drinks ahead. “Yeah,” you said, quiet but sure. “Okay.”

He grabbed a pack of soju from the counter behind the bar, raised an eyebrow at the bartender, who just gave a wave like he’d seen it all before. You two slipped out through the side doors with barely a glance back.

The night air was cooler now, brushed with ocean breeze and the faint scent of the pine trees that grew along the shore. The resort lights shimmered behind as you two walked across the wooden path toward the beach. You took off your sandals when the sand began, letting it shift beneath your toes. Yoongi held the pack of 4 bottles loosely in one hand, his other shoved into his pocket, like it didn’t weight.

“Still can’t believe they’re getting married,” you said eventually, your voice carried by the rhythm of the waves.

He nodded. “It suits them. Somehow. Minjae’s steadiness, Soojin’s chaos… it balances.”

You let out a small laugh. “Years ago I couldn’t imagine Soojin being anyone’s wife.”

“You’d be surprised,” Yoongi said. “She started yelling at me to moisturize the second I walked in.”

“That’s her love language.”

A beat.

Yoongi glanced at you sideways. “You nervous about your speech?”

You let out a long breath. “Terrified. I have no idea what I’m going to say. I lied and said I already wrote it, I’m sure she knows I haven’t.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he said, handing you a bottle. “You always do.”

You took it from him, unscrewed the cap, and sipped. The ocean whispered in front of you. You both didn’t say anything for a while. Just walked toward the edge of the shore, shoulder to shoulder, letting the sound of water and wind speak for you two. You two sat down where the sand dipped gently toward the shoreline, just far enough from the tide. The stars above were beginning to stretch across the sky, and the moon hung low and pale over the ocean like a watchful eye. The pack of Soju bottles rested between you both, half-buried in the cool sand.

You curled your knees to your chest and took another small sip before making a disgusted face.

“Still hate the original Soju,” you muttered, he smiled .

“I only brought it because I figured you’d complain.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

You two sat in comfortable silence for a while. The waves rolled in, unbothered by the awkward tension that still hovered faintly.

“You remember when we went to Jeonju that weekend?” Yoongi asked suddenly. “Right before you left.”

You gave a dry laugh. “When the guesthouse lost our booking, and we ended up sleeping on that sagging couch from the 80s because you thought paparazzis were following us?.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And the ajumma kept insisting I was your husband.”

You snorted. “Because you called her ‘eomma’ by accident.”

“I was nervous!”

You laughed then, a genuine one, tilting your head back. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“No, you didn’t. You brought it up every time someone said the word ‘husband.’”

“Well, it’s a top ten moment of our relationship!”

Yoongi chuckled and took another sip. “That was a good trip.”

“It was,” you agreed, quieter now. “I didn’t think about work once.”

“Until the morning we left, and you answered three emails in bed” he pointed out.

“Okay,” you said, elbowing him lightly. “Let’s not rewrite history to make me look like the villain.”

“You were always working after Paris,” he said, not accusing, just stating. “Even when you were supposed to be on vacation with me.”

You didn’t say anything right away. The truth settled in the air, not heavy—just honest.

“I think I was afraid of stopping,” you said finally. “Like if I slowed down, I’d realize I wasn’t good enough for them and I had already leave everything, couldn’t risk it.”

Yoongi nodded, understanding . “And I think I was afraid to ask you to.”

You didn’t look at each other. Just kept your eyes on the sea.

After a while, two more bottles down, you asked, “Do you still go to that bar near your old apartment? The one with the bad lighting and weird jazz playlist?”

He laughed. “Sometimes. They still make that horrible cucumber cocktail you loved.”

“It wasn’t horrible.”

“It tasted like shit.”

You smiled again, soft but real. “I missed this.”

“What, your terrible drink opinions?”

“No,” you said. “You— talking like this. I missed us. Not the romantic stuff. Just… us.”

Yoongi nodded, feeling the same. “Yeah. Me too.”

A sharp breeze swept in, making you shiver. You rubbed your arms and side-eyed him. “You forgot to bring a jacket for me, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t planning on walking a mile down the beach,” he said. “But you’ve always been dramatic.”

You smirked. “And you’ve always been underprepared.”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who chose to date me.”

You rolled her eyes, then nudged him with your shoulder. “Well. You had a nice face.”

Yoongi grinned. “You’re not wrong.”

The moon was high now, casting a silver glow over the water. The air smelled of salt, woodsmoke, and faintly of flowers from the hotel garden and there were no more bottles of Soju.

“It’s weird being back.” you said later.

“I figured,” Yoongi said. “First time in how long?”

“Six months, since we—” You cut yourself off, then shrugged. “Anyway.”

Yoongi didn’t press you. Instead, he said, “The guest rooms are nicer than I expected.”

“Still pretending you’re not bougie?”

“I’m selective.” He raised an eyebrow. “But how is Paris?”

“Incredible most of the times,” you nodded. “I make a lot of money and I met a lot of great people. I also pretend I don’t miss rice and convince myself an espresso and a cigarette is enough for breakfast.”

“The European life” he nodded. “Mrs. Han said you were skinnier and you haven’t been taking care of yourself.”

You snorted. “I know, she came with soup and had been feeding me with anything she can every time she sees me. I know I’m going to gain weight if I stay longer than a week with her.”

“She cares for you.”

“And I do for her.”

“Good.”

A wave broke further up the shore, scattering foam toward your feet. You didn’t move. Your throat felt tight. It felt different the shift, the change of tension. You wanted him with you like this, always.

You pulled your knees closer, resting your chin on them and looking at him softly. “I think we’re doing the right thing.”

“What?” his voice came soft, kind.

“Being friends” you whispered, intimate. “I like having you in my life.”

He looked at you, eyes with no spark and a nonchalant look that almost felt like an attack. But he didn’t tell you how he really felt. He nodded and smiled. “I like you in my life too.”

A long silence passed between you. Not heavy, not angry—just filled with the ache of what you were too late to change. Of what you had lost. Now maybe a new beginning.

Then you reached out, pointing out at his expression. “You still overthink everything.”

He sighed “And you still drink too fast, even drinks you don’t like.”

You held up the empty bottles, wiggling it. “We’re out.”

“Good.”

“Boring.”

He laughed and you stood up, brushing sand off your clothes. Yoongi rose too, stretching slightly, brushing his hands clean. You two stood there, both watching the tide a little longer before turning back toward the hotel.

“You wanna sneak in through the garden path?” he asked, gesturing toward the side.

You raised an eyebrow. “Still avoiding crowds?”

“You still know me.”

You did.

You both started walking, shoulders close but not touching, steps in sync even without meaning to. Behind you two, the sea whispered to the shore. In front of you two, the lights of the hotel flickered softly like stars that had settled down to rest.

Friends.

Six months ago. Busan.

The front door clicked shut behind you, and for a second you stayed there. His apartment was the same as when you left. A few more takeout containers stacked near the trash. One of your scarves still draped over the back of the chair. You just stood there in the narrow hallway, shoes and coat still on. You hadn’t been in this apartment in two months, but it still smelled the same. Soap, coffee, his cologne — the quiet scent of home. You missed this, you missed him. Your heart clenched and you wanted to cry immediately. Everything felt so wrong, so broken.

Home.

“Hey,” Yoongi’s voice came from the living room. Warm, surprised. Hopeful.

You turned the corner and saw him standing there in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, like he’d wanted to look casual but not like he hadn’t tried. His eyes lit up when he saw you — just for a moment. Then they dimmed, like he remembered. Like he knew why you were there. He did, he felt it. It had been coming since too long ago. Since you left.

“Hi,” you said, soft.

He crossed the space between you two quickly and wrapped you in a hug before you could resist. And for a second — for a cruel, aching second — you let yourself melt into it. Into him. His arms were strong and warm and familiar. You had dreamed of this. Waking up in this apartment. Waking up next to him. Waking up thinking everything could be better. Thinking that everything would be okay.

You pulled back too fast for his liking.

“You want tea?” he asked, like it was any other night.

“Yoongi.” Your voice, almost breaking.

He paused. Then slowly nodded. “Right.”

He knew.

“I’m sorry—”

“I thought maybe you’d come back for good,” he said after a minute.

Your heart dropped. “I didn’t mean to give you false hope.”

“So you’re just here to say it’s over?”

“I’m here to do it right. To not end it over the phone and disrespect you, not like a coward.”

“We were cowards the minute you left,” he snapped, suddenly.

You blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice rising. Choosing anger over sadness. “You left, y/n. You packed up your life and went to Paris like it was that simple.”

“It wasn’t simple,” you said, trying to stay calm and understand his anger. “You know it wasn’t.”

“You didn’t ask me to come with you.”

“And would you have come?”

“Yes.”

You laughed — bitter and broken. “Don’t lie to me now.”

“I’m not lying,” he said, raising his voice. “You didn’t give me the chance. You just made the decision on your own.”

“I waited for you to say something!” you shouted, rising your voice too. “You were too busy with your label, with your tour schedule, with everything else—”

“I was working, Y/n!. Music was my dream!”

“I know your dream matters,” you said, breathless, angry tears filling up your eyes. “But so does mine. I got that opportunity and I took it. You would’ve done the same.”

He turned away from you, hands on his hips, head bowed. “I would’ve figured out a way to make it work. I wouldn’t have given up so easily.”

“You think I gave up easily?” your voice cracked. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been? Every morning waking up alone. Working late just so I wouldn’t feel the silence in that goddamn apartment. I missed you in everything. My first opening. My birthday. When I got sick and nobody knew how to make my stupid soup—”

“I sent flowers.”

“I didn’t want flowers!” you screamed. “I wanted you!”

He stared at you then. Both of you breathe hard, like you’d just run miles to get here.

“I was there a thousand times” he kips formed a pout, his eyes forming tears. “I was waiting for you to come back,” he said, barely audible.

“And I was hoping for you to visit more.”

“I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“And now we’re here,” you whispered.

Yoongi looked down before falling to the floor. He put his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face in pain, sobbing. “I can’t— I love you.”

“I love you too.” You cried, kneeling in front of him. Your tears were running now. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He put his hands down and looked at you. His tears running down his face. Yoongi’s face twisted. He brushed a tear from your cheek, but you turned away. It hurt too much.

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, crawling back like the words were a slap. “Why?— I love you.”

“I don’t want this.”

“Then stay.”

You looked at him. His eyes were red now too. His voice was cracking. And for the first time, you saw that he wasn’t angry — he was breaking.

“Yoongi,” you said, your soul breaking too. “If we keep going like this, we’ll hate each other. We’re always fighting, we didn’t talk for a week.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He just looked down, like not seeing you could make the ache in the room go away. You gaze at him, broken, tired. Watching the man you loved try not to fall apart more.

And then — the quietest heartbreak — he whispered, “I would’ve waited for you.”

You closed your eyes. Breath hitching. “I know.”

Present day. Jeju Island.

The sky was a dusky gradient of purple and peach as the last light dipped below the ocean. Lanterns swayed gently on strings overhead, casting a warm golden glow across the courtyard garden of the hotel. Tables had been arranged in a circle, with candles flickering between scattered polaroids of Soojin and Minjae through the years. Laughter echoed into the night air, glasses clinked, and the scent of grilled food drifted softly through the breeze.

Soojin and Minjae had decided — predictably — to throw their bridal and groom showers together. “Why would we want to be apart?” Minjae had said earlier with a shrug, grabbing her fiancée hand and flashing her engagement ring like a weapon of joy.

It had been you and Yoongi’s job to plan it. You two had become in impromptu party planners, after Soojin cornered you with a, “You two used to throw the best birthdays. It’s basically fate.” So now you stood near one of the long tables now, smoothing down a blue linen tablecloth while Yoongi adjusted the playlist from his phone. A jazzy cover of a 2000s R&B song filtered out of the speakers, soft and upbeat.

“She’s going to cry,” you said, arranging a little handwritten place card in front of Soojin’s seat.

“She’s already cried. Twice,” Yoongi replied, not looking up. “Third time’s the charm.”

You smiled, your fingers brushing over a childhood photo of Soojin stuck in the center of a candle arrangement. “I can’t believe she’s getting married tomorrow.”

“Minjae’s already looking nervous,” he said, glancing toward the couple across the courtyard.

Minjae was sipping from a beer bottle, looking oddly pale for someone so tanned. Soojin was holding court with two aunties and laughing in full volume.

“He’s going to cry during the vows,” you said knowingly.

“I bet he cries before she even walks in.”

“I bet you cry before the end of the night.”

Yoongi turned to you with a mock-serious face. “Why would I cry?”

You gave him a knowing look. “Because you pretend you’re nonchalant but you’re actually a really soft, romantic—”

“And emotionally well-adjusted person?”

“Sure. That.”

“Shut up.”

The teasing fell away for a brief moment, replaced by something gentler as your eyes met. There was a stillness in it, an ease that had started to return between you two over the past days. Not quite old love, not yet new. Just something tender hanging in the in-between.

“I like this,” you said after a beat, looking out at the party. “I like seeing them happy. I like being here.”

“Me too.”

Before you could say more, Soojin waved you both over from the firepit, gesturing wildly like she was pulling invisible ropes. “You two! Party planners! Come sit with the royalty!”

You and Yoongi made your way over, settling into the low wooden chairs around the fire. Soojin immediately leaned her head onto your shoulder, her wine glass still balanced perfectly in her other hand.

“I love you,” she mumbled.

“I know. I love you too.”

Minjae grinned across the flames. “I’m pretty sure she just said that to me earlier.”

“She means it more now,” you deadpanned.

“Hey,” Yoongi said, taking the bottle opener from Minjae and cracking open a cider for Soojin. “To the start of a new page of love.”

Soojin lifted her glass. “To the best wedding party ever.”

Minjae raised his. “To friends who know us better than we know ourselves.”

You clinked yours last. “To being able to walk to the altar tomorrow.”

They all laughed.

The conversation eased into memories, jokes about how Minjae once thought Soojin’s little sister was her daughter, or how Yoongi spilled champagne at their engagement party and then tried to play it off with a dance move. The fire snapped gently. Laughter drifted out into the wind.

And later you glanced at Yoongi while the others chatted, catching the way the firelight softened his features. There were lines around his eyes now — maybe from stress, maybe from smiling. He was leaning back in his chair, relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen since before everything. Before the distance. Before the silence.

He looked over at you at the same time.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said, smiling. “You just… look happy.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “I think I am.”

You didn’t say anything back, but something about the moment stayed in your chest like a held breath.

Soojin sighed dramatically. “I don’t want tonight to end.”

Minjae reached over to squeeze her hand. “It won’t. We’ll remember this.”

You hope you all will.

You had fun that moment of the night, between friends and family you remember why Korea was your home, why you love it so much. A reminder of everything that made you, you.

The bridal shower had been a success. Soojin was tipsy and glowing, carried off by Minjae a good thirty minutes ago with one shoe in hand and her veil tied around his neck like a cape. The rest of the guests had wandered back to their rooms in twos and threes, arms slung around shoulders, voices loud with inside jokes and win. The place was littered with the soft remains of celebration. Empty glasses perched precariously on every ledge. Candles flickered low, melted to wax puddles, and someone’s forgotten shoe sat like a monument to the chaos of the night. Music still drifted from a speaker someone had abandoned hours ago—faint, warbly, and a little offbeat.

The night was a success. The guests were already— at least most of them— gone.

You wandered toward the pool barefoot, holding your heels in one hand and the last of your drink in the other. Your cheeks were flushed from laughter and cocktails, and the salt-sticky wind swept your hair into messy waves. The moonlight glazed the surface of the pool like silver syru.

And then you saw him.

Floating on his back in the water, shirt half unbuttoned, and—of course—with his tie tied around his forehead like some warrior of lost feelings—was Yoongi.

You barked a laugh before you could stop it. “Are you dead?.”

Yoongi cracked one eye open and grinned, lazy and slow. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite bridesmaid. Care to join the drowning club?”

You perched on the pool’s edge, dipping a toe into the water. “You know, that tie on your head is a crime against fashion.”

“Thanks. I was going for ‘annoying drunk guy at a wedding.’ How am I doing?”

“Impressive. Truly suits you.”

He flipped onto his stomach, treading water closer to you. “How much have you had tonight?”

“Enough to tolerate you.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“How about you?” you asked. “How much have you had?”

He held up four fingers, paused, then added a fifth with a shrug. “Somewhere between reckless and philosophical.”

“Dangerous zone.”

“Only if you’re not here to supervise me.”

There was a beat of silence. Just the ripple of water, the chirp of night insects, and your shared drunkenness stretching out into something that felt both familiar and dangerous. And Yoongi stood in the pool, almost touching your leg, looking at you.

“You’re still wearing that stupid tie,” you said, before tearing that tie from his forehead and putting in on the side.

“You liked this tie,” he protested. “You picked it out for your birthday last year.”

“I liked it when it was on your neck and not trying to strangle your forehead.”

He smirked, pulling himself to the edge near you. “You’re still bossy.”

You glanced at him sideways. “You’re still a mess.”

“Coming from the woman who insists on wearing six-inch heels to a beach wedding.”

“I look good.”

“That you do.” He hissed, like it was something wrong. “Sorry. Am I allowed to say that?” he added, trying to shrug it off with a lopsided grin, “I mean, we’re friends now, right?”

There was a sharpness to the word. A bite under the drunk smile. You stiffened, only slightly, but Yoongi caught it.

You gave him a look, your voice low. “Don’t say that like it’s a joke.”

He looked at you for a moment, something tightening behind his eyes. “It is a joke.”

You blinked.

“No—”

“I never wanted to be your friend, y/n,” Yoongi said, and now his voice wasn’t playful at all. “I didn’t come here to laugh across brunch tables or talk about weather in Paris, I hate it. I didn’t come here to pretend to be your friend when you know I can’t.”

Your heart thudded. “Yoon…”

“I didn’t let you go because I stopped loving you. I let you go because you told me to. Because you wanted something bigger, and I didn’t want to be the thing that held you back…”

You stood up suddenly, water sloshing as you pulled your legs from the pool. Yoongi was quickly to leave the pool too, grabbing your wrist so you wouldn’t go, so you would look at him.

“Don’t do this now,” you said, letting go of his hold and grabbing your shoes like a shield. “Not here.”

“Why not? We’ve been doing this fake smiling thing all week. Let’s just say it.”

You could see him now. He stood in front of you, wet and mad. Almost too mad to cover his sadness from you.

“I didn’t leave you. I left the country. I left for a job I worked my whole damn life for—”

“And you didn’t think we could make it work?!” his voice became louder.

“We tried! For six months we tried!” you exclaimed back.

“You didn’t try. You planned your future without me in it. You made every decision like I was already gone.” he spat it out, furiously trying to contain his tears, trying not to break again.

“That’s not fair.”

“But it’s true.”

You laughed bitterly. “Coming from you? You think I didn’t notice how easy it was for you to be gone all the time too? You were always on a set, on a shoot, chasing your next project.” you shook your head “. So only you can be the one who has to follow his career?.”

“So now it’s my fault you walked away?”

“No. But don’t stand there like you waited around with your heart in your hands. You moved on too.”

“Not from you. Never from you.”

That stopped you. It winded you, it hurt you. But you hated that he wasn’t able to understand that no one of you could break your job to be with each other, it was too much. A sacrifice that wasn’t not necessary, not worthy to lose.

“This a lost fight—”

“I still love you, y/n,” he interrupted, quieter now but no less raw. “Even when I try not to. Even when you sit next to me and laugh like none of it happened. I still want you, I still break for you.” Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. There were too many words stuck in your throat. He formed tears in his eyes. “And I hate that,” he added, voice breaking. “I hate that I can’t stop loving you.”

You stepped back, your heart breaking for the second time with him.

“We can’t make it, I don’t want to hate you.”

“I don’t know what to do” he sobbed. “I don’t want to lose you— I don’t want you to leave your job, I don’t want to leave mine but… ” his tears ran down his face. “I can’t stop loving you, I don’t know how to.”

“Then don’t make this harder, Yoongi.”

You two stared at each other. Neither moving. Both wrecked.

Then you turned, without another word, walking barefoot back toward the hotel, your shoes swinging at your side like anchors. Your heart breaking for the second time in the worst way. When he couldn’t see your face, you let tears fall down.

And Yoongi stood by the pool, dripping, shaking, watching you go.

Again.

The soft morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting a calm glow across your room. Outside, the distant hum of the island waking up carried through the open window — the steady crash of waves, birds greeting the day, and the faint murmur of voices starting to prepare for the celebration ahead. You sat quietly on the edge of your bed, staring at the delicate dress laid out before you. The fabric shimmered softly in the light, but your mind was tangled in a knot of uncertainty and regret.

This day was supposed to be simple—joyful, even. A celebration of two lives joining together. But for you, it was anything but simple.

You thought about the past months, the decisions that had led you here, and the quiet spaces between memories that seemed impossible to fill. The distance, the missed chances, the silent breaks in conversations. The ache that came with knowing some things just couldn’t be fixed—no matter how much you wanted them to be. No matter how much you wanted for things to be easier, life to be kinder.

I still break for you.

I hate that I can’t stop loving you.

Your breath caught at the thought of Yoongi—not because of what you shared, but because of what couldn’t be. The timing, the circumstances, the lives you two built apart. It wasn’t just about wanting someone; it was about the weight of everything that stood in the way. The compromises, the sacrifices, the tangled webs of responsibility and love and fear. Everything that couldn’t be sacrificed for love

You shook your head softly, as if trying to clear the fog clouding your heart. Maybe some stories aren’t meant to have perfect endings. Maybe some loves aren’t meant to last forever…

A gentle knock on the door pulled you from your reverie.

“Little brat. Are you awake, or are you hiding from the madness that’s about to start?” Mrs. Han’s warm voice floated through the door before coming in, closing the door behind her.

She entered with her usual grace, her presence comforting like a soft hug. She had been a part of your life for as long as you could remember—more like family than just a friend’s mother. Her kindness was something you leaned on now more than ever.

You chuckled softly. “Neither. Just trying to figure out how to squeeze years of love and Soojin’s past into one page of speech.”

“Ah, I remember those days. You can add a the time Soojin accidentally locked her heel in the hotel bathroom of you guys prom party and we had to rescue her like some sort of awkward fairy tale rescue party.”

You laughed, the memory vivid. “And also how you tried to bribe the staff with those ridiculous snacks you smuggled in.”

Mrs. Han grinned. “Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. But those were good times, weren’t they?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “Simple, even if chaotic.”

The room quieted, the playful mood gently giving way to something more tender.

Mrs. Han sat beside you on the bed. “You know, y/n, I’ve watched you grow up more than you realize. From scraped knees to scraped hearts.”

“Oh, no. You’re getting emotional” you complained when you received a punch in your head. “Sorry, go on.”

You looked up, your smile slowly fading as you saw the woman in front of you looking more softer, more motherly.

“I see so much of myself in you,” Mrs. Han continued. “Strong, stubborn, but with a softness you try to hide. You’ve been through a lot… and love—love hasn’t always been kind.” You swallowed, the weight of unspoken things settling between you two. Your throat tightening and the same goes to your heart. “I want you to know,” Mrs. Han said quietly, “I want you to find a love that doesn’t hurt. A love that lifts you up, not drags you down. A love with no difficulties that break your heart.”

You shook your head slightly, a bitter laugh escaping. “Sometimes I wonder if that kind of love even exists. Or if it’s just a story people tell.” you grimaced. “At least, Soojin found it.”

“Love can find you in different ways. But even if I want you to find a love without difficulties— for some people… fighting for them, between all, is worthy.”

“Sometimes love is not enough.”

Mrs. Han reached over, gently taking your hand in hers. “I see you, y/n. And I see the walls you’ve built. But walls can come down. You just have to believe there’s something better waiting on the other side.” Her voice softened, full of genuine care. “I don’t just say this as Soojin’s mom—I say it as someone who loves you like a daughter. You deserve happiness. You deserve to be loved without conditions.”

Your eyes glistened, and you nodded slowly. “I want to believe that. I really do.”

She smiled, squeezing your hand. “Then start with this day. No matter what happens, let it be a step forward. You’re not alone.”

You took a deep breath, the knot inside you loosening just a little. You glanced at the wedding notes on your bed, the speech you had to give soon.

“I should start working on this,” you said softly.

She stood, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You got this. I’ll see you later.”

You nodded and Mrs. Han left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the promise of a new chapter waiting to unfold.

A little later you find Soojin.

The soft rustle of fabric and gentle clinks of jewelry filled the bridal suite as you knelt beside Soojin’s chair, carefully fastening the intricate buttons along the back of her wedding gown. The delicate lace shimmered in the afternoon light streaming through the window, and Soojin sat still, trying to calm the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Minutes away from walking to the altar.

“You’re glowing,” you said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Soojin’s ear. “Are you nervous?.”

She smiled, a mix of excitement and jitters flickering in her eyes. “Terrified. And thrilled. And… overwhelmed. But mostly I just can’t believe this day is finally here.”

You grinned. “I remember when you dragged me to that weird art gallery on a whim. Who knew it’d lead us here?”

Your friend laughed softly. “Yeah, you were so suspicious of that artist. Said his paintings looked like he painted with his eyes closed.”

You laughed along. “Maybe I was just jealous. You always had better taste than me— and this was my career.”

The two shared a warm smile, a quiet comfort in their years of friendship.

Soojin’s eyes softened. “Thank you for being here. For everything. Even when I was a bridezilla.”

You nudged her playfully. “Hey, you were only a little bridezilla. I think I’ve earned honorary bridesmaid of the year.”

“You really did.” Soojin’s laughter echoed through the room, light and free.

As you stood to grab the veil, you caught Soojin’s gaze and felt a sudden rush of affection. “You’re going to be amazing today.” you immediately said. “You’re the most beautiful bride ever.”

Soojin reached out, squeezing your hand gently. “I love you”

Your best friend was getting married.

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of warm apricot and soft lavender. Gentle waves whispered onto the shore, their rhythmic hush mingling with the quiet murmurs of guests gathered on the sand. White chairs were arranged in neat rows, facing a simple wooden arch draped with flowing white fabric and delicate wildflowers, framing the endless stretch of ocean beyond.

At the altar, Minjae’s eyes glistened with tears even before Soojin appeared, the weight of the day pressing gently on his shoulders. His hands trembled slightly as he straightened his tie, but his smile never wavered. Soojin approached with a radiant smile, her bare feet leaving faint imprints in the sand. She reached your side and squeezed your hand reassuringly. Despite the warmth of the evening sun, a cool flutter of nerves danced in your chest.

You stood behind Soojin, toes sinking slightly into the cool sand, the salt-kissed breeze playing with strands of your hair. The distant cry of seagulls and the soft chatter of the guests felt both grounding and surreal, as if time had slowed just for this moment. The officiant’s voice rose softly over the sound of the waves, speaking of love, trust, and the promise of a shared future. When it came time for the vows, the world seemed to hush.

Soojin’s voice was steady but tender, filled with heartfelt sincerity. “I promise to be your anchor when the seas get rough, and your wings when you need to fly.”

Minjae’s voice broke as emotion overwhelmed him, but he pressed on, “I vow to walk beside you, through calm and storm, and cherish you with every breath I take.”

Their eyes locked, filled with love so palpable it seemed to ripple through the air. The officiant smiled warmly, then stepped back.

Minjae took Soojin’s hands, leaning in close. “With this kiss, I give you all I am.”

They were so cheesy you wanted to throw up— Instead, you teared up.

Their lips met softly, the ocean breeze carrying the moment across the shore, a perfect seal on their promises as the sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the sand.

They were married now.

As the sun disappeared fully beyond the horizon, soft fairy lights strung between driftwood posts began to glow against the deepening dusk. The reception area, nestled just above the beach on a wooden deck, was transformed into a dream of golden lights, soft linen, and sea breeze. Long tables were arranged under a canopy of stars, adorned with glass vases full of wildflowers, flickering candles, and handwritten name cards tucked into seashells. Lanterns swayed gently above them, casting delicate shadows across smiling faces.

You sat at the table, next to Mrs. Han, still in your bridesmaid dress, hair slightly windswept, cheeks sun-warmed and flushed. The atmosphere buzzed with laughter and the sound of clinking glasses, the occasional cheer from a table, the comforting clatter of shared meals being passed around. Soft jazz hummed from the speakers, and the scent of grilled seafood and fresh herbs floated through the warm night air. Soojin and Minjae sat at the middle, holding hands under the tablecloth, whispering and smiling at each other like no one else existed. You couldn’t help the way your chest tightened a little watching them—proud, moved, and perhaps just a little haunted.

The emcee tapped the microphone again and announced, “And now, a few words from our lovely bridesmaid—and lifelong partner-in-chaos—Y/n.”

Ah, shit.

There were cheers and claps as you stood, smoothing your dress, cheeks flushed from the wine and the lingering emotion of the wedding. You picked up the mic with a slightly exaggerated sigh and narrowed your eyes playfully at Soojin. Soojin, already shaking her head in anticipation, whispered something to Minjae that made him grin.

You cleared your throat dramatically. “Hi, I’m Y/n. For those who don’t know me… I’m sorry. For those who do— I’m sorry too.”

There was a few chuckles around. You shrugged.

“I’ve known Soojin since we were nine. And by ‘known’ I mean I once hit her square in the face with a dodgeball during gym class. To be fair, it was an accident. But she still came to school the next day with a swollen cheek and two friendship bracelets. That was the moment I realized Soojin was either an angel… or slightly mentally challenged.”

The room erupted in laughter. Soojin groaned, covering her face with both hands.

“She’s been my person ever since. I mean—we’ve lived through it all together. Our emo phases, terrible group projects, my first heartbreak, her first heartbreak—though that one lasted all of three days because he couldn’t spell her name right in texts.”

Soojin shouted through her laughter, “I told you not to bring that up!”

“Oh I’m just getting started.” you winked. “She also once dragged me on a blind double date where my date turned out to be gay. He came out right after kissing me.”

The crowd laughed, but slowly, your tone shifted.

“But through all of that—and I mean all of it—Soojin never wavered. She is, without question, the most loyal, fiercely loving, and quietly brave person I’ve ever met. She has this way of making you feel safe, even in chaos. And when Minjae came into her life, it was like… she finally got a taste of the safety she always gave others.”

You looked at Minjae then, and your voice softened more. A knot in your throat.

“Minjae came along. And somehow… it was like he’d always been part of our lives. Like he knew the rhythm of us already. He slotted in like the missing piece. And I knew, when I saw the way he looked at her—and how she let herself be looked at like that—that she was safe. That he would love her not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.”

Soojin cleaned her tears and you pouted a little.

“I’m glad you’re the happiest when you’re with him.” you nodded. “And I know people love to talk about love as something wild and passionate and filled with drama, but honestly? The most beautiful part of what they have is how easy it feels. How steady. How natural. Like they’ve been choosing each other in every lifetime before this one. And I just want to say,” you added, glancing at the your best friend, “I’m so proud of you. For opening your heart. For letting someone in. And for letting me be beside you today, like I always promised I would.”

A quiet beat passed. Your voice broke slightly, but you held on. A breath. A glance at both of them, beaming now, tearful.

“To Soojin and Minjae,” you said, lifting your glass. “To choosing each other—every day, every version, every mess. May you always find your way back.”

Everyone lift their glasses.

“Also— If you do anything wrong I will literally rip your balls out, Minjae.”

The crowd burst into laughter one more time as glasses clinked and you handed the mic back. Soojin was already wiping away tears. When she reached for you in a hug, it was tight, long, and full of everything you’d survived together. From across the reception, you caught Yoongi’s gaze. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes were soft. And still, somehow, knowing.

Now it was his turn.

The host tapped a glass and invited the next speaker up. When Yoongi stood, straightening his black linen jacket, a round of light applause followed. He smiled—genuine but a little nervous—and took the mic.

“Hi everyone,” he said, his voice warm. “I’m Yoongi. Most of you know me as Minjae’s best friend—and Soojin’s reluctant wedding planner assistant.”

Laughter bubbled across the tables.

“I’ve known Minjae since our second year of high school, where he convinced me to skip class with him for the first time by promising there would be free food involved. There wasn’t. But I stuck around anyway.”

More laughter. You sipped your wine, watching him, trying not to smile too widely.

“We’ve been through it all—bad haircuts, worse relationships—” he glanced pointedly at the groom, who gave a mock glare, “—and somehow, along the way, he went from being that guy who stole my fries to someone I call family.” His tone shifted, softening. “Seeing him today, looking at Soojin like she’s the only person in the universe… it reminds me that love isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s just quiet certainty. Choosing someone over and over, even when life gets messy. Especially when it gets messy.”

He hesitated just a beat.

“And… for some of us, sometimes love doesn’t work out the first time. Or the second. But you keep believing in it anyway. Because when you’ve seen it… when you’ve felt it… it stays with you.” His eyes flicked briefly to you—just a flicker—and moved on. He raised his glass. “To Minjae and Soojin—may your love be the kind that stays. The kind that holds fast, even when life tries to shake it loose.”

Always, good with words. A lyricist.

“Cheers!”

The guests echoed him, glasses raised in the warm night air.

Your hand was still curled around the stem of your wine glass, your heart louder than the music now. You didn’t look at him, but you felt the weight of his words settle in your chest like something old and uncomfortable, something hurtful.

A love that holds fast.

The night had settled like velvet over the sea, dark and warm, humming with the low rhythm of waves and laughter from the wedding reception still going strong behind. Fairy lights strung through palm trees glowed gold against the inky blue sky, and the clinking of glasses and soft music carried from the terrace where the dinner was winding down into dancing.

You slipped away quietly, barefoot now, heels hooked by the straps in one hand as you walked down a narrow path toward the darker edge of the beach. Yoongi’s speech had gone better than everyone thought it would. Too well, maybe. Everyone had cried. Even Soojin’s dad, who famously hadn’t teared up since 1987. You hadn’t expected the hollowness that crept in afterward, though. The way your chest felt both full and aching. It wasn’t sadness exactly. Just… weight.

You stood still near a quiet bend of the shore, letting the wind cool your cheeks, eyes on the soft roll of the tide. The party felt distant now, muffled like a memory.

“You always did like a dramatic exit.”

You didn’t turn, but a faint smile curved your lips. “I thought I earned it tonight.”

Yoongi stepped up beside you, his tie finally removed, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his shoes left somewhere behind. He looked relaxed—at least on the surface.

“You did,” he nodded.

“Speech of the night” you commented. “You made everyone cry. Me included.”

“I think I made myself cry.”

That made you laugh, and finally, you turned your head to look at him. He was watching you, but gently this time. Not with the fire from the pool, not with the quiet ache from earlier in the week. Just… him. Familiar and careful.

“It was that good.”

He kicked at the sand lightly with one foot. “I wanted to say sorry. For the other night. The yelling. The drama. Not really my usual vibe.”

You snorted. “What, drunk poolside confessions aren’t in your brand?”

Yoongi smiled, then turned serious. “I meant what I said, though. Just… maybe not like that.”

“I know.” you nodded, your fingers curling tighter around the heels in your hand. A beat passed between you two, quiet and heavy. “I’ve been thinking about it,” you said softly. “About us. About why it didn’t work.” He didn’t move, but you felt the shift in the air. “We tried,” you continued. “We really did. But it just… hurt, all the time. When we were apart. When we tried to force time into places it didn’t fit. And I don’t want to resent you. Or have you resent me for chasing something we can’t hold.”

Yoongi’s jaw flexed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. Because he knew what you meant. The last couple months of your relationship had been fight after fight, downfalls. It was dying.

“I used to imagine us older,” you whispered. “Still trying to match time zones and canceling dinners and waking up next to an empty pillow. That kind of love… it starts to rot when it’s always a race.”

He looked out at the ocean, then down at the sand, then finally back at you. “I know,” he said quietly. “I hated being so far and feeling like I wasn’t doing enough. I hated feeling like I was losing you in inches.”

Your throat tightens, you swallowed hard. “It’s not about love,” you said. “That’s the thing. There was never a moment I didn’t love you.”

His voice was quiet. “Still?”

You paused. “Don’t ask me that.”

Yoongi let out a slow breath. “I won’t.”

The waves rolled in, curling white foam at their toes.

“So,” you said after a moment, “we go back to friends?.”

He looked at you, eyebrows raised. “Terrible idea.”

You laughed, the sound catching somewhere between sad and sweet.

“But maybe we keep… being kind to each other,” you offered instead. “No expectations. No plans.”

“Just here,” he said. “Now.”

You nodded. “Now.”

He gave you a small, sad smile. “You were always better at the endings.”

You met his gaze fully, for once without flinching. “That’s because I never really believed in them.”

The night stretched around you two, quiet and vast. Neither of you moved. Neither said goodbye. Not really wanting to

You love him, so much.

The night ended. And the wedding was over.

The petals had blown off the sand, the lights taken down from the trees. What was left of the celebration was about to be pack into cars, hug into photos, or wave away on the morning ferries. The week felt like a strange dream now.

The sky was still a soft lavender when you stepped out of your room, suitcase wheels clicking softly on the stone path. The scent of salt lingered in the air, clinging to your coat, your skin, your memories. The resort was hushed, heavy with the kind of quiet that follows a celebration too big for words. Most guests were still asleep. A few scattered sandals lay forgotten near the pool. Fairy lights still blinked weakly from trees, tired from a night of laughter and vows and late-night drinks.

You thought you had made it out without running into anyone. That had been the plan—no big send-off, no watery hugs or over-promises. That’s how you left for Paris, except Soojin decided to do a big goodbye party even after. But you hated that, you were sure you were going to see each other again so you didn’t need those kind of celebrations— maybe actually afraid of having your hear too vulnerable. You were good at that kind of thing, leaving. They all knew it. Even Soojin had just texted you a series of crying emojis and a blurry selfie the night before, maybe already knowing you were going to leave without telling her.

But as you turned the corner toward the reception, you spotted a figure on the bench by the fountain in there. Minjae. Tie loose, hair messy, cup of vending machine coffee in hand.

“Seriously?” you muttered, pausing in your tracks. “You’re up?”

He looked up and grinned. “You’re not sneaky, little shit.”

You rolled your eyes and dragged your suitcase closer, sitting down beside him with a sigh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Minjae took a long sip from his cup before extending it to you. “We had bets going that you’d ghost us before breakfast. Soojin owes me ten bucks.”

“Tell her to pay you in snacks. You need to eat something that isn’t from a machine.”

You huffed, grabbing the coffee to take a sip. You made a disgusting face and he grabbed the cup back to him dramatically. “This is gourmet caffeine.”

“This is shit.”

You two sat for a quiet moment. The fountain trickled gently beside you. Somewhere, a bird called. The island was waking slowly, like it didn’t want to break the spell of the wedding just yet.

Minjae nudged you with his shoulder. “You doing okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

“You looked happy this week. Not just wedding happy. Like…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Warm.”

“You’re getting weirdly poetic in your old age.” you smiled faintly.

He sighed. “Must be all that married life hitting me already.”

You snorted, looking over at him. “You and Soojin… you looked perfect yesterday.”

He softened. “We’re not perfect. But we choose each other. That’s the magic trick, I think.” You blinked, then looked away, swallowing a knot in your throat. Minjae continued, quieter now. “I know things with Yoongi are complicated. I’m not here to lecture. Just… I’ve known him a long time. And I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”

You kept your eyes on the floor, quiet, thoughtful.

“I know,” you said eventually.

“He’s not great at saying it. But he doesn’t really hide it either.”

You smiled sadly. “We loved each other.” Minjae nodded, letting the silence stretch. “But love doesn’t always mean it works,” you added, more to yourself than to him.

“No,” he agreed softly. “But sometimes it just needs a different kind of time.”

You turned to him, eyes glassy. “You’re really pulling out the wisdom this morning.”

“I had three bottles of champagne and two hours of sleep. I’m basically a monk now.”

You laughed, wiping under your eyes with the sleeve of your coat. Minjae stood and offered a hand to help you up. “Come on. Before you make me cry and embarrass myself in front of the wedding staff.”

You took it and stood. “Tell Soojin I love her. I’ll see her next month.”

“You better text her later or she’ll send death threats.”

You smiled before punching him away to the hallway. Just before he left, Minjae leaned in with one last word.

“For what it’s worth… he never stopped.”

You didn’t answer. Just gave a small nod because you knew. Because it was the same for you.

Minjae raised a hand in farewell and you watched him go down the hallway to his wife, your best friend. Your heart full of too many things to name.

You walked away, doing your check-out before leaving. You stood at the edge of the hotel lobby, your bag slung over your shoulder, passport tucked into the worn paperback you’d brought but never read. Your flight back to Busan was in three hours. From there—Paris. Your other life. The one that had kept moving even when your heart had hesitated. But it was yours. Life was going to move in Korea too.

You wouldn’t know much about Yoongi. Soojin and Minjae would be going to her honeymoon in Bali. Everything would be back to normal, a normal in Korea that didn’t belong to you anymore—

A voice behind you interrupted the quiet, your thoughts.

“You’re early.”

You turned.

Yoongi stood with his own small bag, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a soft sweatshirt and the tired look of someone who hadn’t slept much. He looked… normal. But then again, he always did when your heart was spinning.

You offered a small shrug. “I didn’t want to say too many goodbyes.”

He walked up beside you, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “You didn’t say mine.”

“I figured we already did.”

Yoongi looked at you, head tilted. “We did?”

A bell dinged behind you. Somewhere inside, some noises, a car horn echoed. The island had started to breathe again without the wedding buzz. It felt slower. Quieter.

A beat.

He took a few steps closer, his shoes dangling loosely. “I meant what I said. The other night.”

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to trap you with it. I just… I needed to say it.”

You nodded. “And I needed to hear it.”

He searched your face, every line of you a memory. Your lips, your eyes, your hair tangled in the way you always used when you were nervous.

“Paris is far,” he said.

You smiled sadly. “Seoul isn’t close either.”

“I meant the space between us,” he murmured. “Not the cities.”

You let out a breath. “I lied, I’m not good at endings.”

“I know.” A long pause. Not uncomfortable—just full “I booked the same ferry as you,” Yoongi said casually, glancing toward the hotel.

You looked up, surprised. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he echoed.

The corners of your mouth twitched. “So you’re stalking me now?.”

“Reflex,” he teased gently, and that line made your heart twist in that familiar, stupid way.

A car stopped in front of you two, Yoongi looked at you. And it took you a minute before nodding. You two walked side by side to the car waiting. No dramatic declarations. No begging. No fighting. Just silence that said more than noise could.

When the engine started and the hotel faded behind you two, neither looked back.

The sea passed quietly beside the road.

“Have you been working on anything new?” you asked softly after a while.

“Yeah. A couple demos,” he said. “I keep starting things and not finishing.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds familiar.”

Yoongi chuckled under his breath. “I might finish one now.”

You turned to him. “You should.” Another pause. “If you’re ever in Paris again…” you started, then stopped.

Yoongi turned to you. “Yeah?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Then—just: “There’s this café near the river. You’d hate the coffee, but you’d love the view.”

He smiled. “Text me the name.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Don’t make me beg.”

He looked ahead again, sun starting to crest above the low hills as the car reached the port. The ferry was already docked, people boarding slowly.

As you both stepped out together, he still held the door open for you.

“So friends?” you said lightly.

Yoongi looked at you, unreadable for a moment. And then a knowing look sparkled in his eyes. Because he knew what you were doing. And he did, he knew you. He just knew.

“Terrible idea.”

But you smiled.

And he smiled.

And neither of you walked away.

first yoongi fic with an open ending

literally wanted to be perfect because hes my bias and it’s the first time i write about him so - again - if you see any mistakes NO YOU DIDNT.

please let me know if you like it >_< and if you finish it because i know it was long as hell

nothing is accurate to koran culture so don’t address me 😓🙏🏼

thank you for reading<33