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mangowillow · 24 days ago

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last to know | ch. 3: today's curtain opens

pairing: jungkook x (f) reader / kim woosung x (f) reader

summary: you and jeongguk got together at 16 years old, married at 20, and divorced at 21. what was once love ever after turned into nothing but pain and unfulfilled dreams. you keep going despite the pain in your heart that never really went away, until one day, jungkook comes back— to seoul and in your life.

general story tags: divorce au, childhood friends, angst, hurt & eventual comfort, kind of a slow burn, OC is an adopted child in this fic, a lot of flashbacks later on because context is important; and the others that a lot of people seem to dislike: a love triangle and a LOT of miscommunication. look away if this isn't your thing. tags and warnings will be updated as we go along with each chapter!

warnings: somewhere in this chapter, seokjin punches jeongguk

word count: 12.7k

author's note: oooh look at her coming back after more than a YEAR!

i have no words, no excuses to offer. most people would have forgotten this story already. BUT I DIDN'T and that's all that matters right now <3

gentle reminder that italics are flashbacks! please forgive any oversights or mistakes or whatnot; as of posting, i am sick and i just wanted to post this chapter that's been sitting in my drafts for the longest time now.

one more very important thing: since i haven't updated in so long, i lost track of my taglist i am very sorry! to make everything more organized, i came up with a google form that readers can fill out if they're interested in being included. i know this is such an inconvenience but because i am a very irregular poster, i will need all the help with tracking i can get!!!

so if you're interested in being tagged for this fic, please fill out this form. any requests for tags in the comments or ask box will not be considered at this time. tysm!! enjoy this very humble update!

As usual, you didn’t notice time passing until you realized it was already nighttime.

You are still cleaning up the art room at the university where you were teaching until you heard the pitter-patter of the rain. Big, fat raindrops relentlessly hit the window, creating a steady beat. The sound calms you but at the same time, it seems to mirror the turbulent thoughts that are running through your mind. Not that the thoughts were anything urgent or worrying; your mind just can’t seem to stop… thinking.

You pack the last of the paintbrushes your students forgot to return to the crate when your phone starts to ring. You wipe your hands across your paint-stained apron before picking up. You place the phone between your ear and shoulder as you start packing your bag.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Mrs. Jeon ____?”

You haven’t heard that name in years; let alone be addressed as such.

“I um— may I know who is speaking?” you ask, your grip on the handle of your bag tightens.

“This is Kim Ae-jung calling from Gangnam Heights Medical Center. I’m calling regarding Mr. Jeon Jeongguk,” the caller states. Your heart starts to beat faster, knuckles almost turning white as you now grip your bag strap even more.

“Oh. Right. Is everything okay?”

“I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Jeon has been admitted to our hospital. There's been a health emergency and they're currently receiving medical attention.”

The moment you hear “medical attention,” the thumping in your ears becomes louder. You clutch your heart tighter as the caller goes on, “I understand this is a lot to take in. The situation is being taken care of by our medical team. It's important that you come to the hospital as soon as possible to be with them—”

You didn’t have to be told anything further. You start gathering your things, hastily putting them inside your bag, and run out the door.

It didn’t matter that you got soaked in the pouring rain on the way to the bus stop. Of all days, you had to have your car at the shop for an oil change. You gnaw at your nails as you anxiously wait for the next bus to come. You look at your watch: 9:30 PM. You wonder why Jeongguk was in the hospital. You wonder why he was here— in Seoul.

As a self-proclaimed overthinker, you start to spiral and descend into negativity. You try to recall if Jeongguk has ever had any illnesses while you were still together. You try to remember if you missed anything then— a symptom, a cough, a fever.

The moment you sit down on the bus your heart starts to steady a bit and it allows you to think a bit clearer. Gangnam Heights Medical Center was a few kilometers away from the university. You can’t help but glance at the time almost every minute, your leg bouncing in agitation.

In that seemingly long bus ride, you are flooded with so many memories of Jeongguk almost instantaneously— the day you met him, the day he held your hand for the first time, the day he kissed you after a fireworks display—

The day he married you.

All of the memories you have tried so hard to keep buried in the recesses of your mind— they all came rushing back like no time has ever passed.

When you are reminded of Jeon Jeongguk, you are reminded of pain. But you are also reminded of the deepest love you’ve ever known your entire life.

As the public announcement on the bus declares that the next stop is the hospital, you hastily push the STOP button above you.

And you have never run as fast as you did to the hospital lobby. You were met by a very kind nurse who gently asked you to fill up a form before anything else even though you were clearly in distress.

You didn’t know what to write on the form. Legally speaking, you aren’t Jeongguk’s legal guardian. Not anymore. You grip the pen tighter, the ballpoint hovering just above the line that asks for “Spouse Name”. Your eyes start to blur and because of the adrenaline, you don’t realize right away that you are in near tears. For whatever reason, you didn’t know what to do.

So many questions run through your mind— why did the hospital call you? Why isn’t anyone coming to Jeongguk? Was he alone here in Seoul? Does he have anyone at all?

Your hands shake as you give back the form to the nurse. She gives you a small smile as she directs you to the room where Jeongguk is. Inside was the doctor in charge, as well as a different nurse.

They tell you Jeongguk had a panic attack on the side of the road. They also tell you that the attack was quite alarming because he fainted from sheer panic. You were asked if he had been taking his medication– a question you couldn’t straightforwardly answer. The doctor continued to advise you on his condition and what you could do to support him further but their words barely registered.

All you cared about at that moment was that Jeongguk was here with you in the same room. Lying on a hospital bed.

“Is— is he going to be okay?” you ask softly, your eyes never leaving Jeongguk’s form.

“Yes, he will fully recover. However, I do advise that he monitor his triggers and form a safety plan should another panic attack happen when he’s out in public or when he’s alone. Your husband was lucky because kind strangers helped take him here.”

You wanted nothing more but to cry, but your tears cannot seem to fall. You thank the doctor as he leaves the room, leaving you and Jeongguk completely alone.

You didn’t wake up today thinking that you’d see him again. Under the worst circumstances yet again, you look at the man who you used to call your husband. Jeongguk is no longer the lanky 21-year-old you married. He's more muscular now, with his physique sculpted in all the right places. Although his face was covered with an oxygen mask, you could still see the prominent eye lines, perhaps due to exhaustion and sleepless nights. He now sports a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm, a striking blend of intricate designs that flow seamlessly down to just above his wrist. A delicate lotus flower blooms amidst the ink, its petals unfolding with quiet elegance, while scattered stars add a celestial touch, as if mapping constellations across his skin. He finally did it, you thought. You look at Jeongguk and see that everything and nothing has changed.

You step closer to his bedside, your movements hesitant, almost fragile. With a trembling hand, you reach for the one free of the IV, your fingers brushing against his skin as if afraid he might break or worse– wake up. A shudder runs through you and your bottom lip quivers. You swallow hard, desperate to contain the sob threatening to slip past your lips.

Since when did Jeongguk suffer from panic attacks? No matter how hard you search your memory for warning signs, for any fleeting clue, you come up empty. Jeongguk was always strong, always steady—if anything, it was you who carried the weight of a restless mind.

Jeongguk had always been the one to carry the both of you.

You remain still, fingers laced with his as silent tears slipping down your cheeks. You mourn not just for him, but for everything you’ve lost—the Jeongguk you once knew, the love that once consumed your world, now reduced to fragments of what used to be.

"Mind telling me about you and ____?" Jeongguk starts, voice steady but laced with something ugly underneath.

He had been discharged just a day after—against Yoongi’s insistence. It wasn’t just the recklessness of it all that pissed Yoongi off—it was Jeongguk’s sheer stubbornness, his refusal to rest, his insistence that keeping himself busy was better than being left alone with his thoughts. He claimed it was for his mental health and that working was preferable to rotting away in self-pity.

But the truth was simpler. Jeongguk didn’t want to be alone.

Not after seeing you again.

Not after seven years.

Yoongi exhales sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets, already anticipating where this conversation is headed. He meets Jeongguk’s gaze—there’s something raw there, something unsettled. He tries to deflect. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Because I am and—”

“I’m not in the mood to eat,” Jeongguk cuts in, his voice quieter but firm, the weight of his words sinking deep. “I need you to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Yoongi stills. The moment Jeongguk’s tone changed to his CEO voice, he knew—there was no dodging this.

The worst part is, Yoongi doesn’t even need to deflect. He just doesn’t think this is the time. They had barely even settled back in Seoul, and already, they’re reopening old wounds that never really healed. Then again… had he really expected Jeongguk to just let it go? To come back here, breathe the same air as you, and not at least try to find you?

Yoongi sighs. Over the years, he’s learned something that even Jeongguk himself refuses to admit—your name still undoes him. Every single time. Jeongguk is haunted by you— in ways he doesn’t even realize. It’s written in the way he grows quiet, in the way his jaw tenses, in the way his eyes darken with a sadness that only those closest to him can recognize.

And now, with Jeongguk looking at him like this—like he’s grasping for something, anything—Yoongi knows there’s no way out.

“It’s not a big deal, Jeongguk.” Yoongi hates downplaying anything especially when it comes to his friends, but even he doesn’t believe his words. “We just talk sometimes. I send her wishes on her birthday, greet her during Christmas, check in every now and then. But it’s rare.”

If Yoongi had any sense, he’d realize he sounded defensive. And if Jeongguk had any sense, he wouldn’t care.

But he does. Of course he does.

Jeongguk lets out a breathless scoff, shaking his head. “And you just… what? Didn’t think to mention that to me?” His tone is sharp, but not out of anger—out of something deeper, something resembling hurt. “Because everything you just said doesn’t sound like ‘rare.’”

And the worst part? Jeongguk isn’t even mad at Yoongi for keeping this from him. He’s mad at himself—for the fact that it even matters. That even after all these years, anything to do with you still destroys him.

God, Jeongguk hates himself for it—because it reminds him of all his past mistakes.

Yoongi sighs. “Because I knew you’d be like this.”

Jeongguk stills. His grip tightens. “Like what?”

Yoongi meets his gaze, exhausted. “Like this, Jeongguk. Tearing yourself apart over something that’s already gone.” He pauses, measuring his next words. “If I told you, would it have helped? Would it have made you feel better to know that your ex-wife still keeps in touch with your best friend?”

Jeongguk blinks, stunned into silence. Yoongi referring to you as his ex-wife is a fresh kind of pain he hadn’t anticipated.

"But you’re supposed to be my friend, Yoongi—” His voice wavers, cracking. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

"I am your friend, Jeongguk. I am on your side.” Yoongi’s voice is steady. Then, softer, “But ____ is my friend too. And you know damn well that I don’t condone what happened between you two.”

That shuts Jeongguk up. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Because he knows. He knows exactly what Yoongi is talking about. He knows the extent of the damage he caused. He’s known for years, and yet, it still hits him like a freight train.

His bottom lip trembles but he forces himself to keep it together. “It just… really hurts.”

Yoongi’s expression softens. “What does?”

Jeongguk swallows, looking past the city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Everything.”

Yoongi exhales, his gaze dropping to the floor. In the heavy silence that follows, the only thing Jeongguk can hear is the thick sound of him trying to keep it together.

Then Yoongi speaks. “She panicked that night, you know?” His voice is quieter, careful. “Last night was the first time I heard her voice in a long time. She was worried about you.”

Jeongguk turns, eyes glassy. “She was?”

What Yoongi doesn’t tell him is how worried you were. The way your voice cracked when you said Jeongguk’s name. It wasn’t just panic— it was also helplessness, the way you sounded just as lost as Jeongguk feels now.

Yoongi hesitates, but Jeongguk speaks first. “I’ve always thought about it,” His voice is quieter now. “What it would be like… if I ever saw her again.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “And? Was it what you expected?”

Jeongguk lets out a humorless chuckle, one that sounds more like a sigh. “Definitely not me lying in a hospital bed because of a panic attack.” He rubs his face, shoulders slumping. “I thought about it a million times. But never like that.”

Yoongi watches him carefully. “You know what’s interesting?” His voice is almost amused, though his eyes remain heavy. “You never changed your emergency contact.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move.

Yoongi shrugs. “Jeongguk if the same thing had happened while you were still in New York—”

“I know.” Jeongguk cuts him off, a pang of something sharp hitting his chest. His voice drops. “I just… never got around to changing it.”

There’s a beat of silence. A kind of silence that carries the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Yoongi nods, almost to himself. “I guess that’s just it, huh?”

Jeongguk exhales. “I guess that’s it.”

And for some reason, those words feel heavier than anything else.

Yoongi sighs just as his phone notifies him of a text message. "I'll see you later, kid, okay? Take it easy, will you? You're still healing."

Jeongguk scoffed, "Healing is such an understatement, hyung." Yoongi gives him a look. "Fine, fine, I won't work too much today. Happy?"

Yoongi nods and walks out of Jeongguk's office. He takes a look at the message he received once he closed the door behind him.

It was you.

"How’s Jeongguk?"

NEW YORK, 2016

The golden hour light had long since faded from the university's art room windows, replaced by the harsh fluorescent glow that buzzed overhead. You sat motionless on the paint-splattered stool, your brush suspended mid-air above a canvas that remained untouched since morning. The half-finished painting— a landscape of a giant tree where you and Jeongguk used to find shade when you were in high school— seemed to mock you now with its vibrant colors and brushstrokes.

The divorce papers lay beside your easel like a death sentence— a few stark white pages against the chaos of paint tubes and dirty water jars. You hadn't moved them. Hadn't touched them since a stranger had placed them in your trembling hands eight hours ago.

"Ms. ____? Papers from Lee & Associates Law Firm."

The memory echoed in the silence.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway broke through your trance. The footsteps paused, then quickened, and suddenly the art room door burst open with enough force to rattle the supply cabinets.

"____! Thank God, I've been looking everywhere for—" Yoongi's voice cut off abruptly as he took in the scene before him. His chest heaved from running, dark hair disheveled, but his eyes immediately found your slumped figure, seemingly spaced out looking outside the window. The color drained from his face.

You didn't turn around. You continued staring out the window at the empty courtyard below where university students had laughed and studied just hours before. Now it was nothing but shadows and abandoned benches.

"____..." Yoongi's voice was barely above a whisper. He stepped closer, his usual confident demeanor cracking.

You finally moved but only enough to quietly acknowledge Yoongi’s presence. Your movements were eerily calm, like someone sleepwalking through their own nightmare. Without a word, you picked up the papers and slowly extended them toward him, never meeting his eyes.

Yoongi's hands shook as he took them. The sound of rustling paper seemed deafening in the still room as he scanned the first page. His face went through a series of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and then a rage so pure it made his jaw clench.

"That bastard," he breathed, his voice trembling with fury. "That absolute—" He looked up at you and the words died in his throat.

You had finally turned to face him and the sight nearly broke him. Your eyes were dry but hollow. Dark circles shadowed your face, and your lips were pressed into a thin line that spoke of hours spent holding back screams.

Or sobs.

"____, I... I didn't know. He didn't tell me he was—" Yoongi's voice cracked. He crumpled the papers in his fist, then immediately smoothed them out again, as if destroying them could somehow undo what they represented. "When did this happen?"

"This morning." Your voice was barely audible, hoarse from not speaking the whole day. "Around ten maybe."

"It's past six now." The realization hit him like a physical blow. "You've been sitting here alone for eight hours?"

You shrugged, the gesture so small and defeated it made his heart ache. "I kept thinking... if I didn't move, if I didn't acknowledge those papers, maybe they weren't real."

Yoongi sank into the chair across from you, the divorce papers still clutched in his hands. He wanted to storm out, to find Jeongguk and demand an explanation, to shake his best friend until he came to his senses. But looking at you—really looking at you—he knew he couldn't leave. Not like this.

"Why didn't you call someone? Call me?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Your laugh was bitter, maybe a little broken too. "'Hi Yoongi, your best friend just divorced me through a law firm'? 'Could you come sit with me while I figure out how to breathe again'?"

"Yes," he said fiercely, almost frustrated. "Exactly that. You should have said exactly that."

Your composure finally cracked. Your shoulders shook, and you pressed your hands to your face. "I don't understand, Yoongi. We— we fought three days ago and he never came home after. He— he did that sometimes. But I always thought he’d come back, you know?" Your voice rose with each word, years of pain spilling out. "B-but how do you go from an argument to divorce papers in three days?"

Yoongi felt his own eyes burn. He'd known Jeongguk since they were teenagers, and had watched him fall for you like a man falling off a cliff— completely and without reservation. He'd been your witness at the courthouse wedding, had celebrated with you both, and had listened to Jeongguk talk about growing old with you just last month.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice thick. "I swear to you, ____, I don't know. He hasn't said anything to me about problems, about wanting... this."

"Maybe that's the problem," you whispered. "Maybe he never talked to anyone about us. Maybe I was the only one who thought we were okay."

The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud. Yoongi wanted to argue, to tell you that wasn't true, but the evidence was literally in his hands. No one files for divorce if they're happy– were you and Jeongguk happy? But no one serves papers through a stranger if they still care.

"I want to confront him," Yoongi said quietly. "I want to find him and demand answers. Maybe punch him. Definitely yell at him." He looked down at the papers, then back at you. "But now... God, ____, I can't leave you alone like this."

"You should go to him. He's your best friend. This probably hurts you too."

"You're my friend too," Yoongi said firmly. "And right now, you need someone more than he does."

You stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the exact instant you stopped holding herself together. Your face crumpled, and the sob that escaped you was raw and devastating. Yoongi was out of his chair in seconds, pulling you into his arms as you finally, finally let yourself break.

"I loved him so much," you cried into his shoulder. "I loved him so much, and it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough."

"Don't say that," Yoongi whispered fiercely, his own tears falling now. "Don't you dare say that. This isn't about you not being enough. This is about him being a coward."

You cried until you had no tears left, until your body was exhausted from the force of your grief. Yoongi held you through all of it, one hand stroking your hair while the other kept the divorce papers from falling to the floor. Even now, even in your pain, he found himself protecting you from having to see them.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were swollen and red, but there was something different in them. Not peace—you were too far from that—but a kind of terrible clarity.

"I need to sign them," you said.

"What are you– no. Not tonight." Yoongi's voice was gentle but firm. "Tonight, you need to go home and rest. The papers can wait."

"What if waiting makes it worse?"

"What if rushing makes it final when it doesn't have to be?"

You looked at him with something that might have been hope, if hope could be so fragile. "Do you think... do you think he might change his mind?"

Yoongi's heart broke all over again, because he could see how much you wanted him to say yes. How much you needed him to say yes. But he also knew Jeongguk, knew that his friend never did anything without thinking it through completely. The divorce papers weren't a mistake or a moment of anger— they were a decision.

"I think," he said carefully, "that you deserve someone who doesn't make you question whether you're enough. Whether he changes his mind or not."

It wasn't the answer you wanted, but it was the truth. And somehow, that seemed to be what you needed to hear.

You nodded slowly, then looked around the art room as if seeing it for the first time. "I should clean up. I've made a mess."

"Leave it," Yoongi said. "Just... leave it all. Come on, I'll drive you home."

As you gathered your things, you paused at the easel. The unfinished painting of the tree stared back at you, beautiful and incomplete.

"I don't think I'll ever finish it," she said quietly.

Yoongi looked at the painting, then at you. "Maybe that's okay. One battle at a time, hm?"

You nodded, understanding. Some stories didn't have happy endings. Sometimes love wasn't enough to make someone stay. And some paintings would forever remain half-done, frozen in a moment before everything fell apart.

The muted hum of the café outside your art studio filtered through the walls, but inside, the space remained still, save for the quiet strains of piano music playing in the background. The scent of paint and brewed coffee lingered in the air as you moved through the space, half-distracted by the canvas in front of you— until you heard your friends’ voices.

"Holy fuck, are you kidding me?"

You paused, your brush hovering mid-stroke over the canvas. That was Hoseok’s voice.

"Jesus wouldn’t be too pleased with your manner of expression, but no, I am not kidding." Taehyung’s response was calm, almost deadpan. "Can you keep your voice down? You should be feigning ignorance about all this."

"What good would that do?" Hoseok huffed. "Feigning ignorance, are you crazy? This is big, sweetie, and you know it."

Taehyung sighed like he was explaining something to a particularly slow student. "Honey, you’re acting like this is news. We already knew Jeongguk was back in Seoul."

“Yes, obviously, because you told me like five minutes ago!” Hoseok shoots back.

You froze for half a second before rolling your eyes. So that’s what they were talking about.

"It’s different knowing and talking about it," Hoseok shot back. "You’re gossiping."

"Of course I’m gossiping," Taehyung replied, unfazed. "We are gays, babe. We live for piping hot tea."

Hoseok groaned. "This is not the same as discussing someone’s bad haircut, babe—"

At that, you stepped into the room, making sure your voice was casual. "Someone had a bad haircut?"

The effect was immediate. Hoseok nearly jumped, eyes widening like he’d just been caught committing a crime, while Taehyung— though externally composed—blinked a little too fast.

"Ah," Hoseok choked out, his voice a little higher than usual. "____! Didn’t see you there. You, uh, move so quietly."

You arched a brow. "I literally opened a door."

Taehyung shot Hoseok a glare before turning to you, slipping into his usual laid-back demeanor—except for the way his fingers twitched against the edge of the table. "Nothing important," he said smoothly. "Just... discussing world events."

You bit back a smirk. "World events?"

Hoseok nodded a little too quickly. "Yes. You know, global issues. The stock market. The weather—"

"The weather," you repeated, unimpressed.

"Yes! Very unpredictable these days."

There was a beat of silence where you let them both squirm under your gaze. Internally, you were highly entertained. Two grown men who dominated the fashion industry– usually so confident and self-assured, reduced to awkward messes right in front of you.

You sighed, pretending to contemplate their words. "Hmm. The weather. That’s funny, because I could’ve sworn I heard Jeongguk’s name before I walked in."

Hoseok visibly winced. Taehyung dragged a hand down his face. "Goddammit."

"You two do realize that I already knew Jeongguk was back, right? And that I heard you both talking about it just now?" you asked, amused.

Taehyung exhaled, resigned. "Yeah, but we didn’t know if you were, like, in a place where you’d want to talk about it."

You hummed, considering. "And instead of asking, you decided to whisper behind my back like two teenagers?"

"Technically," Taehyung said, "only Hoseok was whispering. I was speaking at a reasonable volume."

Hoseok scoffed, offended. "Excuse me, I was being discreet!"

"You said ‘holy fuck’ loud enough for the café and for Jesus to hear."

Hoseok looked away. "Can you stop it with the holy jokes–"

You shook your head, lips twitching. "You two are ridiculous."

"But... are you okay?" Taehyung asked carefully.

You took a slow breath. The truth was, you didn’t know what you felt yet. Maybe it would hit you later, maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, you only had one response.

"Yes," you said simply. "I think I am."

Hoseok let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours, while Taehyung gave you a long, measured look before nodding. They do not believe you— not even one bit.

But they let it slide for now.

"Alright," Taehyung said. "But if that changes, we’ve got you."

You smiled, softer this time. "I know."

The first time Woosung came to your art studio, he didn’t say much. He just wandered the space with his hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over your half-finished paintings and the faint smudges of color on your fingers.

Now, years later, he was here again, seated at the small wooden table near the windows while you worked, a book in his hand and a cup of coffee cooling beside him. You weren’t sure when it started— when he began showing up like this, keeping you company without needing to fill the silence with words.

Today was one of those days. Rain pattered against the glass, the sky outside dark, but inside, the air was warm.

You stood by the canvas, brush in hand, completely concentrating on your work. You had long since tuned out the world, lost in the rhythmic strokes of color. You always tie your hair up in a bun whenever you work but you also barely notice the strands of hair that keep falling in your face, sticking to your skin when you become so focused on the work.

At some point, you felt your lover’s quiet presence beside you. Without a word, Woosung reached over and gently tucked the stray strands behind your ear. His fingers were warm, his touch like a feather, and when you blinked out of your trance to look at him, he just smiled—soft, unhurried.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you."

He hummed, stepping back, but before he could return to his seat, you reached for his wrist.

"Wait."

Woosung stopped, his eyes curious.

"Stay here. Just for a little bit," you murmured, not even sure why you said it. Maybe you just liked having him close.

Woosung didn’t question it. He just nodded, pulling a stool and positioning himself beside you. He watches you paint in comfortable silence.

Every so often, he would tilt his head, his gaze intent as if he were memorizing the way your fingers moved, the way the colors blended together under your touch.

"You’re really focused today," he observed after a while.

You hummed, biting your lip as you tried to perfect a small detail. "I am. It’s nice, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think it’s because you’re here."

You said it without thinking and you realized how easily the words had slipped out. Woosung smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He lifted his hand, brushing a smudge of blue paint off your cheek with his thumb.

"Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer," he murmured.

And he did.

A little while later, the rain had softened to a drizzle, leaving the air thick with that post-rain stillness. Your brush hovered over the canvas, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. Across the room, Woosung sat at the table, still flipping absently through his book, but you could tell— he wasn’t really reading. He was waiting.

It had been like this since last night.

He had held you while you cried, rubbing slow circles into your back, whispering, "It's okay, I’ve got you," even though he had no idea what had shattered you. He never asked, never pushed. But now, with the night stretching thin between you, you could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down.

"You didn’t sleep much," Woosung finally said, his voice gentle, as if he were testing the waters.

You swallowed, still dragging the brush along the canvas in slow, aimless strokes. "Neither did you."

Woosung exhaled a small chuckle, but it was knowing. "You cried yourself to sleep, ____. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I slept soundly through that?"

You winced at that—at the truth of it. At the guilt that curled in your stomach. He wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you felt like you had placed something heavy between you both.

You took a deep breath, still not looking at him. "It was just… a hard night."

Woosung nodded, his gaze steady. "Because of what happened at the hospital?"

Your fingers clenched around the brush. A long pause settled between you.

You could lie. You could brush past it, act as though it was just one of those nights where the weight of everything caught up to you. But Woosung had always been careful with you, had always made space for you to be honest in your own time. You had told him that you saw someone unexpectedly at the hospital before you went silent all over again last night.

You exhaled. And you poised yourself to tell Woosung the rest of what happened.

"I saw him," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Jeongguk."

Woosung didn’t react—not right away. He just closed his book, setting it aside, like he had been expecting this. He didn’t ask how it happened. Didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him immediately. He just let you sit with it, let you offer whatever you were willing to.

You hesitated before continuing. "I didn’t even know he was back in Seoul, but then I got a call… he was in the hospital. I don’t know why they called me, but they did, and I—I went."

A deep breath.

You could feel Woosung’s eyes on you, but you kept your gaze on the canvas, focusing on the way the paint streaked across the surface, trying not to feel the way your throat was tightening again.

"I didn’t stay long," you added, half-truthfully. "I just… made sure he was okay before Yoongi came."

You heard the shift of a chair, and then Woosung was beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist before curling around it lightly.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. Everyone keeps asking me that today."

“Everyone?” Woosung asked.

“Taehyung picked me up from the hospital. He uh, of course, he told Hoseok about it right away.”

Woosung nodded as if he understood that more than words could ever explain. Without hesitation, he pulled you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. His arms around you were steady, warm. A grounding weight.

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. "Just… let yourself feel it. Whatever it is."

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. He smelled like rain and coffee, like the warmth of something familiar and safe.

"I’m here," he added, voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it. "Whatever you need."

And just like that, the ache inside you loosened, just a little.

The apartment in Seoul was vast and hollow. Open-space style with high ceilings and sleek, modern finishes—everything about it screamed luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned one entire wall, revealing the bustling Seoul skyline, lights flickering like stars.

It was the kind of apartment regular people dream of having. But right now, Jeongguk thought it felt more like an empty shell.

Half-unpacked boxes scattered all over the floor, some opened, some untouched. The air smelled of unlit scented candles, the kind his assistant had left, thinking they would make the place feel more like a home. He hadn’t bothered.

Jeongguk went through his things with quiet efficiency, pulling out clothes, books, old notebooks filled with immature, maybe even brilliant thoughts. His movements were mechanical— until his eyes landed on a single, still-sealed box in the farthest corner of the living room.

Something in his chest tightened.

For a long moment, Jeongguk just stood there, jaw tense. When he finally mustered up whatever courage was left of him, he crouched down, pressing his fingers into the packing tape and tearing it open. Inside, neatly stacked and untouched for years, were remnants of a past he had buried but never truly let go of.

Art books, their covers slightly worn. A few pieces of clothing, folded carefully as if waiting to be picked up again. And at the very bottom, almost like a cruel afterthought— photographs.

Jeongguk swallowed as he reached for them.

They were yours– belongings you never brought back to Seoul with you. And the photographs were from his high school years. Senior year. Before New York, before the weight of adulthood, before everything fell apart.

In one, you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes shining under the golden autumn sun. Jeongguk was next to you, hand in his pocket, pretending to be indifferent, but the way he looked at you even then—it told a different story.

Memories rushed in, sharp and clear as if no time had passed at all. Jeongguk braced himself for a fresh wave of unshed tears.

Busan, Hanseong High School - Three Years Before New York

Jeongguk had been at Hanseong High for three weeks and already, he was used to the routine.

The stares. The whispers. The way people spoke his last name like it carried weight, like it meant something.

Jeon Jeongguk. The son of a powerful real estate family. The new kid who was rich, handsome, untouchable. He was already bored of it all.

That afternoon, he found himself lingering in the school’s indoor gym—not because he had a reason to be there, but because he had nowhere else to be. The air smelled of sweat and old wood, the faint echo of bouncing basketballs in the distance. He leaned against the railing on the second floor, watching the scene below with disinterest. Maybe even boredom.

A group of girls sat huddled together on the bleachers, giggling. Among them was you— though you didn’t seem to be part of it. Not really.

You sat slightly apart, a book open on your lap, fingers idly turning the page. Your expression was neutral, but Jeongguk had already spent the last few weeks observing you in passing. You were in the same classes as him and yet, not even once did you acknowledge Jeongguk’s presence, let alone look his way. You weren't loud like the others and weren't desperate for attention. You had this quiet presence— one that didn’t demand space but somehow held it anyway.

You intrigued the hell out of Jeongguk.

But then it happened.

One of the girls suddenly stood, walking up behind her with a smirk. It was a slow, seemingly calculated movement, the kind that sent an uneasy feeling crawling up Jeongguk’s spine.

“Oops,” the girl said mockingly, just before tilting her hand.

A full carton of milk tipped forward, spilling over your head, soaking through your uniform, dripping onto the pages of the book.

Laughter erupted around you after that.

Jeongguk didn’t move. He should have done something. But he didn’t. Other people who were in the gym stopped whatever they were doing– waiting to see what you’d do next.

You sat there for a moment, milk running down your hair, shoulders stiff, fingers clenched into fists. Then, after what seemed like an eternity– silently, you shut your now soaked book, stood up, and walked away.

To this day, Jeongguk does not know what compelled him to follow you. His feet, at the time, moved of their own accord, his heart knowing he needed to do something. Anything.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was guilt because he could have warned you of what was going to happen. Maybe it was something else entirely.

You had made it outside to the back of the school, where the sky stretched wide and empty, where no one could see you. You stood with your hands braced on your knees, shoulders shaking—not in sobs, but in silent frustration.

“Hey.”

You flinched at Jeongguk’s voice, turning sharply. Your wet uniform clung to you, strands of milk-dampened hair sticking to your cheek. Your eyes flickered with something unreadable before you schooled your expression.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly as you turned away from him in humiliation.

Jeongguk shoved his hands into his pockets. “That was messed up.”

He hears you scoff. “No kidding.”

For some reason, your sarcasm made the corner of Jeongguk’s mouth twitch.

“Here.” Jeongguk shrugged off his school blazer, holding it out to you. “You’re cold.”

You looked at the blazer, then at him. “I don’t need it.”

“Well clearly, you’re shivering.”

You straightened. “I don’t need your pity.”

Jeongguk tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “Who said I pitied you?”

Silence. You stared at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. After a few seconds, without another word, you turned away, arms crossed tightly over yourself.

Jeongguk didn’t leave.

Instead, he sat down on the steps nearby, watching as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. You didn’t tell him to go away.

And Jeongguk, for the first time since moving to this school, wasn’t bored.

The memory faded, but the feeling remained, lingering in the quiet of Jeongguk’s new, empty space.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. The box remained open in front of him, pieces of the past staring back at him. He should have put them— the whole box— away. But instead, he picked up the photograph again, tracing the edges with his thumb.

It had been years since that day in the gym. Since he saw you stand at the cramped space at the back of the school looking so defeated, arms crossed, yet too stubborn to accept his help.

And yet, even now, you remained the only person who had ever made him feel like he wasn’t just Jeon Jeongguk—the boy with a name too heavy to carry.

Maybe, he thought bitterly and quite sadly, he had been trying to follow you ever since.

Yoongi stared at his phone screen, your message glowing back at him: "How's Jeongguk?"

Three simple words that felt like a loaded gun.

He set the phone down, then picked it up again. Typed a response, deleted it. Typed another.

His apartment felt suffocating suddenly. He walked to the window, looking out at the Seoul skyline—the same view Jeongguk probably had from his new place. With a scotch in hand, Yoongi clenched his jaw, thinking about how everything that was starting to unfold was quite funny.

He hadn’t counted on Jeongguk finding you so soon– even if it was by accident. Yoongi chuckles to himself like an idiot. “I guess this is what they call fate.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly and finally typed back: "He's physically fine. Discharged yesterday."

Your response came quickly: "And mentally?"

Yoongi closed his eyes. How could he explain that Jeongguk looked like a ghost of himself? That he'd been carrying this weight for seven years?

"He's struggling," he typed. "But then again, so are you."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

"Did he ask about me?"

Yoongi's heart clenched. The honest answer was complicated— Jeongguk had asked, but not in the way you'd want to hear.

"He knows you were there that night— you already know that."

"That's not what I asked."

Yoongi found himself smiling despite everything. Even through text, you were still sharp, still direct.

"Yeah," he typed. "He asked about you."

Yoongi's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could discourage you, protect you both from reopening old wounds. Or he could do what his heart was telling him to do.

“What now?”

“I just want him to be well,” you respond.

Yoongi purses his lips– you were still the same girl he met all those years ago. Selfless, kind-hearted.

Self-sacrificing.

And he will do anything in his power to protect you.

It was nearing closing time when the bell above the café door jingled softly, signaling one last customer. The warm yellow lights reflected on the glass, casting long shadows along the wood-paneled walls. Jimin, who was wiping down the counter, looked up instinctively and froze mid-motion.

Jeon Jeongguk stood just inside the doorway.

For a moment, Jimin simply stared, cloth in his hand. There was something surreal about it— Jeongguk, in this space, under this light, in this cafe of all places, with his hair slightly damp from the rain and his hoodie slightly crumpled from travel. Seoul clung to Jeongguk in an unfamiliar way, the years since New York etched into the way he carried himself. But Jimin recovered quickly, stepping forward with a practiced smile.

"Welcome," he said, his voice pleasant and casual. “Long day?”

Jeongguk blinked, slightly thrown off. He nodded, eyes flicking around the café. “Yeah. Just needed a place to warm up. This place looked...” He trailed off. Familiar? Safe? He didn’t finish the sentence.

Jimin gave a soft chuckle and gestured to the counter. “We’re just about to close but I can still get you something. Americano? Or do you want something sweet?”

There was a flicker of recognition in Jeongguk’s eyes as he looked at Jimin more closely. “...Have we met before?”

Jimin paused before giving a small nod. “New York. At a student exhibit in university. You came with Kim Namjoon.”

Jeongguk’s brow furrowed, but nothing clear surfaced. “Right,” he said quietly, though it was clear the memory didn’t fully register. “Sorry— I’ve had a long few days.”

“No worries.” Jimin’s smile didn’t falter but there was something distant in his eyes. “What can I get started for you?”

“Oh, um… a hot latte would be nice.”

Jimin worked the register but when Jeongguk was about to give him his card, Jimin smiled politely. “It’s on the house.”

“Oh, god no, I don’t want to—”

“It’s okay, Jeongguk-ssi,” Jimin smiles. Jeongguk honestly does not have the energy to argue further. Slumping his shoulders, he nodded and quietly thanked Jimin.

“You are very welcome. Please take a seat. I’ll get your drink started for you.”

Before Jeongguk could move toward a table, another door swung open at the back of the café.

“Yah Jimin-ah, did we confuse the flour with the cornstarch this time—”

Seokjin.

Still wearing his apron, flour smudged along one sleeve, Seokjin halted mid-step the moment he laid eyes on Jeongguk. The tray in his hands clattered onto the counter as his face twisted— recognition sharp and instant.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The words cut across the room like a knife. Jimin looked up sharply from behind the espresso machine.

Jeongguk straightened, confusion flashing across his face before he registered who it was. “Seokjin?”

Seokjin didn’t give him a chance to speak further. He strode toward him in a blur of fury, fists clenched at his sides. “You have the audacity to walk in here? Like nothing happened? Like you didn’t fucking destroy my sister—?”

“Seokjin—”

“No,” Jin snarled, closing the distance. “You don’t get to say anything.”

Before Jeongguk could defend himself, before he could even raise a hand, Seokjin’s fist landed squarely against his jaw with a sickening crack.

Jeongguk staggered back, clutching the side of his face. He didn’t fall but the impact left him breathless. “What the hell—?”

The doors to the art studio burst open from the sound and you emerged, paintbrush still tucked behind your ear, paint smudges along your forearms. “What’s going on—?”

Your voice faltered as you took in the scene: Jeongguk standing by the counter, blood forming on the corner of his mouth; Jimin frozen; and Seokjin, chest heaving with rage, his knuckles still clenched and red.

“Jeongguk?” Your voice broke around his name.

He looked up slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’d been hit a second time. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

You turned sharply to Seokjin. “Did you hit him?”

“He deserved it,” Seokjin snapped.

“What the hell, Seokjin?”

“You’re really going to defend him?” Seokjin barked, disbelieving.

“I didn’t say that—” You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice. “But punching him isn’t going to fix anything.”

Seokjin let out a sharp but bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you're protecting him? After everything?”

“I’m not protecting anyone, I’m trying to de-escalate this.”

Jeongguk wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stepped back, unsure whether he was allowed to speak, to breathe, to even stand there. It felt like trespassing. Maybe it was.

Seokjin turned on you now, jaw tight, voice low but shaking. “He broke you, ____. And now you’re defending him like he didn’t spend years forgetting you existed.”

You clenched your hands into fists, shoulders squaring. “I’m not defending what he did. But I am asking you not to turn this place into a battlefield. This is our café, Seokjin. Not a fucking war zone.”

Seokjin looked at you for a long moment, anger still coursing through his veins— but it was your eyes, calm but hurting, that finally made him yield.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t ask me to be civil. Not with him.”

With that, Seokjin turned on his heel and stormed back toward the kitchen, door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed was tense. Jimin still stood behind the counter, lips parted as if unsure whether to speak.

You turned to Jeongguk. You didn’t step forward. You didn’t smile. Your voice came out quieter this time. “Why are you here?”

Jeongguk looked at you with wide, pained eyes, as if trying to memorize you all over again.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know this was your place.”

You nodded once as if that explained everything and nothing.

“You should go,” you added, softly. “It’s late and it’s raining.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. Only glanced once more around the space, at the painting above the pastry display, at the polished wood tables, at you.

Then he turned and left, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood there for a long while after, the paintbrush behind your ear suddenly feeling like the heaviest thing in the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, the clang of the swinging door echoed louder than it should’ve. You stood in the middle of the café for a moment longer, letting the silence settle like dust, before turning and pushing your way into the kitchen.

Seokjin was by the sink, aggressively scrubbing a saucepan that didn’t need cleaning. His back was tense, shoulders rising and falling with every breath like he was trying—and failing—to calm himself down.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” you said, voice steady, but your chest still trembled.

Seokjin didn’t look at you. “Didn’t I?”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

He whipped around at that, eyes blazing. “He left you, ____. No— he ruined you. And now what? He shows up here, like nothing ever happened, and I’m supposed to just, what, smile? Be polite? Serve him coffee?”

You folded your arms– not out of defiance but to stop your hands from shaking. “I’m not asking you to be polite. I’m asking you not to lash out like this is still your fight.”

“It is still my fight!” Seokjin’s voice cracked. “____ do you really think I forgot what you looked like after he walked out? I remember how quiet you got. How you stopped painting for months. How I had to sit with you in silence night after night because you couldn’t even cry anymore. You were gone, ____. He didn’t just leave you. He took the best parts of you when he did.”

His words stung because they were true. You bit your lip and looked away. “I let him in. I let him love me. That was my choice.”

“Don’t you dare turn this into your fault,” Seokjin said, voice softer now but still full of that same frustration. “You didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

There was a beat of silence. The sound of the refrigerator humming in the corner filled the space between you.

“He’s not the same,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “His eyes… he looks like someone trying to hold the world together with fraying thread.”

“I don’t care,” Seokjin said but it was a lie. You both knew it.

You stepped closer to your brother. “I’m not defending him, Seokjin. But I’m also not ready to hate him as much as you do. I never did… I don’t know what that says about me… but it’s how I feel.”

Seokjin exhaled, hands braced on the countertop. “It says you’re kinder than he deserves.”

You gave a small, broken smile. “Or stupider.”

Your brother didn’t argue. Instead, after a long pause, he turned to you again. “Just… promise me one thing.”

“What?” You realize your exhaustion was already weighing you down.

“Don’t let him back in just because you think he’s broken.”

You nodded slowly. “I won’t.”

That was a lie too. But you both let it slide.

The door of the café closed behind Jeongguk with a dull thud and the cold Seoul air hit him like a wave. The rain hadn’t let up but he didn’t pull his hood over his head. He decided to walk slowly even though his car was still parked near the cafe, no destination in mind, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as water soaked through the fabric.

His jaw ached where Seokjin had punched him but that pain was nothing compared to the one building in his chest.

Seeing you again had cracked him open.

You looked like someone he’d only ever see in dreams now—still ethereal, still grounded in color and softness. But the way you looked at him… like he was a stranger wrapped in old clothes. Like he didn’t belong in the same room as you anymore.

And maybe he didn’t.

Jeongguk wandered for blocks, barely paying attention to the street signs or blinking storefronts. He only stopped when he reached the Han River. The wide stretch of water lay quietly under the moonlight, blurred by the drizzle. Jungkook sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, and stared out at the current as it flowed without him.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen. No new messages. No missed calls. He unlocked it anyway and scrolled to his contacts, hovering over your name.

Still there. Still untouched.

His thumb brushed against it but he didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back, eyes closing. Rain kissed his cheeks, soaked into his lashes. He welcomed it because it was easier than crying.

He let himself remember. Your laugh echoing across a sunlit room. The way you’d wrinkle your nose when you were concentrating on a painting. The way you used to trace circles on his palm when you thought he was asleep.

And he remembered the day it all fell apart.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He didn’t know what he wanted.

No— he did. He wanted to rewind time. To walk into that café and see you smile at him like you used to. But time didn’t offer that kind of grace. It only offered consequences.

Jeongguk let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t know how long he sat there— just that eventually, the rain stopped and he was still alone.

The apartment was quiet when you got home.

Too quiet.

You slipped your keys onto the dish near the door and toed off your shoes slowly, trying not to make any noise. The familiarity of home—the throw blanket on the couch, the books stacked near the lamp, the faint scent of jasmine from the candle Woosung lit earlier—should’ve grounded you.

But it didn’t. Not tonight.

You stood in the dark for a moment longer than necessary– unsure whether to head straight to the shower or collapse into bed. You weren’t expecting to find Woosung still awake, let alone waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a warm mug in his hand.

“I made tea,” he said gently, as if his voice might spook you. “It’s probably cold by now.”

Your throat felt tight. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “You said you were heading back late, not that you'd come home looking like you fought a ghost.”

You offered a weak laugh. “It kind of feels like I did.”

He didn’t press. Just walked to you, slowly, like he always did when he sensed you needed space and presence at the same time. When he reached you, he simply wrapped his arms around you, grounding you in the warmth of his chest, his chin resting lightly atop your head.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just stood there and let yourself be held.

After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and careful. “Was it him?”

You didn’t need to ask who. “Yeah.”

You didn’t miss the way he stiffened just slightly before exhaling. “Did you talk?”

You nodded against his chest. “Not really. Seokjin hit him. I… I stopped it. Then I told him to leave.”

Another silence.

Woosung's hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles on your back. “How do you feel?”

You let the question hang there because you weren’t sure. Hollow? Rattled? Like someone had opened a box in your chest you’d long sealed shut?

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Woosung didn’t respond with reassurance or try to fix it. He just kissed the crown of your head.

“I’m here,” he said.

You finally pulled back to look at him, eyes scanning his face. Kind. Patient. Still here.

You hated that part of you wished he weren’t.

The sun was already high in the sky when Jeongguk dragged himself into Yoongi's studio. He hadn’t slept. He looked like hell— bloodshot eyes, jaw bruised, hair a mess. But he moved like he had unfinished business burning in his veins.

Yoongi noticed immediately.

“Jesus, you look worse than yesterday.”

Jeongguk ignored the jab and dropped onto the couch with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the screen in front of him, tapping a few keys absently, before finally swiveling in his chair to face Jeongguk.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

“I walked for hours. I don’t even know how I ended up by the river.”

“You always end up there when you’re falling apart.”

Jeongguk let out a dry laugh. “You know me too well.”

Yoongi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So? What now?”

“I saw her. I mean—I really saw her. It wasn’t just a memory or a picture in some gallery post. She was right in front of me, looking at me like I was…”

“A stranger?” Yoongi offered.

Jeongguk nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“She didn’t look angry?”

“No,” Jeongguk muttered. “She looked… tired. Like she didn’t know whether to scream or hug me. Like she’s been trying to forget me and I just made it harder.”

Yoongi sighed. “That’s because you did make it harder. By showing up unannounced. Walking into her safe space.”

“I didn’t know it was her café. I swear.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Jeongguk stared down at his hands. “I think she has someone.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away, which told Jeongguk enough.

“Where did that come from?” Yoongi asked.

“I’m not sure… but just thinking about it… it hurts more than I expected,” he added quietly. “I don’t know what I want from her. I just… wanted to be seen. Not hated. Not erased.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “She did see you.”

Jeongguk shook his head. “But not the way she used to.” He slumped further into the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.

“I used to be her whole world.”

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “And then you burned it down.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“What do I do now, Yoongi?”

Yoongi looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “You ask yourself if you’re ready to rebuild anything. And if you’re willing to accept that the pieces might not fit the way they used to.”

Woosung watched you sleep from across the room, hands loosely wrapped around his coffee mug. The pale morning light filtered in through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor—and across your face, peaceful but withdrawn, even in rest.

You hadn’t said much since last night. Just that you were tired. Just that it had been “a long day.”

But he wasn’t dense. He saw it.

The tremor in your voice when you said his name. The way your arms wrapped around him like you were bracing yourself for a storm that hadn’t yet passed. The way your body felt warm against him but your mind had drifted somewhere far, far away.

He knew what a closed door looked like.

Woosung loved you. That wasn’t in question. And in most moments, being with you felt like being home— quiet, anchored, enough. But there were times—like now—when he could feel something slipping between his fingers. Something he couldn’t hold, no matter how gently he tried.

He knew you had a past. He’d accepted that. But he hadn’t prepared himself for what that past would look like when it returned, not as a memory, but as a man.

Jeongguk.

The name alone was a ghost in his mind. You rarely said it but when you did, it was with the kind of softness that didn’t belong to pain. Not completely. Woosung didn’t want to be the jealous type. Didn’t want to become the man who questioned the cracks in someone else’s heart. But when you looked at him last night, it wasn’t just sleep in your eyes— it was absence.

And he hated that he didn’t know how to bring you back.

He walked over to the window, mug still warm in his hand and stared out at the quiet street below. He’d give you time. Space. Safety. Whatever you needed.

But part of him already knew: if Jeongguk was back in your world, he would have to brace for a future that might not include him in it.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The rain had finally stopped by the time you stepped out of the university gates that afternoon, sunlight peeking out from behind thin clouds. You hadn’t planned on stopping by the park, but your legs carried you there anyway. The world felt too loud lately— colors too sharp, memories too close— and you needed quiet after teaching the whole day.

The small café near the entrance of the park wasn’t busy. A few students occupied scattered tables, chatting over drinks, the occasional laughter bubbling into the air. You stepped inside and ordered chamomile tea.

You didn’t see him right away.

It wasn’t until you turned toward the window seat—your favorite one—that you noticed him. Sitting at the far corner of the room, hood pulled low, black journal open in front of him, pen tapping against the edge.

Jeongguk.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked smaller here somehow. Not in stature—his presence still drew attention—but in energy. Like someone trying to disappear into the corners of a page.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You froze, cup warm in your hands, unsure whether to approach or flee. You could walk away. You should.

But then he looked up.

Your eyes met. And time, once again, forgot how to move. He didn’t smile. He didn’t stand. He just looked at you like he’d been waiting. You walked toward him slowly. Carefully.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, quietly.

Jeongguk stared at the empty chair across from him then shook his head. “It’s yours.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The air between you was heavy but not hostile—more like something ancient and sacred. Something that didn’t know how to begin again.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, finally breaking the silence.

“I didn’t expect to be seen,” Jeongguk replied, eyes flickering to yours. He looked down at his journal, then closed it slowly. “I’m sorry. About the café. About… all of it. I didn’t know it was yours and Seokjin’s.”

You didn’t respond right away. You let the words hang there.

“I know,” you said eventually. “I believe you.”

He blinked, surprised by how easily you’d said it. But you weren’t done.

“That doesn’t change what happened,” you continued, voice steady, even if your heart wasn’t. “Seokjin was right. It doesn’t erase what we lost.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m not here to fix anything.”

You looked at him then— not as the man who hurt you but as the man who now sat quietly with his regret. Not demanding anything. Not begging. Just… present.

For the first time in years, you didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to walk on eggshells,” you murmured. “Not with me. Not anymore.”

Jeongguk swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m trespassing.”

You gave a faint, sad smile. “Then don’t try to be anything. Just… be here. If you want to be.”

Jeongguk nodded, jaw tight with the kind of relief that was almost indistinguishable from grief. And for a while, you both just sat there. Not as lovers. Not as exes. Not even as old friends.

Just as two people who once loved each other so deeply.

Jeongguk left the university café feeling hollow. The brief encounter with you—unexpected, painfully gentle—had undone something in him. You hadn't screamed. You hadn't walked out. But your voice, your eyes, the way your fingers gripped the edge of your mug—it haunted him more than any shouting ever could.

He had rehearsed nothing and left with everything unspoken lodged in his throat. It hadn’t been enough.

Not by a long shot.

So when night fell, his legs carried him somewhere he hadn't planned—your café. The one you shared with Seokjin. He didn’t expect to see you. Not really. But part of him hoped, in the smallest, most reckless corner of his heart, that maybe you’d still be there. That maybe you’d let him speak.

That maybe he could try again.

“I’m telling you, I nearly salted the croffle again,” Seokjin said as he wiped down the counter with exaggerated flair. “That’s the third time this month.”

“Hyung, you’re not cursed,” Jimin laughed, nudging the sugar shaker toward him. “You just have poor labeling habits.”

“It’s not labeling. It’s sabotage. Someone moved the sugar again. Probably Hoseok. He always looks guilty when I serve the wrong order.”

“He looks guilty because you gave someone a tuna melt instead of a vegan sandwich last week.”

“That was one time.”

Jimin smirked. “You are the chaos. Don’t drag Hoseok into your crimes.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, drying the last mug. “Speaking of chaos, where’s my sister?”

“Still in the studio,” Jimin said, nodding toward the door to the attached workspace. “She’s been trying to finish that commission all week.”

At that moment, you emerged from the studio door with paint on your sleeve and a weary but focused expression.

“You guys can go,” you said, waving them off. “I want to get this done tonight.”

“You sure?” Seokjin asked, frowning. “I can stay—”

“I’m fine, really. The piece is almost done, I just need a few more hours.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “You just want to be alone with your tortured genius.”

You snorted. “Exactly.”

Seokjin opened his mouth to argue again but you raised a hand. “I’ll lock up. Promise.”

“Okay, but if a raccoon breaks in again, don’t call me,” Seokjin muttered as he grabbed his coat.

“Noted.”

Jimin gave you a kiss on the cheek before heading out. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

You nodded. “Goodnight, both of you.”

The café door clicked shut behind them, leaving you with the hum of quiet jazz and the smell of old coffee grounds. You turned back into the studio, prepared to pull an all-nighter.

You were cleaning brushes when you heard the door chime. Without looking up, you called out, "We're closed today, sorry—"

"I know."

The brush slipped from your fingers, clattering into the sink. You turned slowly and there he was.

Jeongguk stood in the doorway of your studio, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between you. Jeongguk's gaze wandered around the studio—taking in your paintings, the organized chaos of your workspace, the coffee-stained easel in the corner.

"It’s a really nice cafe… it has an art studio just like how you wanted it," he said, for lack of anything else.

"Thank you." You wiped your hands on a towel, grateful for something to do with them.

"I wanted to thank you," Jeongguk continued. "For coming to the hospital. You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened your tone. "I mean... when someone calls and says you're in the hospital, of course I'd come."

His jaw tightened slightly. "Right. The emergency contact thing."

"Why didn't you change it?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Jeongguk looked down at his hands. "I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

You set the towel down slowly, trying to still your hands. The air between you had grown heavier, charged with too many years of silence and everything neither of you had the strength to say before now.

"Why are you really here, Jeongguk?" you asked, your voice low but steady. "Because if it's just to thank me—"

"It's not," he interrupted, voice frayed at the edges. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it knocked the breath from your lungs. "I don't know, okay? I’ve been back in Seoul for three weeks and I can’t stop thinking about you. About us."

"There is no us, Jeongguk."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Trust me, I know that better than anyone."

You leaned back against your workbench, exhaustion creeping in like a tide. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I want to explain—”

"Seven years too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Probably. But I have to try.” He stepped forward instinctively, then caught himself, freezing mid-step like he didn’t trust himself to be closer. “The way I left… the way I ended things… it was wrong.”

“Wrong?” You let out a short, breathless laugh— one with no humor in it. “Jeongguk, you served me divorce papers through a stranger. A fucking stranger from some law office. I found out my marriage was over from a man who mispronounced my name.”

Jeongguk flinched, visibly. Shame seeped into the curve of his shoulders, the downturn of his mouth. “I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice wavered now, frustration bubbling up with the grief. “Do you know what that did to me? I sat in a room for eight hours—eight, Jeongguk—just staring at those papers, waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake. That maybe they got the wrong person. That my husband wouldn’t do something so… something so….”

“____…”

“Do you know I reread the papers so many times I memorized the clause about 'irreconcilable differences'? Do you know I hated that phrase because it sounded so... neat, like we were just a bad spreadsheet?”

His face crumpled. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so—”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” you snapped, voice breaking. The tears came before you could stop them, burning hot trails down your cheeks. “Sorry doesn’t give me back the part of myself I lost when you decided I wasn’t even worth a conversation.��

There was a beat of silence so loud it pressed against your ribs.

“You think this was easy for me?” His voice rose slightly, hoarse and unsteady. “You think I wanted to hurt you like that?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. That’s the problem. You never gave me the chance to understand anything. You just... vanished, Jeongguk. I know we didn’t really resolve anything after our last argument. I knew we had our problems but…” Your tears continue to betray you. You bite your lip to keep yourself from sobbing even further.

“I didn’t think you’d leave me, Jeongguk…” you whisper helplessly.

Jeongguk took a deep breath then exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to keep standing there. He wanted to come closer, maybe wrap you in his arms but he didn’t. He stood where he was. “I was scared.”

The words landed like a stone in water.

“Of what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Of everything,” he whispered. “Of not being enough for you. Of waking up next to you and realizing you were slipping away and I couldn’t stop it. Of becoming a burden. Of watching you look at me and wonder why you ever said yes.”

You stared at him, stunned. “So you left instead.”

“So I left instead,” he echoed, bitterly.

Your tears had stopped but your chest felt hollow.

“You didn’t even let me choose,” you said. “You didn’t give us a chance to fight.”

He looked at you then, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Would you have? Chosen me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was aching.

You wanted to say yes. To scream it. But the truth was heavier than that. The truth lived in long nights and unanswered texts and waking up alone.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and it hurt you to say it. “But I would’ve tried.”

Jeongguk nodded slowly like he had already guessed your answer but hoped hearing it might change something. It didn’t.

“I think about that night a lot,” he said, his voice lower now. “Our last fight. I replay it all the time, trying to figure out where the breaking point was.”

“What was it even about?” you murmured. “I’ve tried to remember but all I can see is you walking out.”

He hesitated. “Money. My parents. My crazy ambitions. But it wasn’t really about that, was it?”

“No,” you whispered. “It was about the silence. About how we were living side by side but stopped reaching for each other.”

“Yeah.”

You stood in that shared quiet for a long beat, surrounded by the smell of paint and memory.

"I loved you Jeongguk," you said, your voice barely audible. "Even at the end, even when everything was falling apart, I loved you."

“I know.” His voice broke entirely now. “And I loved you. That’s why I thought letting go was the least selfish thing I could do.”

Another silence stretched, not as sharp this time. Just tired. Real.

Jeongguk rubbed at his jaw, the movement weary. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… needed you to know. I’ve carried this for so long and it’s eaten me alive… ____ I’m really sorry. I know there’s no apology that can ever make up for everything I’ve done to you but… I’m just really sorry.”

You look up at Jeongguk with your tear-stained eyes and it breaks Jeongguk more than he can ever describe in words.

“____ I am so sorry for leaving you the way I did…”

You nodded, barely. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied gently. “You’ve said more than I deserve.”

The studio had grown darker without either of you noticing.

Only the soft light from the café filtered in through the open door, casting long shadows across your half-finished painting and the uneven flecks of dried pigment on the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed. A door slammed. But here, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—and the distance between what was and what could never be again.

Jeongguk looked down at the floor then back up at you, his mouth pressed in a tight line, like he was still deciding whether to say one last thing. Maybe something small. Maybe something huge.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, slowly, like approaching a cliff’s edge he’d finally accepted he couldn’t jump from. His gaze lingered on your face a moment longer—memorizing you, or maybe just letting go. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it again. Whatever words he might’ve said had dissolved before they ever formed.

“I should go,” he said finally, and his voice was hoarse in that way people get when they’ve cried recently or haven’t slept in days.

You nodded. It was all you could manage.

He turned to leave, his footsteps almost soundless on the studio floor. When he reached the door, he hesitated—just long enough to make you wonder if he’d look back.

He did.

A brief glance over his shoulder. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just that same familiar sadness in his eyes, now quieter. A little more surrendered.

“Goodnight, ____,” he said softly.

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click. You stood there for a long while, staring at the space he’d just vacated, your hands still smeared faintly with color and time. The silence returned—but it was different now. Not peaceful, not exactly painful either.

Just... honest.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #bts au #bts au fanfic #bts au fic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #woosung x reader #woosung #jungkook fic

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bleach-your-panties · 1 year ago

Text

ᰔℊℯ𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃' 𝒾𝓉 𝓅ℴ𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃' with ONYANKOPON on a balcony.

for my 1500+ 𝒻ℴ𝓁𝓁ℴ𝓌ℯ𝓇 ℯ𝓋ℯ𝓃𝓉. requested by @prettybraat.

ᰔhere you go baby, happy black history month!❤️💚💛

ᰔcw: modern au! fem, black reader. balcony sex, exhibitionism, panty-ripping, backshots, hair-pulling, scratching.

ᰔdividers by @/benkeibear.

ᰔwc: 2.2k

💗💗🍡°taglist: @enchantedforest-network @bakugosbratx @chifuyuskoneko @honeybleed @hoesluvshanti @chrollohearttags @darkstarlight82 @blkkizzat @bey0nseh @kokonoiscoconut (if anyone wants to be added to taglist, please fill out linked google form, thx!)

When your boyfriend, Onyankopon, or ‘Ony’ for short, texted you with a simple ‘get ready’ you immediately hopped up to pack an overnight bag.

Ony works as a financial consultant for one of the biggest banks in Atlanta, as well as a personal finance advisor, so he’s never short on dough and absolutely does not mind spending his hard-earned money on his baby girl.

You haven’t seen him in a while due to it being tax season and him working overtime at the bank, so you knew that when you saw him, you were definitely getting your back blown out.

As you were deciding which pairs of sexy panties you wanted to bring, your phone began to ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.” Your man’s smooth, baritone voice filtered its way from the phone speaker and into your ear making you clench your thighs together.

“Hey, pooh. Are you off of work already? I’m still getting my stuff together.”

Onyankopon laughed once he heard you rummaging around in your room; who knows what all you were throwing in that gold and black sequin Victoria’s Secret duffle bag you loved so much.

“I’m about to FaceTime you, baby. I want to show you something.”

When he said that, you stopped packing and focused all of your attention on the phone - Ony chuckled because he knew how nosy you were.

The request to FaceTime immediately came through and you accepted it.

“ONYANKOPON!!”

He just chuckled deeply, “Not the government.”

On your screen currently sat the finest version of your man that you had ever seen.

Now, Ony had always been fine; let's make that abundantly clear…

Smooth, flawless dark-brown skin, toned muscular body, tattoos up and down his arms and back (that were usually hidden by his business suits), straight white teeth, and don’t forget the inches that he was packing - eight and a half, to be exact.

Long, thick, and hard.

…but Ony with a fade and dreads pulled back in a half-up half-down ponytail?

Oh, he must've been trying to call in for the next week or so.

“You went quiet on me, bae. Do you like it?’’ You were snapped out of your nasty little reverie.

“Do I like it? Babe, you look so fucking mouthwatering right now. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make the drive all the way to yours.”

Flirting sensually, you leaned your upper body into the camera and let your breasts spill out of your tank top for your man’s viewing pleasure.

You didn’t miss how Ony raised an eyebrow and bit down on his lower lip, pausing before he continued,

“To mine? Oh, we’re not going to mine, baby girl. I made a reservation for us at the Waldorf Astoria in Buckhead.”

Leaning back out of the camera frame, you made your perfectly arched eyebrows jump while bringing a hand to your mouth to chew on the tip of one of your baby blue stiletto nails.

“You did, babe? That’s so sweet of you, I can’t-”

Before you could finish your sentence, you heard a loud car horn honk from outside.

“Ony!! I didn’t know you were damn near almost here; why didn’t you say something, boy?!”

Tossing the phone onto the bed, you hurriedly gathered the rest of your things and shoved them into the bag before zipping it up. Your slides were on the side of your bed, so you slipped your matching pedicured toes into them and grabbed your keys off your nightstand.

“Hey, who you think you raising yo voice at, huh? Be good for me and come on outside, baby.”

—-

After climbing into the passenger seat of Ony’s navy blue BMW X5, he shut the door behind you and returned to the driver’s side.

You watched him carefully with slightly lidded eyes as he put his hand on the back of your headrest and backed out of the driveway.

Ony could feel you burning a hole in the side of his head, which made him bite his bottom lip again and send you a furtive glance while he drove through Atlanta traffic.

“What’s up, mama? Why you keep on staring at me?”

He knew good and damn well why you were staring at him.

You knew that he knew, because of the little smirk that formed at the corner of his plump lips as he held onto your thigh with his right hand and drove with his left hand holding the middle of the steering wheel.

The ride was leisurely, as all you had to do was sit there and look pretty, one leg propped up over the other as you scrolled through your TikTok feed.

Ony moved his hand from your thigh to your foot, slipping your slide off and rubbing the sole of your foot.

“Oh! Babe…”

He just let out a soft hum of acknowledgment before turning into the parking lot of Seasons 52.

Since Ony had made a reservation, you didn't have to wait long before a waitress came out to direct you both to your table.

This isn’t your first time coming here, but you still marvel at how everything on the menu constantly shifts and changes, yet always manages to always taste so delicious.

The salmon that you ordered was roasted to perfection; the potatoes just melted in your mouth and the green beans had just the right amount of crunch.

Dinner conversation was fruitful, full of talks about your plans for university and Ony of the new investments that he was planning to make.

He held your free hand in his and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles while he sipped his wine and listened to you talk.

His cocoa-brown eyes shined with love and admiration for you as you excitedly spilled about all of the classes that you’d be taking during the upcoming semester.

After you finished your dinner, Ony called for the waitress so he could pay then the two of you left with him guiding you by the small of your back to his car.

—-

Once you checked into your suite, Ony was on you like white on rice.

His large hands gripped you up, fondling your voluptuous ass cheeks while he repeatedly slotted his lips over yours in hot kisses filled with longing and need.

The cold links of his watch against your exposed lower back made a shiver race down your spine as you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him.

Ony looked down at you, meeting your big, brown doe eyes; immediately his dick began to harden in his slacks.

“Nuh uh, we don’t have time for that right now, baby. I have another plan for yo sexy ass.”

He swatted away the hand that reached for his belt buckle and pulled you up by your bicep.

The suite Ony booked was almost as big as your entire damn apartment: two bedrooms, a spacious living area, a kitchenette (that was too big to be considered a kitchenette), and two bathrooms, both fitted with walk-in showers and whirlpool tubs.

Your nails clawed at the pressed cotton of his white dress shirt as he backed both of you up into the nearest bedroom. The motion-sensor lamps clicked on as soon as you stepped over the threshold, bathing both of you in a sensual, amber glow.

The curtain to the in-suite balcony was pulled back revealing the beautiful Buckhead cityscape below you, along with a navy sky full of bright, twinkling stars.

Ony began unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it free from where it was tucked into his pants as he finally allowed you to grab his belt and begin unbuckling it.

“Somebody’s impatient..” He chuckled as you yanked it from the loops and threw it across the room.

Once he was shirtless and you were down to your panties, he scooped you up and carried you over to the window.

“Wait, Onyankopon, what do you think you’re doing??”

He didn’t answer, but instead unlocked the glass door leading out to the balcony and stepped outside with you clinging to him.

The slightly cool breeze from the evening air whipped against your naked skin and made you press yourself further into Ony, who cradled your chin and brought your mouth back to his to give you another breathtaking kiss.

“I remember you saying that you wanted to try some different things, so here’s your opportunity, baby. Now turn around and grab that rail for me.”

His big hand went to the fly of his pants for him to unzip them and tug them down. He pulled a condom out of his pocket and began sliding it over his hard dick.

Just as you were about to do as you were told, you could hear faint chatter from below: a couple of floors below, there was a group of men and women seated at a round table out on their balcony, having drinks.

“Ony, there’s people out here - what if they see me?” Bashfully, your hands flew to cover your naked breasts.

As you were leaning down to look at the other guests, Ony rubbed his dick between your ass cheeks, bumping it against your clit. A soft moan left your lips and your eyes almost closed before you remembered what you were supposed to be doing.

“They won’t see you, baby. They might hear you, though.”

You heard that damn smirk in his voice, but soon you forgot all about anyone hearing once Ony grabbed your panties with one finger and ripped the flimsy material off of you, flinging it aside.

“Oh, babe!”

A loud moan was pulled from you as your boyfriend pushed the head of his dick into your opening. Your hands flew forward and you took a tight hold of the balcony’s railing as Ony started pounding you swiftly from the back.

The sounds of your ass colliding with his hips were loud throughout the silent night, so if those people were just really listening they’d easily be able to tell what the two of you were doing.

One tiny hand with those baby blue nails fell free from the rail and grabbed at Ony’s veiny forearm for leverage; his thrusts had your entire body quivering already.

Soon enough, long scratches began to cover his arm as you tried your best to hold onto him.

You looked up at him and could feel him grow harder inside of you from the visual: fat ass bouncing back on him, braids shaking free from your bun, and your mascara beginning to run.

“Hm, what?” He licked his lips again but didn’t slow his pace as he just looked back into your misty eyes. “What is it, baby? Too much for ya?”

“Ony, I’m…” You trailed off as he suddenly picked you up underneath your thighs, his forearms resting in the creases of your knees.

“I didn’t tell you to let go of that damn rail.”

“ONYANKOPON!”

“And you were worried about somebody hearing you.” He laughed and bent you in half, still jackhammering away as you bumped and jostled against his body,

Your upper half is now bent over the railing as the wind picks up and whips your hair across your face.

“Onyankopon, I’m going to fall!”

“I won’t let you fucking fall, girl. Got too many muscles to let you fall.”

He grunted and locked his arms around your thighs, heavy balls slapping against your ass with loud, wet smacks.

“Hold the fucking rail, and hold that nut, too. I’m almost there. Gunna cum for you, baby; just hold still for me.”

Ony grabbed your hair up into a ponytail to pull it out of your face and also to yank your head back so he could whisper in your ear.

“You see that shit, baby? See those city lights beaming so fucking bright for you as I fuck your tight little pussy open?”

“Ohh, oh God! Yes, baby, I see them! Fuck, I see them!”

“You cumming?”

“YES! Yes, I’m cumming, oh my God! I’m cumming, baby!”

“Let it go then, baby. Go ahead and cum for ‘The Great One’*”

After that, you were done.

Your release washed over you like a wave; luckily Onyankopon was holding onto you or you might’ve actually flipped head-first over that balcony.

You both moaned each others’ names as your orgasm triggered his, bodies bathed in the pale moonlight of the night, surrounded by nothing but the stars and your love for one another.

—-

After that first round on the balcony, Onyankopon took you back into the room and the two of you went at it in nearly every area of the large presidential suite.

He even took you again in the shower before he washed you both off, wrapped you in a towel, and brought you over to the bed, wrapping you up in the covers.

“I love you, Y/N…my shining star..” Was the last thing you heard before you drifted off into dreamland, nothing but sweet thoughts of your handsome man on your mind.

—--

a/n: *Onyankopon means ’God’ in the Ghanian language and ‘The Great One’ in Ashanti mythology, referring to the Sky God.

get it poppin! 💄event ©bleach-your-panties 2024. do NOT steal, copy, repost, alter, or upload my works onto other sites. comments appreciated. reblogs always welcome.

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